^/ 
 
 Book E^iS o^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
SONGS OF THE STREETS 
 AND BYWAYS 
 
Songs of the Streets 
 and Byways 
 
 By 
 
 W^illlam Herschell 
 
 Illustrated With Photographs 
 
 Indianapolis 
 
 The Bobbs-Merrill Company 
 
 Publishers 
 
J'bd^^-i 
 
 Copyright, 1915 
 The Bobbs-Merrill Company 
 
 DEC 20 1915 
 S)CU416966 
 
To a Comrade Asleep 
 
 MY FATHER 
 
 This little volume is 
 affectionately dedicated 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/songsofstreetsbyOOhers 
 
AND XOJV IT IS REVEALED UXTO YOU— 
 
 Friends, whom the author esteems as 
 genuine, said: ''Why don't you put them 
 into a book?'^ 
 
 Acquaintances added a handclasp to their 
 declarations that they liked my verses be- 
 cause they were ''so human. 
 
 )) 
 
 A little bov telephoned on occasional 
 Saturday evenings and said: "I liked to- 
 day's best of all." 
 
 And I like some of them myself. 
 
 Out of it all has grown this simple volume 
 composed of verses printed in The Indian- 
 apolis News under the captions of "Songs of 
 the City Streets" and "Ballads of the By- 
 
 wavs." 
 
 The Author 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Exiles 
 
 Two Men of the Road 
 
 Timothy jMackessy, Cop Number One 
 
 The Show Parade 
 
 Matrimony a la Carte 
 
 The Down-Train to Madison 
 
 The Old Red Pump on the Corner 
 
 "Wish You Was Here" 
 
 The House of Where 
 
 His First Pockets .... 
 
 When '"20" Comes Into the Yards 
 
 Up Along the River 
 
 Hollyhocks 
 
 Um-m-m ! Um-m-m! Pass 'em to Me! 
 
 The Old Green Sash 
 
 Fetching Home the Cows 
 
 School's Out at Shortridge 
 
 The Lament of the Lonesome Gray 
 
 "Git-ep!" 
 
 The Circus Wagon's Rumble 
 The Story of the Game 
 The Urchin and the Lily 
 
 1 
 5 
 8 
 11 
 14 
 17 
 21 
 24 
 28 
 31 
 34 
 37 
 41 
 45 
 47 
 49 
 53 
 57 
 61 
 64 
 68 
 72 
 
CONTENTS 
 Longings and Limitations 
 The Vocalizing Vulcans 
 The Muddled Modes 
 Mother's Day 
 Howdy, Mistah Punkin 
 A Creekside Comedy 
 Santa Claus Days 
 Thanksgivin' Punkin Pie 
 The Wonderful Land of See 
 Little Lady 'Prinklecan 
 When You've Been Away a While 
 The Mop Marys 
 The Old High Chair 
 Good Old Mister Bobsled 
 The Handicap of Riches 
 An Early Autumn Lullaby 
 The Plugger ... 
 Autumn on the Towpath 
 In the Back-Lot League 
 That Fellow 
 The Old Track Gang 
 The Water Cure 
 The Girls of Five-Minutes-to-Eight 
 
 . 75 
 . 79 
 . 83 
 . 88 
 . 92 
 . 95 
 . 98 
 . 101 
 . 103 
 . 106 
 . 109 
 . 113 
 . 116 
 . 120 
 . 122 
 . 124 
 . 126 
 . 128 
 . 132 
 . 135 
 . 138 
 . 143 
 . 147 
 
SONGS OF THE STREETS 
 AND BYWAYS 
 
THE EXILES 
 
 TT ^E'VE got to leave the old home, wife, 
 
 Be exiles, you and I ; 
 To these broad fields we've loved so long 
 
 We've got to say good-by. 
 The old farm doesn't need us now; 
 
 It only laughs, my mate, 
 At us two poor, old-fashioned folks 
 
 Since it's got up-to-date. 
 It used to be dependent, dear. 
 
 On these old hands of ours; 
 Mine to tend its grain and grass. 
 
 Yours its fruit and flowers. 
 For when we came and settled here. 
 
 And knew life's hardest bumps, 
 This big, swell-headed farm of ours 
 
 Grew nothing else but stumps. 
 
2 - THEEXILES 
 
 Then — then there came that luckless time, 
 
 That sad, ill-omened day 
 We brought our first self-binder home 
 
 And threw the scythe away. 
 And ever since that time, Louise, 
 
 We've squandered all our means 
 To give this farm its swinging gates 
 
 And patent-right machines. 
 Alas! — for our indulgence, dear — 
 
 We're banished into town. 
 Though we had hoped that here 
 
 We'd see life's golden sun go down. 
 The old place — how we've loved it — 
 
 Doesn't need us any more 
 Since automatic hands perform 
 
 The tasks we did of yore. 
 
THEEXILES 3 
 
 The windmill pumps the water now; 
 
 It churns the butter, too, 
 And incubators do the work 
 
 Your old hens used to do. 
 A motor grinds the cattle feed; 
 
 It likewise shears the sheep 
 That patent locks protect at night 
 
 When they lie down to sleep. 
 The rural-route man brings the mail 
 
 And leaves it at the door, 
 Thus making void my last excuse 
 
 To loaf down at the store. 
 The trolley brings the groceries — 
 
 We phone for them, you know — 
 And parlor films have made our home 
 
 A moving-picture show. 
 
-4 THEEXILES 
 
 The shredder shreds the corn and me, 
 
 The rail fence now is wire, 
 And some one's sold you some new scheme 
 
 To cook without a fire. 
 We light the house with tanked-up gas, 
 
 It lights the big barn, too, 
 And threshing-time has lost its charm 
 
 With salaried boss and crew. 
 Machinery cuts and loads the hay, 
 
 Then stows it in the mow. 
 And — last and worst — they've found a way 
 
 To patent-milk the cow. 
 So come, let's journey townward, dear, 
 
 We're laid upon the shelf — 
 The old farm's got so dog-goned smart 
 
 That it can run itself! 
 
TWO MEN OF THE ROAD 
 
 ^ I ^WO men there were whose journey lay 
 
 Down green, tree-bordered paths to-day, 
 But one had eyes that would not see 
 
 The w^ayside's art-divinity. 
 He thought but of the motor's grind, 
 
 Of clouded miles he'd leave behind; 
 He had no mission save to say 
 
 He'd gone so many miles to-day. 
 The beauty of the woodland's dress 
 
 To him was hazy nothingness. 
 Just once a grim smile lit his face — 
 
 A fool-bird dared to set him pace! 
 A fool-bird — poor, misguided wight — 
 
 Dared taunt him to a test of flight. 
 Thus on and on he blithely sped. 
 
 His only goal — the miles ahead! 
 
6 'TWO MEN OF THE ROAD 
 
 He did not see beside the road 
 
 Another man who calmly strode 
 Amid the shade of glade and glen, 
 
 Then back into the road again. 
 He did not see the old man's eyes 
 
 Grow glad and twinkle with surprise 
 When out there hopped a friendly toad 
 
 To blink at him across the road. 
 He did not near Bob White's refrain 
 
 Come echoing from down the lane ; 
 He did not catch the plowboy's yell 
 
 Of welcome to the dinner bell. 
 He did not hear the old man sigh 
 
 In pity as he hurried by — 
 He did not see him stoop to get 
 
 God's sweetest thing— a violet! 
 
^v- ..v. .t..:v -•^" 
 
TIMOTHY MACKESSY 
 
 Cop Number One 
 
 TIMOTHY MACKESSY, Cop Num- 
 ber One! 
 Good-natured, round-f atured son of a gun! 
 Always a-smilin', at fri'nd an' foe — 
 If the last named he's anny, not one do I 
 
 know. 
 Old folks an' young folks, the fat ones an' 
 
 slim 
 Shout whin they see him: ''Begorra, there's 
 
 Tim!" 
 
 All of thim like him, this rev'ler in fun — 
 Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 
 
 Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 
 
 It's more good than harm our Timothy's 
 done. 
 
 8 
 
10 TIMOTHY MACKESSY 
 
 Down by the depot with smiles on his face 
 
 He p'ints all the strangers to Monument 
 Place. 
 
 He hunts all the babies the mothers have lost 
 An' holds up the cyars till the ladies have 
 crossed. 
 
 It's only the blackgyards that Timmy will 
 
 shun — 
 Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 
 
 Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 
 
 D'aler in jokes that are all Irish spun. 
 
 He bosses the Tunnel an' calls it his cave 
 
 An' says whin he dies, shure he'll make it his 
 grave. 
 
 But thim that knows Timmy just laugh an' 
 reply: 
 
 ''Begorra, Tim, lad, you're too jov'al to die!" 
 
 So live on forever. Apostle of Fun — 
 
 Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 
 
THE SHOW PARADE 
 
 YOUTH came back to my door to-day, 
 Youth, the fugitive; Youth, the gay, 
 
 Came with smiles and a twinkling eye, 
 Bringing me dreams of days gone by. 
 
 It called me out to a wayside street 
 Where children, merry as they were sweet, 
 
 Bade me witness — and I obeyed — - 
 Their "grandly marvelous show parade!" 
 
 And then there passed in gay review 
 Three little girls and Rummy, too; 
 
 Rummy, the dog, the friend, the clown. 
 With sunbonnet on, but upside down; 
 
 Wagons and buggies and boxes tied 
 With Tabbies and dolls and toys inside. 
 
 Truly a picture to start the flow 
 
 Of tear-brewed dreams of a long ago. 
 
