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Uncle Charlie's Poems. 
 
 MIRTHFUL AND OTHERWISE 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES NOEL DOUGLAS. 
 
 TO MILLIONS OF FRIENDS, SCATTERED BROADCAST O'ER THIS 
 MAJESTIC LAND, I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE VOLUME OF VERSE. 
 
 New York : 
 
 J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 
 57 Bose Street, 
 
 c' ' J 
 
■ A" 
 
 ?hf 
 
 '■■ o<CONGRKoS 
 teceivefl 
 AUG 16 1906 
 
 i Copgfifchi L.itiy 
 
 fa 
 
 COPY 
 
 COPTBIGHT, 1906, BY 
 
 J. S. Oqilvie Publishing Company. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 T the urgent request of many friends, who have 
 heen kind enough to take an interest in the verse 
 I have, from time to time, contributed to vari- 
 ous magazines, I have gotten together a number 
 of my published efforts, and herewith present them to the 
 public. 
 
 This little work is called a book of poems, but, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, it does not contain a single poem, for which I 
 am thankful, as publishers inform me that poetry does not 
 sell. 
 
 All I claim for this book is that it contains some verse 
 which may, possibly, bring a smile to the faces of those 
 who read it, if those readers are not hopeless dyspeptics, or 
 confirmed hypochondriacs. 
 
 If the mirth-seeker finds nothing laughable in the so- 
 called humorous verse, perhaps in the section devoted to 
 the more serious subjects he may discover sufficient excuse 
 for indulging his risibilities to his heart's content. 
 
 In any event, I hope the reader will mark the note of 
 cheerfulness and optimism which runs through the book, 
 in spite of the fact that every line in this volume has been 
 written during ten years of shut-in life, six of which were 
 passed in the wards of hospitals and institutions — among 
 scenes which cannot be recalled without a shudder. 
 
 The Author. 
 
 3 
 
AN APPRECIATION. 
 
 WISH to tender my sincere thanks to those pub- 
 lishers who have so kindly permitted me to re- 
 produce, in this volume, verse that has appeared 
 in their publications. 
 I have to thank the New York Herald for permitting 
 me to use the "Glorious Fourth and How We Got It," and 
 "When the New Boy Came." The Christian Herald for 
 "God Knows Best," "God Will Take Care of Me," "Sun- 
 days in the Old Church," "Preach Jesus to Me," "Cobbler 
 Jim," etc. St. Nicholas for "Willie on Classic Fiction." 
 Judge for "A Cautious Lover," and "When Casey Came 
 Home Sober." The Designer for "Sidney Alexander and 
 His Halidome," "Belinda Anne." The Delineator for 
 "What Boys and Girls Are Made Of." The Woman's Home 
 Companion for "Don't Forget That Gun," and "When 
 Baby Writes a Letter." Recreation for "When Father 
 Hangs a Picture on the Wall," "The Predicament of a 
 Poet." The Ladies' World for "Baby's First Sunday in 
 Church." W. H. Gannet, Esq., of Comfort, for "Turkey 
 and Pie," "The Art of Being