 11 
 
12 THE SHOW PARADE 
 
 Now, through the mist of bygone years, 
 Our old barn-lot and its show appears. 
 
 I see, in fancy, bright quilt tepees, 
 Rag-carpet tents and a broom trapeze. 
 
 I hear old Skeeter, my fellow clown, 
 Wail at my painting his eyelids brown. 
 
 It broke up the show — and I got mine!— 
 For the paint we used was iodine! 
 
 But that was part of the show, you see, 
 Of Red and Skeeter and Sis and Me; 
 
 Part of the tortures suffered then 
 That all, I know, would bear again 
 
 Could we, once more, go back and play 
 Saturday circus — but, here, well, say, 
 
 Children, forgive me, for I've delayed 
 With Yesterday's dreams To-day's parade 
 
<I2} 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
MATRIMONY A LA CARTE 
 
 A LADY ees come to my cart, 
 Wheech standa een da street, 
 She buy banan' an' evratheeng 
 
 So gooda an' so sweet! 
 On Market day she always come 
 
 An' we mak' friendla fun 
 'Bout w'at 1 do w'en I geet reech 
 
 An' gotta plenta mon'. 
 She say: ''I bet you some day, Mike, 
 
 W'en you ees wealtha man, 
 You geeta stuck on pooty girl 
 
 Wheech ees a 'Merican." 
 But I say: ^'No, you mak' mistak', 
 
 Dat theeng can nevra be, 
 Eef I am gon' for geet a wife 
 
 She come from Eetaly!" 
 Den she ees look so mad an' say: 
 
 ''Poor Mike, you foolish guy, 
 You should have wife bak' Bosta' bean 
 
 An' mak' you gooda pie!" 
 
 14 
 
16 MATRIMONY A LA CARTE 
 
 I say: '^My goodness, how you talk, 
 
 So pooty an' so swell, 
 You sounda like you leeve yourself 
 
 Een granda, bceg hotel! ' 
 She say: ''Aw^, w'at's a matta you? 
 
 You mak' me sucha seeck. 
 Wen 'Merican got bumma cook 
 
 He mak' wan louda keeck. 
 Een deesa countra life ees sweet 
 
 An' we want queeck for die 
 Eef on da table eet ees not 
 
 Some Bosta' bean an' pie!" 
 My, my, she got me sucha blufif 
 
 I not know w'at to say, 
 But I am feex for her nex' time 
 
 She come on Market day. 
 I say: ''Go 'way, you 'Mericans, 
 
 You can no cook I bet. 
 So sweet, so good, like Dago girls, 
 
 Eyetalian spaghett'!" 
 
THE DOWN-TRAIN TO MADISON 
 
 T'VE been ai far east as Altoony; 
 -^ my west mark, I think, is K. C, 
 But distance ain't been my ambition — 
 
 just leave out globe-trottin' fer me. 
 ril let you ride 'round in th' Pullmans 
 
 an' revel in dinin' car fare — 
 Th' Down-train to Madison's my train — 
 
 I'll do all my travelin' there! 
 You ain't been, you say? Well, youVe 
 
 missed it an' ought to go soon as you can, 
 That is, if you're not in a hurry an' live 
 
 on th' sociable plan. 
 
 Th' Down-train goes dow^n in th' mornin', 
 a-weekdays an' Sundays as well ; 
 
 Th' Up-train comes back in th' evenin' — 
 but here's what I'm tryin' to tell; 
 
 17 
 
18 THE DOWN-TRAIN TO MADISON 
 
 Th' Down-train's the Neighborly Special, 
 
 unmarred by luxurious frill, 
 It gathers up folks from Columbus 
 
 clear down to old Madison Hill. 
 They git on at 'Liztown an' Hege, 
 
 at Scipio, Vernon an' Wirt; 
 They hop 'er at Queensville an' Grayford, 
 
 but nobody ever gits hurt. 
 
 It's just like a family reunion 
 
 to board th' old Madison train; 
 You'll meet up with comrades an' kinfolks, 
 
 you'll chuckle at sweetheart an' swain. 
 Bill Moody will git on at Dupont 
 
 an' joke at old 'Zekiel York 
 'Bout bein' so crooked he reckons 
 
 that Zeke'll git ofl at th' Fork. 
 Then Zeke will git back at Bill's jokin' 
 
 an' make th' suggestion that Bill 
 
20 - THE DOWN-TRAIN TO MADISON 
 
 Ain't one-half as straight as th' roundhouse 
 that stands on old Madison Hill. 
 
 Here neighbor says ^'Howdy" to neighbor, 
 
 then turns th' seat over so's he 
 Can talk of th' crops an' th' weather 
 
 an' how times are likely to be. 
 Th' Down-train is Fellership's agent, 
 
 a trait to be truly admired; 
 Th' Up-train comes back in th' evenin' 
 
 when every one's hungry an' tired. 
 An' so it's th' Down-train I sing of — 
 
 repellin' all worry an' strife — 
 A symbol of Youth, you might call it, 
 
 that runs through th' Mornin' of Life. 
 
THE OLD RED PUMP ON THE 
 CORNER 
 
 OLD Red Pump on the Corner! 
 Here's to your matchless brew; 
 You with a job like a woman's — 
 Never an end in view. 
 Morning and noon and evening 
 
 Your arm extends to greet 
 The tired and thirsty thousands 
 
 Of the hot and dusty street. 
 Friend of both prig and prelate 
 
 Foe not to race or creed, 
 Yours is a holy mission — 
 
 To give men the drink they need, 
 
 See how they come as pilgrims 
 
 Seeking an ancient shrine, 
 
 Grasping your cup like bibbers 
 
 Famished for favorite wine 
 
 21 
 
Merchant, fireman and newsboy; 
 
 Motorman, darky and drone 
 Draw on your cooling treasure 
 
 As if each drop were his own. 
 Some of your friends are palsied, 
 
 Some of them blind and old. 
 But each finds joy and vigor 
 
 In your draught so clear and cold. 
 
THE OLD RKD PUMP ON TIIK CORNER 23 
 
 Old Red Pump on the Corner! 
 
 Of woes you have your share; 
 They say you gather microbes 
 
 And spread them everywhere. 
 Of course we know grim Science 
 
 Must view you with alarm 
 And make you seem a menace 
 
 Devoid of worth or charm. 
 But we of humbler learning 
 
 Find, when the day is hot, 
 You may be germ-prolific. 
 
 But, Pump, how you hit the spot! 
 
^WISH YOU WAS HERE" 
 
 ^^OT a card from Steve this mornin', 
 ^^ Dog-gone his trav'lin' skin, 
 
 He's up around Niag'ry Falls 
 
 A-writin' home ag'in. 
 Seems like that boy's one glory 
 
 Is Avand'rin' fur an' free, 
 An' furder off he gits, I gosh, 
 
 Th' more he writes to me. 
 He sends these pictur' postal cards. 
 
 With photos showin' that 
 Th' world is alius beautif'lest 
 
 Where you ain't livin' at. 
 His messages reads all th' same — 
 
 In letters large an' clear 
 He writes from Maine or Kankakee an' 
 says — 
 
 "Wish you was here!" 
 
 24 
 
26 "wish you was here" 
 
 Nobody ever seems to know 
 
 ■J 
 
 Just when he'll go er where; 
 We git his destination 
 
 From th' card that says he's there. 
 An' he ain't more than settled down 
 
 To loaf a day or two 
 Till he gits thinkin' up th' names 
 
 Of ever' one he knew. 
 An' then with ever' dog-gone cent 
 
 He possibly kin spare 
 He buys th' Unitary church, 
 
 Th' Depot an' th' Square. 
 He buys 'bout ever'thing they is 
 
 In Bath er Belvidere, 
 Then mails th' whole blame business home 
 an' says — ■ 
 
 ''Wish you was here!" 
 
''wish you was here" 27 
 
 I guess he's at Niag'ry now — • 
 
 He was last time he wrote — 
 But that don't prove conclusively 
 
 He ain't in Terry Hote. 
 He may be down in Panama 
 
 Er snoopin' 'round in Nome, 
 Nobody knows just wiiere he's at^ 
 
 Except he ain't at home! 
 I guess we'd never hear from him 
 
 Per months er mebbe years 
 If some kind soul had not devised 
 
 These pictur' souvenirs. 
 Yes, I expect if Steve would die 
 
 He'd rise up from his bier 
 To pen a card to all his friends an' say — 
 
 "Wish you was here!" 
 
THE HOUSE OF WHERE 
 
 T])ESIDE the winding Friendswood road 
 ^^^ A house of weathered gray 
 
 Stands tenantless as Eden's reabn 
 
 Since Adam moved away. 
 The old house makes me Fancy's toy 
 
 And thoughts, unguarded, play 
 At wondering who abided there 
 
 And where they are to-day. 
 It is, in fact, a House of Where; 
 
 Strange voices seem to say: 
 "O where's the cheer of yesteryear? 
 
 The children, where are they?" 
 
 The gate, weed-throttled, silent stands, 
 Its creak has lost its thrill. 
 
 The fence has fallen in decay 
 
 And tumbled down the hill. 
 
 28 
 
Its pickets bear no sunning crocks, 
 
 The groaning pump is still, 
 No voices echo from the barn 
 
 ''Gee-hawing" Bob and Bill. 
 No mother voice sounds noontime's call 
 
 To ''Come and get your fill" — 
 There's naught but silence — everywhere !- 
 
 Monotonous and chill- 
 
30 "THE HOUSE OF WHERE 
 
 The trees, old comrades left behind, 
 
 Cast forth a useless shade; 
 They seem to wreathe in gloom the place 
 
 Where once glad children played. 
 Where are the little pilgrims now? 
 
 Where have their footsteps strayed? 
 Where has the mother of the brood 
 
 New habitation made? 
 No answer comes — but Heaven grant 
 
 The changes they've essayed 
 Have led them to still brighter paths, 
 
 With spirit unafraid. 
 
HIS FIRST POCKETS 
 
 T'M got pockets! 1st like man's — 
 
 ■^ One for bofe of my two ban's! 
 
 One for pennies when I'm good 
 
 Like my muvver says I should; 
 One for cookies— yes, an' say, 
 
 I had shoc'late drops to-day; 
 Had 'em in my pockets where 
 
 They ain't got no business there, 
 'Cause they shoc'late up my pants 
 
 If they git a half a chance. 
 'Nen my muvver laugh and say 
 
 What's they made for anyway? 
 Ain't they made for boys to eat? — ■ 
 
 . Li'l boys 'at's good an' sweet? 
 'Specially th' kind 'at grows 
 
 Up wif pockets in their clo'es! 
 
 31 
 
32 HIS FIRST POCKETS 
 
 Daddy he's got pockets, too, 
 
 1st like all us mans's do, 
 Still he says it's funny, though. 
 
 Where his pennies all time go. 
 'Nen my muvver she ist play 
 
 Like she don't hear what he say; 
 'Nen he says well he suppose 
 
 Burg-u-lars been in his clo'es. 
 'Nen I say I spec' they do 
 
 An' he says he knows 'em, too. 
 But he don't — 'cause muvver she 
 
 Says he puts 'em there for me. 
 Muvver she — it don't seem fair — 
 
 Ain't got pockets anywhere. 
 But she says, gee, ain't it fine? — 
 
 She kin keep her things in mine! 
 
WHEN ''20" COMES INTO THE 
 YARDS 
 
 ^ I ^HE levers click up in the tower, 
 
 The semaphore's arm changes, too; 
 The yard shanty clock points the hour 
 When old "Number 20" is due. 
 
 From out of the west comes a rumble. 
 The switch engines sneak from the main, 
 
 Forsaking toil slavish and humble 
 To clear for the limited train. 
 
 It's "20" that's coming— old "20"— 
 Proud bearer of men and of mail; 
 
 The symbol of speed and of plenty, 
 A queen of the caravan trail. 
 
36 'WHEN ''20" COMES INTO THE YARDS 
 
 The tower man out at the Crossing 
 Stands fast by his levers and smiles 
 
 As smoke clouds, with turbulent tossing, 
 Go trailing old "20" for miles. 
 
 He signals down into the city 
 That "20" has passed on her way, 
 
 Then whistles some lighthearted ditty — 
 She's "by" without any delay! 
 
 O'er subway, past shanty and siding. 
 The wheels whirr in musical chime, 
 
 As down through the yards she goes gliding 
 And enters the station on time! 
 
 Unmindful of joy or of sorrow 
 Old "20" speeds east on her run, 
 
 Then turns and — re-christened — to-morrow 
 Comes westward as old "21." 
 
UP ALONG THE RIVER 
 
 T TP along the river! 
 ^^ What a wealth of beauty lies 
 
 In its rippling panorama 
 
 Of the cloud-fantastic skies. 
 Here a castle, there a city 
 
 Mirrored up to boat and shore, 
 Just to taunt my June-day fancies. 
 
 Then to vanish evermore. 
 Now a willow dips its laces 
 
 In the warm, dream-hazy tide, 
 As a dark tadpole flotilla 
 
 Scurries off somewhere to hide. 
 Then I hear a flap of canvas 
 
 And the swish of waters rent 
 By a craft, lone-manned, but freighted 
 
 With a cargo of content. 
 
 37 
 
38 - UP ALONG TPIE RIVER 
 
 And I catch my own sea-envies 
 
 Rising up to wish that I 
 
 Were the skipper and the cargo 
 
 Of that ship a-sailing by- 
 
 Up along the river! 
 
 What a joy it is to be 
 Where the deepest gloom that haunts you 
 
 Is the shadow of a tree; 
 Where the greatest tide that thrills you 
 
 Is a river flowing by 
 And its ripples dancing tangoes 
 
 With a cloud rift in the sky. 
 Dear old Fancy! 
 How you lure me into June-green paths 
 
 to-day — 
 Paths that lead along the river — 
 
 Up the river far away! 
 
■.iN|«- '''^- 
 
40 - UP ALONG THE RIVER 
 
 There are boats, too — and companions — 
 
 In this panorama rare, 
 And the only joy that's missing 
 
 Is the joy of being there. 
 For I — like legion others 
 
 In the city's thrall to-day 
 Can only dream I'm up there — 
 
 Up the river far away! 
 
HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 /^ AY HOLLYHOCKS, who gave you 
 ^-^ Such an unromantic name? 
 
 One held among the humblest 
 
 In the garden's hall of fame. 
 Who fixed your floral status 
 
 So that you must hide your face 
 At kitchen doors, by backyard fence, 
 
 Or other lonely place? 
 
 You seem, somehow, a mystery, 
 
 And yet your magic bloom 
 Makes pageantry of poverty 
 
 And gives a glow to gloom. 
 You bring a beam to ashmen's eyes 
 
 And all the alley clan 
 Tiptoes to get a glimpse of you 
 
 And your glad caravan. 
 
 41 
 
42 HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 Why don't you march right out in front 
 
 And let your blooms compete 
 With all the summer's pampered pets, 
 
 The garden's gay elite? 
 Bid each hue-neutral passer-by 
 
 To take an honest view, 
 Then say which plant-aristocrat 
 
 Has fairer tints than you. 
 
 Parade your pink and yellow hues, 
 
 Stand forth in white and red, 
 Then show with what fine majesty 
 
 You lift your queenly head. 
 Sway back and forth across the breeze 
 
 Where rose and dahlia reign. 
 Till newborn envy shall supplant 
 
 Their previous disdain. 
 
 And yet you seem divinely sent 
 
 To blossom where you do — 
 
44 HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 Where men of humble walk must pass 
 And need such joys as you. 
 
 So, Hollyhocks, reign on, reign on 
 
 By backyard fence and door 
 
 That smiles may glowingly abide 
 
 Where shadows dwelt before. 
 
UM-M-M ! UM-M-M ! PASS 'EM 
 
 TO ME! 
 
 /^^OOD mawnin', Mistah Meat Man! 
 ^^ Whut's dat Ah heah yo' say? 
 
 Yo' got some classic livah 
 
 To tempt me wif to-day? 
 Well, Ah doan' want no livah 
 
 An' Ah doan' want no lamb ; 
 Ma eyes am shut to pohk chops 
 
 An' Ah ain' a-huntin' ham. 
 Cross off ma name fo' chicken, 
 
 Put sausage out o' sight. 
 Den please inscribe ma ordah 
 
 Fo' some Cullud Folks' Delight. 
 Cut off a nice, big chunk uv — 
 
 Yo' know whut Aoril means — 
 Ah wants a slab o' bacon 
 
 Fo' ma dandelion greens! 
 Um-m-m! Um-m-m! Pass 'em to me! 
 
 45 
 
46 um-m-m! um-m-m! pass 'em to me! 
 
 Dis mawnin' when de dewdrops 
 
 Was a-rasslin' wif de sun 
 Ah ketched ma lips a-smackin' 
 
 Lak dey want to hab some fun. 
 So Ah gethahs up ma basket 
 
 An' goes singin' sof an' low 
 To de commons down by Fall Creek 
 
 Whah de dandelions grow. 
 Den ma ole case knife went diggin' 
 
 In de Providential soil 
 Till ma eahs dey got to itchin' 
 
 Fo' to heah dem sizz an' boil. 
 So cut me off some hog meat — 
 
 Yo' know whut April means — 
 Ah wants a slab o' bacon 
 
 Fo' ma dandelion greens! 
 Um-m-m! Um-m-m! Pass 'em to. me! 
 
THE OLD GREEN SASH 
 
 TT^ETCH me ould green sash, Ann Dugan, 
 ^ Place it with me Sunday clo'es, 
 There besoide me sprig av shamrock 
 
 Sent from where th' shamrock grows. 
 
 Press th' wrinkles from me sash, Ann, 
 Make it so's th' folds will lay 
 
 Close upon th' breast thot loves it. 
 
 Wears, it, too, S'int Pathrick's day. 
 
 I'm t' roide a horse, mavourneen, 
 Up where all th' world can see 
 
 How me heart still clings to Erin, 
 Land av our nativity. 
 
 Oh, ye'll be thot proud, Ann Dugan, 
 Whin ye see me prancin' by, 
 
 47 
 
48 ■ THE OLD GREEN SASH 
 
 Thot within yer heart ye'U whisper: 
 ''There's me Oirish proide an' j'yl" 
 
 Shure, ye'll see th' Sheas and Sharkeys, 
 Wid thim Kelly fri'nds av moine, 
 
 Passin' word along th' curbstone: 
 
 ''There comes Dugan! Ain't he foine?'' 
 
 How yer dear ould heart will flutter 
 Till th' tears and laughter clash, 
 
 Then ye'll hear yer own self sayin': 
 "Shure 'twas me thot tied th' sash!" 
 
 Though th' years roll on, Ann Dugan, 
 An' me hair grows deeper gray. 
 
 Still thot dear ould sash I'll cherish 
 Till me lasht S'int Pathrick's davl 
 
FETCHING HOME THE COWS 
 
 TT^RIEND, I know you'll misconstrue me 
 -*- An' will chuckle when I say 
 
 That I've seen a livin' picture 
 
 Of my boyhood's years to-day. 
 Yes, sir; seen it like 'twas human 
 
 An' it made th' blood in me 
 Rise half-skeered an' half-delighted 
 
 At its strange reality. 
 Tell you how it was — now, listen ! 
 
 Through some impulse undefined 
 I walked countryward this t\v^ilight 
 
 Seekin' calm an' peace of mind. 
 Well, 'twas while I paused a moment 
 
 Near the foot of Five-mile Bridge 
 That a herd of cows come browsin' 
 
 'Long a bypath down th' ridge. 
 
 49 
 
50 - FETCHING HOME THE COWS 
 
 Now, that ain't no strange adventure, 
 
 But 'twas queer you will agree, 
 That among th' livin' cattle 
 
 Walked two cows in phantomryl 
 Yes, sir; spirit cows, Fm sayin'. 
 
 Walked among th' livin' herd. 
 An' it got me so bewildered 
 
 That I couldn't speak a word. 
 Comin' — they just kep' a-comin' — 
 
 Till th' mist that dimmed my eye 
 Made me see old Red an' IVIollv — 
 
 •J 
 
 Cows Dad owned in days gone b}/ 
 There they were, Red's bell a-tinklin', 
 
 Where they always used to browse 
 An' I heard my mother callin' : 
 
 "Sonny, go an' fetch th' cows!'' 
 
 All at once th' world grew newer! 
 It was not a world of men: 
 
52- FETCHING HOME THE COWS 
 
 It was boyhood, all obedient, 
 
 Fetchin' home th' cows again. 
 Joyously I followed after, 
 
 Tossin' pebbles down the lane, 
 Urgin' Red an' Molly homeward, 
 
 For th' day was on th' wane. 
 But my march abruptly ended 
 
 When a man's voice made me rouse, 
 Comin' from th' hills behind me: 
 
 "Where ye goin' with my cows?" 
 ''Back to boyhood!" I informed him, 
 
 An' I think he understood, 
 For he answered, kind an' friendly: 
 
 ''Dear old man, I wish you could!" 
 
SCHOOL'S OUT AT SHORTRIDGE 
 
 OTNG if you will of the debutantes 
 ^^ And toast all the queens that rule, 
 But give me the girls — the Shortridge 
 girls — 
 On the homeward way from school. 
 
 On the schoolward way their steps may halt 
 And their eyes shed doubtful light, 
 
 As they face the pall of Learning's call 
 And of books untouched last night. 
 
 For Youth in blossom is Youth aglow 
 
 And none of us dares deny 
 That the schoolward way was a dull, deep 
 gray 
 
 In the good old days gone by. 
 
 53 
 
54 school's out at shortridge 
 
 But after school! Then Youth sings songs 
 
 As it goes its care-free way, 
 And 'twas thus that I at old Shortridge High 
 
 Saw the girls go by to-day. 
 
 Their steps were light, their hearts were 
 light, 
 
 Not a book-cloud marred the sky; 
 The school-day done^ they were out for fun 
 
 And they had it — so did I. 
 
 My heart grew glad as I saw them pass 
 
 In caravan gay and sweet. 
 While echoes of ''He^' and "Him" and "We" 
 
 Were wafted along the street 
 
 Ah, what is sweeter than Youth's first dreams 
 Of Loves that never may be 
 
 Or yields more smiles in the afterwhiles 
 Of a School-day Memory? 
 
56 SCHOOL'S OUT AT SHORTRIDGE 
 
 So here's to the Girls of Shortridge High, 
 May Life flood their souls with joy, 
 
 And could I decree new fate for me — 
 Well, I'd be a Shortridge Boy! 
 
THE LAMENT OF THE LONESOME 
 
 GRAY 
 
 \ N old gray nag, with a droop and drag, 
 Drew up at the curb to-day, 
 And, as horses talk as well as balk, 
 We heard the old steed say : 
 
 "Where are the friends, the good old friends 
 I knew in the days gone by? 
 
 The Bills and Petes of the city streets 
 Are gone — but here am I. 
 
 "The motor rage of this speed-mad age 
 Has driven them all away, 
 
 Till now Tm classed with the hazy Past 
 And known as The Lonesome Gray. 
 
 57 
 
58 THE LAMENT OF THE LONESOME GRAY 
 
 ''I gaze to right and my only sight 
 
 Is motors of divers style; 
 I look to left and my soul's bereft 
 
 Of even an old pal's smile. 
 
 *^And now I hear — with loss of cheer — 
 They're to have a Motor Show 
 
 Like the horses had in the golden, glad 
 Old days of the long ago. 
 
 ^'They'll shine and rub each spoke and hub, 
 They'll make the bodies shed 
 
 A lustrous sheen like that IVe seen 
 Put on the thoroughbred. 
 
 ^'They'll talk of pumps, of springs and 
 bumps, 
 
 They'll gossip of tools and tires, 
 But never a word will there be heard 
 
 Of love for a line of sires. 
 
60 THE LAMENT OF THE LONESOME GRAY 
 
 ''Well, I suppose wise Progress knows 
 The needs of the world to-day. 
 
 But my old eyes blur when men prefer 
 Honk-honk to a friendly neigh!" 
 
uQij^ EP!" 
 
 T^EY is folks dat's alius whinin' 
 
 ^^^ 'Bout de burdens dey mus' b'ah, 
 
 'Bout de sun ain' nevah shinin' 
 
 An' it's rainin' ev'rywhah. 
 An' dey nevah do no hopin' 
 
 Fo' de bettah days to come, 
 But sneak to bed a-mopin' 
 
 An' git up all blue an' glum. 
 Now, dey ain' no use o' talkin', 
 
 Dat won't he'p de soul along, 
 So, instid o' standin' balkin'. 
 
 Perk right up an' sing dis song: 
 
 Oh, Ah's got ma grins a-growin' 
 An' Ah's got ma hawn a-blowin' ; 
 'Tain' no time to be a-whoain', 
 So, come on, le's git a-goin' — 
 GIT EP! 
 
 61 
 
62 ^'git ep!" 
 
 Whut's de use ob lamentatin' 
 
 'Bout de worl' an' its regrets? 
 Naw, dey ain' no jobs a-waitin' 
 
 Fo' de man dat fumes an' frets. 
 Yo' may hab to face a sorrow 
 
 As a paht ob life to-day, 
 But de sunshine ob to-morrow 
 
 Soon will sweep de clouds away. 
 It's a fac' dat bein' teahful 
 
 Gits yo' nothin' 'cep' a sting — 
 So, come on, le's all be cheehful! 
 
 Th'ow yo' haid up high an' sing 
 
 Oh, Ah's got ma grins a-growin' 
 An' Ah's got ma hawn a-blowin' ; 
 'Tain' no time to be a-whoain', 
 So, com.e on, le's git a-goin' — 
 GIT EP! 
 
THE CIRCUS WAGON'S RUMBLE 
 
 TT^OLKS, I know you're goin' to chuckle 
 
 An' embarrass me like sin 
 With your jov'al accusations 
 
 That I'm turnin' boy ag'in, 
 When I make th' simple statement, 
 
 Purged of guile an' fancy free, 
 That a circus wagon's rumble 
 
 Ain't unmusical to me. 
 Them's th' facts! I say it honest 
 
 An' could prove my the'ries true 
 If you only had th' courage 
 
 Of a young 'un's point of view. 
 Just fergit now, fer a moment. 
 
 All your self-devised conceit 
 An' play like there's a circus show 
 
 A-comin' down th' street. 
 
 64 
 
66 THE CIRCUS wagon's RUMBLE 
 
 Here she comes! There's no denyin' 
 It's a picture mighty grand, 
 
 With its clowns an' golden cages 
 
 An' its heralders an' band. 
 Now just set your ears fer listenin', 
 
 Both a-hark'nin' to'rd th' ground, 
 So's they'll ketch th' rhythmic rumble 
 
 Of th' wheels a-goin' 'round. 
 Why, it makes my body tingle 
 
 From my head down to my heels 
 When I hear th' rumblin' mumblin' 
 
 Of a circus wagon's wheels. 
 No, I w^ouldn't say 'twas music, 
 
 Like a harp or choral glee, 
 But I do insist, by doggies, 
 
 That it's mighty sweet to me! 
 
 I just go around a-listenin' 
 
 From th' time it comes to town 
 
THE CIRCUS wagon's RUMBLE 67 
 
 Till th' big menag'rie's loaded 
 
 An' th' tents are comin' down. 
 Every wheel I hear a-turnin' 
 
 Brings my boyhood back to me, 
 When I went to bed at sunset 
 
 An' got up at half pas' three. 
 I can tell each wagon's rumble — 
 
 Ticket, canvas, cage or pole — 
 An' I learnt my first real cussin' 
 
 From a driver in a hole. 
 So, you see I'm schooled in circus, 
 
 An' no rumbles ever heard 
 Are as sweetly hypnotistic — 
 
 If there is that kind of word. 
 
THE STORY OF THE GAME 
 
 QAY, Mister Sportin' Editor, 
 
 Please give us kids de space 
 To tell about de winnin' 
 
 Of de Stringtown pennant race. 
 Ye see, 'twuz like dis. Mister, 
 
 Us Little White Sox guys 
 We played de Blake Street Busters 
 
 Four games an' two wuz ties, 
 Well, dey dis kep' a-claimin' 
 
 Dey's champeens, don't ye see? 
 Dis 'cause deir game stood ten to eight 
 
 An' ours wuz four to three. 
 So we got tired o' listenin' 
 
 To all deir champeen stuff 
 An' challenged 'em to play de rub — 
 
 An' 'course dey called de blufif. 
 
 68 
 
70 THE STORY OF THE GAME 
 
 Who christianed us de White Sox? 
 
 Well, dat's our name all right, 
 Fer when our team is goin' t' play 
 
 We wash our ankles white. 
 Well, after poppin' off a while 
 
 De Busters dey come 'round. 
 An' said dey'd play us Saturday 
 
 Down on de circus ground. 
 Us captains tossed a bat to see 
 
 Which side took in er out 
 An' dat's de way de game begun 
 
 I'm tellin' ye about. 
 Well, t'ings went nip an' tuck a while 
 
 Until de Busters dey 
 Got to our pitcher an' we t'ought 
 
 De stuff v/uz off, but say, 
 De ninth come 'round, de score 
 
 It stood ag'in' us — six to three — 
 
THE STORY OF THE GAME '^1 
 
 Two Sox wuz out — de bases full! — 
 
 An' it wuz up to me! 
 Two strikes! TVee balls! 
 
 De dippy umps wuz stingin' me fer fair — 
 De next ball up wuz in de groove! 
 
 Say, guy, I hit it square! 
 It bee-lined tVoo de pitcher's box 
 
 Wid never slackin' pace 
 Till — bing! It stuck inside a can 
 
 We used fer second base! 
 Us four White Sox went racin' 'round — 
 
 I made de winnin' run 
 Before dey got dat baseball out! 
 
 Dat's how de game wuz won! 
 De Busters touched us wid de can, 
 
 But umps says, wid a grin: 
 *'Ye got t' touch 'em wid de ball 
 
 An' not a piece o' tin!" 
 
THE URCHIN AND THE LILY 
 
 *'T_JANDS off the flowers," the park 
 
 -^ sign said. 
 
 The Urchin — what cared he? — 
 When lilies, from their marshy bed, 
 
 Peered forth so temptingly. 
 
 ''Wat's floVs fer?" we heard him say, 
 
 'Tf dey ain't fer t' pick, 
 Uspecially w'en 'cross de way 
 
 Dey's some one awful sick!" 
 
 And ere the park policeman's shout 
 Could halt his hand or feet, 
 
 He'd plucked a lily, wheeled about, 
 And hurried for the street. 
 
 The water from the petals dripped 
 And marked his speeding path, 
 
 72 
 
m-m 
 
 K.*- 
 
 
74 THE URCHIN AND THE LILY 
 
 Till through a cottage door he tripped 
 Beyond avenging wrath. 
 
 There, on a bed of snowy white, 
 
 The lily bud he threw. 
 '^Gee, looky, sweetheart!" cried the mite. 
 Look w'at I brung to you!" 
 
 U' 
 
 His mother's pale hands clasped his own 
 And tear-drops that he saw 
 
 Made him to lisp, in tender tone: 
 
 ''Ain't you my sweetheart, Ma?" 
 
LONGINGS AND LIMITATIONS 
 
 DON'T think that I'm complainin', 
 folks, 
 
 'Bout bein' horned a girl, 
 
 'Cause I'm as glad as I can be 
 
 I'm not a dog er squir'l. 
 But, seems to me, boys alius gits 
 
 Th' best of ever'thing, 
 Uspecially when circus shows 
 
 Starts comin' in th' Spring, 
 Fer then they git to go an' watch 
 
 Th' circus train unload, 
 An' see th' elephants an' all 
 
 A-comin' down th' road. 
 But girls — they've got to stay at home. 
 
 No matter how they frown, 
 An' act like growed-up wimmens when 
 
 Th' circus comes to town. 
 
 76 
 
76 LONGINGS AND LIMITATIONS 
 
 Boys gits up mornin's four o'clock — 
 
 My brother does, an' he 
 Wakes up th' boy next door, but they 
 
 Don't never wake up me. 
 They never wait fer breakfast time, 
 
 Like girls would have to do; 
 Dis all they want is crackers, er 
 
 A cold fried egg er two. 
 Then off they go an' don't come back 
 
 Till supper time, an' then 
 Go sneakin' through th' backyard gate 
 
 An' see th' show again. 
 But girls they've got to stay at home 
 
 An' pout an' sit aroun', 
 Ap' hate it 'cause they're wimmen when 
 
 Th' circus comes to town. 
 
 I bet you when I git growed up, 
 
 An' have things my own way, 
 
78 LONGINGS AND LIMITATIONS 
 
 I'll go out to th' circus grounds 
 
 An' stay there all th' day. 
 No one can make me stick at home 
 
 All dollared up an' sweet, 
 An' I'll have all th' lemonade 
 
 An' peanuts I can eat. 
 I'll .tell you what girls ought to do, 
 
 To not be left alone — 
 That's buy theirselves a circus show 
 
 An' have it all their own. 
 Er else all go an' marry to 
 
 Some ackerbat er clown 
 An' live right with the circus when 
 
 Th' circus comes to town. 
 
THE VOCALIZING VULCANS 
 
 ^ T ONG 'bout four doors down Georgy 
 •L/ Street, 
 
 Just off o' Illinoy, 
 Bill Powell keeps a blacksmith shop — 
 
 Bill Powell an' his boy. 
 Th' shop's just like ten thousand more, 
 
 Except in one degree — 
 It's got some sentiments on toil 
 
 That's mighty sweet to m^e. 
 Now' days th' order is to work 
 
 From dawn till set of sun. 
 But down to Bill's they do their work — 
 
 Then sing when they git done 
 
 Bill's men is all musicianers — 
 
 Such good ones, I'll remark, 
 
 79 
 
80 THE VOCALIZING VULCANS 
 
 That when their organ starts to play 
 
 ril hang around till dark. 
 An' it's a reg'lar organ, too, 
 
 An Estey worn an' old, 
 But still possessed of tones like them 
 
 Th' forest choirs unfold. 
 I reckon 'twas a treasure 
 
 In some parlor long ago, 
 For Bill's boy bought it second-hand — 
 
 Or third-hand — he dunno. 
 
 It sits around behind th' forge 
 
 An', I confesG, it's odd 
 To see an organ in th' midst 
 
 Of horses gittin' shod. 
 Yet, there it is, an' oftentimes 
 
 You'll hear th' anvil's ring 
 A-keepin' time with melodies 
 
 Th' smiths and teamsters smg. 
 
82 THE VOCALIZING VULCAXS 
 
 But most times it's at close of day 
 
 When all th' work is through 
 
 That BilTs men an' th' organ 
 
 Harmonize a hymn or two. 
 
 Th' firelight in th' forge burns low — 
 
 Yet high enough so's they 
 Can see th' hymn book an' th' notes 
 
 That Bill's boy has to play. 
 The' traffic out in Georgy Street 
 
 Slows down an' halts to hear 
 Old ^'Rock of Ages" ringin' out 
 
 In cadence sweet an' clear. 
 An' there I sit a-thankin' God 
 
 That, of th' city's throng, 
 There's some who find life sweet enough 
 
 To blend its toil with song. 
 
THE MUDDLED MODES 
 
 ES, Time has devised many changes. 
 
 Y 
 
 -■^ my brother 
 
 I'm not the beau-bravo you once used to 
 know. 
 
 Perhaps I've slowed up, Bud, but somehow 
 or other 
 
 I don't make the breeze that I did years ago, 
 
 I now stand around like some preacher on 
 pension, 
 
 And, Bud, you may grasp what my plati- 
 tudes mean 
 
 When I but remark that I'm under great 
 tension 
 
 Since Sister looks forty and Mother — 
 sixteen! 
 
 You don't live at home. Bud; you miss the 
 confusion 
 
 83 
 
84 THE MUDDLED MODES 
 
 That comes of the styles as they're wearing 
 them now. 
 
 My days are all spent m a maze of illusion — 
 
 I can't tell our Mother from Sister some- 
 how! 
 
 Oft times as I gaze down the walks ot the 
 garden 
 
 I see a trim figure with grace of a queen; 
 
 It looks like our Sister but — I must beo^ 
 pardon — 
 
 It's tunic-gowned Mother — not forty! — six- 
 teen! 
 
 And Sister — dear Sister — that idolized 
 
 creature, 
 With stately composure she sweeps thro' 
 
 the hall, 
 The girlishness banished from coiffure and 
 
 feature — 
 
86 THE MUDDLED MODES 
 
 You'd think her teens vanished forever and 
 
 all! 
 She trips off with Mother to tea or cotillion ; 
 They maxixe and tango in chumship serene, 
 And no man would dare — not one man in a 
 
 million — 
 To say which was forty and which was — • 
 
 sixteen! 
 
 I see them down-cOwn in the bargaining 
 Meccas, 
 
 My heart beats with pride as they Argentine 
 by; 
 
 Oh, yes, they walk dance steps — the Eves 
 and Rebekahs 
 
 Now move with new grace that is youthful 
 and spry. 
 
 And, brother, I like it — with all my inert- 
 ness — 
 
THE MUDDLED MODES S7 
 
 The man who disdains it is sordid and 
 
 mean. 
 For^ though they confuse me, I like their 
 
 alertness — 
 Ma rivals at forty our Sis at sixteen I 
 
MOTHER'S DAY 
 
 OO at last we've got to Mother, 
 ^-^ By our deviatin' ways, 
 
 With a thought to plant some gladness 
 
 In th' garden of her days. 
 We have bowed to men- immortals 
 
 An' have made a lot of stir 
 'Bout th' glory of th' nation — 
 
 But we've been neglectin' her! 
 
 An', th' fact is, she ain't askin' 
 
 Fer no emphasized degree 
 Of th' thing men call distinction — 
 
 Law^sy, nol^old Mother she 
 Asks fer nothin' more heroic 
 
 Than th' feelin', warm an' snug, 
 Of a Mother's Day remembrance 
 
 In a lovin' little hug. 
 
 88 
 
""-"»v " .■•«i>»m-%!».-»T»i«««c"'"""'"»' 
 
90 mother'sday 
 
 Mother's Day! I like th' meter 
 
 Of its sweet an' rhythmic ring, 
 Fer it breathes of early Maytime 
 
 An' th' very soul of Spring. 
 Then it is my thoughts of Mother 
 
 Kind o' run to happy hours 
 Back behind th' old home kitchen, 
 
 Watchin' her a-plantin' flowers. 
 An' I draw sweet mem'ry pictures 
 
 Of my childhood long ago 
 When her step was more elastic 
 
 An' her brow had less of snow. 
 An' to-day my soul's a-pinin' 
 
 An' my heartstrings feel a tug 
 That is nothin' more than hunger 
 
 Fer a lovin' little hug. 
 
 Folks, they tell me that th' doctrine 
 
 Of our havin' Mother's Day 
 
MOTHER'SDAY 91 
 
 Is to kind o' ease her burdens 
 
 In a lovin' sort of way; 
 Just to send her to th' parlor, 
 
 In her newest Sunday gown, 
 With a sweet command, but final: 
 
 "Mother, now you go sit down." 
 Pile her high with glad devotions, 
 
 Match her smile with words of praise, 
 Till you ketch yourself a-wishin' 
 
 All her life was Mother's Days. 
 Draw her closely, fondly to you 
 
 An' you'll feel her old heart chug 
 As her tears of gladness thank you 
 
 Fer a lovin' little hug. 
 
HOWDY, MISTAH PUNKIN! 
 
 TTOWDY, Mistah Punkin! 
 
 -'^ ^ Good mawnin'! Howdy-do 
 
 I been all thoo de Mahket 
 
 To find a scamp lak yo'. 
 
 Mammy says to bring yo' home, 
 
 An' dat's my 'tention, too — 
 
 So howdy, Mistah Punkin I 
 
 Good mawnin' ! Howdy-do ! 
 
 Say, Punk, I'll tell yo' fortune, 
 One sho'ly comin' true — 
 Ob co'se I knows yo's yallah. 
 But dis'll make yo' blue — 
 A cullud lady wif a knife 
 Am gwine to cut yo' thoo! 
 So howdy, Mistah Punkin! 
 Good mawnin'! Howdy-do! 
 
 92 
 
She's gwine to peel yo' hide off, 
 Take out yo' innards, too; 
 Den cahve yo' all to pieces 
 An' put yo' on to stew, 
 
94 HOWDY, MI ST AH PUN KIN! 
 
 So's when it comes Thanksgivin' 
 Her boy kin say to yo' — 
 Howdy, Mistah Punkin Pie! 
 Good mawnin'! Howdy-do! 
 
A CREEKSIDE COMEDY 
 
 QOMETIMES I like th' Winter best, 
 ^^ Then sometimes Spring an' Fall, 
 But mostly me an' Pizen thinks 
 Ole Summer beats them all! 
 
 We call him Pizen 'cause, you see, 
 
 He gits his feet all sore 
 From pizen vines — an' then he can't 
 
 Go barefoot any more. 
 
 Ole Pize an' me has lots of jokes 
 
 In summer-time when we 
 Go swimmin' in th' swimmin' hole 
 
 Down by the wilier tree. 
 
 We start a-takin' off our clo'es 
 
 Before we're nearly there 
 An' then I holler: ''Last one in 
 
 His dad's a grizzly bear!" 
 
 96 
 
96 A CREEKSIDE COMEDY 
 
 An' 'course, his daddy's alius it, 
 
 'Cause Pizen can't begin 
 To git his shoes an' stockings off 
 
 Before I'm divin' in. 
 
 Then Pizen he gits even when 
 
 He takes th' clo'es Pve got, 
 An' soon's Pm divin' in th' crick, 
 
 He ties 'em in a knot. 
 
 An' when we're done a-swimmin' he 
 
 Goes 'hind some tree to hide 
 An' yells "Chaw beef!" when I have g( 
 
 To chew my clo'es untied. 
 
 Then soon as we are both dressed up 
 
 We stand around an' grin 
 Till both, without a single word. 
 
 Strips off — an' goes back in! 
 
SANTA CLAUS DAYS 
 
 /^ SANTA CLAUS days! What a 
 ^^ mystical maze 
 
 You weave all about us to last all our days! 
 With skeins of sweet legend of fanciful hue 
 Our hearts are forever held captive by you. 
 The years may divide the gray present from 
 
 youth 
 And garrulous tongues shatter Fancy wath 
 
 Truth, 
 Still, deep in our breasts, beam the undying 
 
 rays 
 Of heart-holy love for old Santa Claus days! 
 
 My Santa Claus days! Yes, the ones that I 
 
 knew ; 
 I am longing to-night for communion w^ith 
 
 you. 
 
 98 
 
SANTA CLAUS DAYS 99 
 
 Come back down the chimney, O Season of 
 
 Joy! 
 And set me to dreaming the dreams of a boy. 
 
 Hang up by the fireplace, on bedpost and 
 
 chair 
 The same baby stockings that used to be 
 
 there. 
 
 Hang o'er them the wishes, the hopes, of a 
 child 
 
 And let my old heart be a boy's running 
 wild! 
 
 Glad Santa Claus days! As I muse o'er you 
 
 now, 
 Fond memories, green as the niistletoe 
 
 bough, 
 
 Come trooping before me to laugh and un- 
 fold 
 
 Each joy that was mine in the boy days of 
 old. 
 
 I greet with glad glances the holly, the tree, 
 
100 SANTA CLAUS DAYS 
 
 And a Romping Old Tourist, whose riotous 
 glee 
 
 Subsides to a smile as he pauses to beam 
 
 On a drowsy old man at his Christmas Eve 
 dream. 
 
 Gray Santa Claus days! Though the 
 journey is far 
 
 From Used-to-be days to the dream^ days 
 that are, 
 
 My faith has not wavered, O Saint of the 
 Sleigh! 
 
 As I loved you in childhood I love you to- 
 day. 
 
 The cynics may scofif and Truth call me a 
 foe, 
 
 But the same old Saint Nick that I knew 
 long ago 
 
 Shall live in my soul till I come to the day 
 
 When even my dreams fade and vanish 
 away ! 
 
THANKSGIVIN' PUNKIN PIE 
 
 /^^ TH' luck there is in livin' 
 
 ^^' 'Long about good old Thanksgivin' 
 
 When th' crops for which you've striven 
 
 Are all safely gathered by. 
 When th' autumn's harvest story 
 Is of summer's golden glory, 
 Then you're feelin' hunky-dory 
 
 An' you're wantin' punkin pie! 
 P— U— Unkin— 
 
 Punkin pie I 
 
 Then there oozes from th' kitchen 
 Soothin' odors so bewitchin' 
 That they set your nostrils itchin' 
 
 An' put twinkles in your eye. 
 
 101 
 
102 thanksgivin' punkin pie 
 
 An' you know th' thing tormentin' 
 That you ketch yourself a-scentin' 
 Is a joy your wife's inventin' — 
 
 Real Thanksgivin' punkin pie. 
 P— U— Unkin— 
 
 Punkin pie! 
 
 You don't want to wait a minute 
 For a chance to go ag'in' it — 
 Want to git your face down in it 
 
 Till it chokes you purty nigh. 
 Feel like you could finish seven, 
 Tackle nine an' mebbe 'leven — 
 But just ONE would be a heaven 
 
 If it's reg'lar Hoosier pie! 
 P— U— Unkin— 
 
 Punkin pie! 
 
THE WONDERFUL LAND OF SEE 
 
 rr^HF^RE'S a wonderful land that babies 
 ^ explore ; 
 
 We will call it the Land of See; 
 It runs from the hall to the old kitchen door, 
 
 Then back to a fond mother's knee. 
 And sometimes their world is a big window- 
 seat. 
 
 Or under the green bay tree — 
 Wherever it is, you will hear them repeat 
 
 Their mystical joy-word: ''See?" 
 
 And what do they see? Well, nobody 
 
 knows; 
 
 To them things are all that they seem. 
 
 The wall-paper's flower quite suddenly 
 
 grows, 
 
 There's snow in the teakettle's steam. 
 
 103 
 
104- THE WONDERFUL LAND OF SEE 
 
 The mirror is peopled with real little girls 
 And not just with faces that beam; 
 
 The bed is an ocean that tumbles and whirls 
 And makes the ^'See?" mariners scream! 
 
 They "See?" and point fingers at mythical 
 things 
 That grown-ups know never could be; 
 Yet each pointed finger some memory 
 brings 
 Quite clearly to you and to me. 
 For one time, we, too, on Fancy's gay 
 wings 
 Made flights 'round a dear mother's knee, 
 But Time came along and severed the 
 strings, 
 Then stole our fair Land of See. 
 
o 
 
 •WW 
 
LITTLE LADY TRINKLECAN 
 
 T ITTLE Lady Trinklecan, 
 
 ■^^^ 'At's what our next neighbor man 
 
 All time calls me when I go 
 
 'Prinklin' where our flowers grow. 
 
 Ever' day an' ever' day 
 
 'At's what our next neighbor say. 
 
 I ist like to get up soon 
 'Fore it's nearly afternoon, 
 'Nen go find my 'prinklecan 
 An' ist make our neighbor man 
 Laugh an' laugh till he can't see 
 Laughin' by hisself at me. 
 
 Seem like flowers don't know when 
 They must drink some water, 'nen 
 
 106 
 
108 LITTLE LADY 'PRINKLECAN 
 
 I ist got to go an' look 
 If their water's all been took. 
 'Nen I got to 'prinkle — see? — 
 Till he comes an' laughs at me. 
 
 I ist play like I don't care 
 
 If he's standin' laughin' there. 
 
 Too, he jokes me 'bout my hat 
 
 An' my feets an' things like that. 
 
 'Nen we both laugh — 'cause, you see, 
 
 I ist all time 'prinkle me! 
 
WHEN YOU'VE BEEN AWAY A 
 WHILE 
 
 /^FTTIMES, in life's endeavor, 
 ^■^^ You grow weary of the way 
 Your feet, the slaves of custom, 
 
 Tread the same old paths each day. 
 You tire of things and faces 
 
 And, well, somehow, can not down 
 A deep, insatiate longing 
 
 Just to get away from town. 
 You'd leave to-day's environs 
 
 Far behind you, mile on mile, 
 And, to-morrow, would be happy, 
 
 When you'd got away a while. 
 
 The way might lead to cities. 
 
 Or where land and oceans meet, 
 
 109 
 
110 WHEN YOU'VE BEEN AWAY A W^HILE 
 
 Though, sometimes, Nature's solitudes 
 
 Make freedom doubly sweet. 
 But days will come, O Wanderer, 
 
 I care not where you roam, 
 When magnets wrought of hearth-love 
 
 Will turn your feet tow^ard home. 
 You'll find, too, that you're hungry 
 
 For an honest, friendly smile; 
 They seem so worth the having — 
 
 When you've been away a w^hile. 
 
 The homebound train moves slowly. 
 
 Though the tim.e card says it's fast; 
 The homebound heart's impatient. 
 
 But all trains get there at last. 
 With nose against the window 
 
 You will peer out in the night 
 To have your vision gladdened 
 
 By the first electric light. 
 
112 WHEN you've been AWAY A WHILE 
 
 And if youVe come in daytime 
 
 You will hurry down the aisle 
 
 Half-shouting: ^'It\s the old town! 
 
 I've been gone an awful while!" 
 
THE MOP MARYS 
 
 TXOWN in the Yard, with its dust 
 -*^^ and din, 
 
 Its ''Limiteds" out and ''Fast Mails'' in, 
 There toil two women of sturdy frame. 
 Unsung in ballad nor known to fame. 
 And yet, in life, with its sordid trend, 
 They serve a worthy and useful end. 
 Mop Marys, they call them, which name 
 
 regards 
 The work they do in the Pullman yards. 
 
 We stand and view, with wondering eye, 
 
 The great steel caravan rushing by. 
 
 Yet never a thought commends the arms 
 
 That gave the train its burnished charms. 
 
 We ponder not on the hours of toil. 
 
 The battles with dust and grime and oil; 
 
 113 
 
T H E M P M A R Y S 115 
 
 Of backs that bend and of aching knees 
 That spell train elegance, comfort, ease! 
 
 From dawn of day till the twilight hour 
 They mop and dust and scrub and scour, 
 Though Life's grim irony 
 
 plays them mean — 
 They travel not in the cars they clean. 
 Still, back of it all, their hearts aspire 
 For something more than their humble hire. 
 'Tis an inner joy they can't explain. 
 Born when you say: 
 
 ^'What a splendid train!" 
 
THE OLD HIGH CHAIR 
 
 A T the door of a shop 
 
 In quaint Second-hand Square 
 Stands a battered, discarded, 
 
 Old-fashioned high chair. 
 Its legs have grown wabbly. 
 
 Its back is infirm. 
 The arms show the stress 
 
 Of each juvenile squirm. 
 Its foot-rest is rounded by shuffling of feet, 
 The paint has long vanished 
 
 From arms, back and seat. 
 Each passer-by knows, by its vagabond rone, 
 That more than one baby 
 
 Has ruled from its throne. 
 
 Each worn arm exhibits 
 
 A spoon's crescent dent 
 
 116 
 
11-8 THE OLD HIGH CHAIR 
 
 By some little tartar with anger to vent. 
 And if you look closely 
 
 No doubt you'll see, too, 
 The imprints of teeth 
 
 That were just coming through. 
 One almost can picture. 
 
 Through Fancy's design. 
 The days when 'twas your chair — 
 
 Or maybe 'twas mine! 
 Ah, well, it was some one's — 
 
 This rattlebox throne 
 That stands on the sidewalk — 
 
 Deserted ! — alone ! 
 
 But where are the babies? 
 
 The world w^onders where 
 Are all of the toddlers 
 
 Who've clung to this chair? 
 Have they become grown-ups 
 
 And passed from the maze 
 
THE OLD HIGH CHATR no 
 
 Of Lullabyland and its baby chair days? 
 God grant 'twas not Want, 
 
 Every mother-heart's dread. 
 That caused one to barter 
 
 This treasure for bread. 
 And if He of Heaven made vacant her chair 
 No doubt one as comfy 
 
 Was waiting Up There! 
 
GOOD OLD MISTER BOBSLED 
 
 G 
 
 OOD old Mister Bobsled 
 Friend of long ago, 
 How I long to see^ you, Bob, 
 Soon as they's a snow. 
 
 Sort of git to feelin' 
 How 'twould do me good 
 Just to go to tow^n ag'in 
 On a bob o' wood. 
 
 Daddy up a-drivin'. 
 Me an' ma an' Milt 
 Sittin' there behind him 
 Snugged up in a quilt. 
 
 Comforters a-plenty, 
 Irons to warm our feet. 
 Yes, an' sticks o' hick'ry wood 
 Servin' fer a seat. 
 
 120 
 
GOOD OLD M I S T E R 15 B S L E D i^i 
 
 Hear th' snow a-creakin' 
 As we'd scoot along, 
 Somethin' kind o' angcl-like 
 In th' runners' song. 
 
 Nick an' Nell a-trottin' 
 Down old Heston road, 
 Nary thought about their sins 
 Er their heavy load. 
 
 Good old Mister Bobsled, 
 Though ye're out o' style, 
 Still ye've got them fancy sleds 
 Beat a thousan' mile. 
 
 'Least that's my opinion, 
 iVn' I'd ort to know — 
 'Cause me an' you was kinfolks 
 Forty years ago. 
 
THE HANDICAP OF RICHES 
 
 TT ERE, looky, Jimmy! Lookyhere! 
 -"^ ^ Dat's w'at I meant, ye see, 
 A-blowin' how de rich guy's kids 
 Ain't got no edge on me. 
 
 It's named a radiator, Jim, 
 
 A fancy heatin' scheme; 
 A 'ristocrat's base burnerer 
 
 'Cept it's he't up by steam. 
 
 Now, w'at's got me a-guessin', kid, 
 
 Is how old Sant' will do 
 Wen he bumps up ag'in' a shack 
 
 Wit' pipes instead o' flue. 
 
 Naw, swells ain't got no chimblys, pal, 
 Per dat's not style, ye see, 
 
 122 
 
THE HANDICAP OF R T C H E S 12:5 
 
 An' how dem poor rich kids'll git 
 Deir gifts is puzzlin' me. 
 
 Dis s'pose ole Sant' did go thoo pipes 
 
 'Bout all dat he could take 
 Would be a string o' wieniewursts 
 
 Er artificial snake. 
 
 Jim, dat ain't square w'en guys like us 
 
 Got chimblys in our house 
 Wat lets de ole saint scramble down 
 
 As quiet as a mouse. 
 
 Still, 1 ixpect he'll find a way 
 
 To reach de rich kids, too, 
 An' I ain't hopin' dat he won't; 
 
 I ain't dat mean — are you? 
 
AN EARLY AUTUMN LULLABY 
 
 OUAIMAH'S gone a-glimmahin' 
 
 *^ An' de Fall-time's in de breeze; 
 
 Hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
 De 'simmons am a-waitin' fo' de fros' 
 To hit de trees; 
 Hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
 De 'possum am a-skimmin' out to fin' 
 
 A place to hide, 
 De bobolink's gone southwahd 
 
 To wintah wif his bride, 
 De whole creation's singin' 
 
 An' yo' mammy's satisfied — 
 So, hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
 
 De no'th wind am a-shahp'nin' up 
 
 To pinch ma baby's toes; 
 Hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
 
AxX EARLY AUTUMN LULLABY 135 
 
 Yo' daddy am a-splittin' wood 
 
 To buy his baby clo'es; 
 Hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
 De turkey gobblah's struttin' 'roun' 
 
 An' showin' off his pride, 
 De punkin's got so fleshy 
 
 Dat he's layin' on his side, 
 De worl' am full ob music 
 
 An' yo' mammy's satisfied — • 
 So, hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
 
THE PLUGGER 
 
 'T^HEY call him just simply 
 -*■ The Plugger, 
 
 An old horse, worn, clumsy and gray, 
 He drags an old wagon marked "Transfer" 
 
 From dawn till the close of the day. 
 
 He hasn't a charm you would speak of, 
 His hair has the thickness of wool ; 
 
 Just one thing they say of The Plugger — 
 He's there on the long, steady pull! 
 
 The high-headed colts leave him trailing 
 And give him the dust of the road, 
 
 But when they are drooping and weary 
 Old Plugger goes by with his load. 
 
 126 
 
T H E P L U G G E R 127 
 
 So take your life's lesson from Plugger, 
 
 Of logic his story is full; 
 Don't spend all your strength 
 in the morning — 
 
 The evening load's hardest to pull! 
 
AUTUMN ON THE TOWPATH 
 
 ^T^HE sun, athwart the willow's 
 
 ^ Latticed limbs, 
 
 Jewels the water, tints the leaves ashore; 
 The wind, sweet singer 
 
 Of a thousand hymns, 
 Low chants the lyrics of a thousand more. 
 
 A haze, November's garb of filmy gray, 
 Hangs spectre-like, 
 
 Above yon Fairview hill. 
 Now, but for waters rippling on their way. 
 My world this morning is a world a-still. 
 
 The sycamores, white-bodied giants born 
 To save the forests from a Stygian fate, 
 
 128 
 
130 AUTUMN ON THE TOWPATH 
 
 Seem somber now — 
 
 Grim woodland kings forlorn 
 Beside the dogwood's brilliant robes of state. 
 
 The path is strewn 
 
 With leaves of countless hues, 
 Countless indeed as are the years that span 
 The distant time since first 
 
 The frosts and dews 
 xMade Autumn's pageant glorious to man. 
 
 The silence breaks! 
 
 Adown the towpath's way 
 Children pursue 
 
 Youth's fabled Forty Thieves! 
 Behind the trees 
 
 They seek their fancied prey 
 And search for footprints 
 
 In the fallen leaves. 
 
AUTUMN ON THE TOWPATH 131 
 
 Ah, children dear, 'tis you, 
 
 Not I, that's thief. 
 Though thief you call me 
 
 In your childish play; 
 You robbed me of a daydream — 
 
 Sweet, but brief — 
 And lured my Autumn reverie away! 
 
IN THE BACK-LOT LEAGUE 
 
 ^TT^HINGS are doing on the Common, 
 
 ^ Down the alley, up the street; 
 There's a Tyrus Cobb expression 
 
 Worn by every kid you meet. 
 There is talk of "rotten empires," 
 
 Talk of games both lost and won, 
 All proclaiming that the season 
 
 In the Back-Lot League's begun! 
 
 Mother's ball of twine is missing, 
 
 Store string saved since carlv fall. 
 But she knows it now is serving 
 
 As her Back-Lot Leaguer's ball. 
 In the yard she finds old broom ends, 
 
 Mop ends, hoes and things like that, 
 Proof to her that once good handles 
 
 Rival now the store-bought bat. 
 
 132 
 

134 IN THE BACK-LOT LEAGUE 
 
 In the evening on the corner, 
 
 Where the arc light casts its rays, 
 Future diamond kings sit "fanning," 
 
 Talking over scores and plays. 
 Just one problem proves perplexing, 
 
 One that makes the pitcher pout: 
 ''Why — dis 'cause his Dad's a copper— 
 
 Dassen't no one strike Red out?" 
 
THAT FELLOW 
 
 rrr^HAT fellow who has power 
 
 ^ Abounding in his heart 
 
 With which to stop your sighing 
 
 And give the smiles a start; 
 That fellow who says "Howdy," 
 
 When "Howdy's" what you need 
 To slow you down and make you 
 
 Forget the Grind of Greed; 
 That fellow has within him 
 
 A soul that I contend 
 Comes mighty near to being 
 
 The synonym of friend. 
 
 That fellow, you may notice. 
 
 Will pause to pat a nag. 
 
 Or bind a dog's abrasions 
 
 With handkerchief or rag. 
 
 185 
 
136 T H A T F E L L W 
 
 You'll see him lead a blind man 
 
 Across the crowded street, 
 Then slip some wreck a nickel 
 
 And help him to his feet. 
 You'll hear he smokes and cusses, 
 
 Drinks sometimes, too, they'll say, 
 And yet he's always bright'ning 
 
 Some other fellow's way. 
 
 That fellow — well, his culture 
 
 May not be up to form, 
 But in his calloused handclasp 
 
 There's something good and warm. 
 He seems, somehow, to blossom 
 
 Where weeds of sorrow grow, 
 Though mighty little Bible 
 
 He'd ever boast to know. 
 And if the watchful angels, 
 
 Who bless that heart of his, 
 Were asked: ''Is he a Christian?" 
 
 Tm sure they'd say: "He is!" 
 
THE OLD TRACK GANG 
 
 ?np>WAS just an ould photograph, 
 
 ^ Faded an' yellow, 
 
 Long treasured in somebody's Album, 
 
 Oi know, 
 But from it came mimories, 
 
 Sacred an' mellow, 
 Thot gave me back fr'inds 
 
 Av a glad long ago. 
 
 It brought to me moind 
 
 Th' ould thrack gang, begorra, 
 Thim b'ys as well knew 
 
 How a rail should be laid; 
 Thim lads as could work 
 
 All to~noight an' to-morrow, 
 Thin spit on their hands 
 
 An' go livel a grade. 
 
 138 
 
THE OLD TRACK GANG 139 
 
 Though humble an' poor, 
 
 They were min, let me tell ye, 
 Wid gintlemen's proide 
 
 In their sinew an' bone; 
 Their hearts were as babes 
 
 If a sorrow befell ye, 
 But pity they'd none 
 
 For a blackgyard or drone. 
 
 Down there on th' thrack 
 
 Wid their shovels an' gauges, 
 Their picks an' their crowbars 
 
 Av hefty desoign, 
 Ye heard not a word 
 
 About History's pages, 
 But: ''Squint at that rail, lads. 
 
 An' git it in loine." 
 
 Shure they had no derricks 
 
 Or fancv invintions 
 
1^0 THE OLD T R A C K G A N G 
 For liftin' the rails 
 
 From th' top av th' car; 
 They used Oirish muscle 
 
 Av Trojan diminsions 
 An' tumbled thim off 
 
 Wid th' aid av a bar. 
 
 They tamped ties an' laughed 
 
 Av their own youthful glory 
 Whin they wint a-sparkin' 
 
 On Erin's ould sod; 
 They paused now an' thin 
 
 For th' joke av a shtory 
 An' pitied poor divils 
 
 Thot carried th' hod. 
 
 At noon, whin th' boss 
 
 Sounded truce for an hour, 
 Their dinnerpails filled 
 
 Iv'ry innermost nade; 
 
Thin, p'aceful an' calm 
 
 As a midsummer shower, 
 They smoked their dudeens 
 
 In th' cool av th' shade. 
 
 But thim was th' ould days — 
 
 Days sacred an' mellow — • 
 Whin thrack-layin' shkill 
 
 Was a virtue, begob, 
 
142 THE OLD TRACK GANG 
 
 So take off yer hat to ould gaiiius, 
 Young fellow — 
 
 Thim b'ys could build railroad — 
 An' loaf on th' job! 
 
THE WATER CURE 
 
 T^VERY human bein' livin', 
 
 ^-^ 1 suppose, some time or other 
 
 Feels a kind of vagrant impulse 
 
 To go seekin' pastures new; 
 You grow tired of work an' worry, 
 
 Long for other scenes an' faces 
 'Way off where th' world is gayer 
 
 An' th' skies a brighter blue. 
 But I've cured mvself of havin' 
 
 All those wild, unsettled longin's 
 An' th' antidote is simple — 
 
 Simple, sweet an' free from pain. 
 I just light my pipe an' wander 
 
 Down along th' quiet river, 
 Climb a stump an' voice my gladness 
 
 In this made-by-me refrain: 
 
 143 
 
144 THE WATER CURE 
 
 I would rather be a ripple 
 On an Indiana river 
 Than a cloudburst in Sahara 
 Where they celebrate a rain! 
 
 There I sit an' watch th' water 
 
 As it rambles to'rd th' ocean, 
 Kind o' holdin' back an' wishin' 
 
 Th^c it didn't have to go, 
 While th' ripples seem to anchor 
 
 'Long th' shore among th' grasses, 
 Glad to be in Indiana 
 
 An' to cease their restless flow. 
 An' I let my fancies figure 
 
 That th' shore-bound ripples really 
 Come to port to seek contentment 
 
 An' escape Th' Ragin' Main. 
 Then I just grow glad all over 
 
 That I'm Hoosier-born an' happy 
 
* 
 
 ■^?-. 
 
145 
 
 THE WATER CURE 
 
 An' have got a home to go to 
 
 Where my heart can chant this strain 
 
 I would rather be a ripple 
 On an Indiana river 
 Than a cloudburst in Sahara 
 Where thev celebrate a rain! 
 
THE GIRLS OF FTVE-MINUTES- 
 TO-EIGHT 
 
 The old corner clock was in gossipy mood, 
 
 And so, in a spirit of jest, 
 I asked it, of all the girls that it knew. 
 
 Which ones it thought dearest and best. 
 
 *'Just give me the Girls of Five-minutes-to- 
 eight," 
 
 The street clock w^as quick to reply. 
 ''The happiest moments of all in the day 
 
 Are when they go fluttering by. 
 
 'Tn laughing battalions they hurry along 
 To office, to shop and to school ; 
 
 They have but one thought — to get there 
 at eight! — 
 Their day's long enough as a rule. 
 
 147 
 
1^8 THE GIRLS OF FIVE-MINUTES-TO-ETGHT 
 
 '^I glory to see them in ginghams and lawns. 
 
 In bonnets of dainty design; 
 I smile when they call me their dear Father 
 Time, 
 
 Which makes them all daughters of mine. 
 
 ^'They're business girls — yes, and happy 
 ones, too, 
 
 They've harnessed no masculine mate; 
 
 Not one of them wishes to wash some man's 
 
 dishes — 
 
 At night — at Five-minutes-to-eight!"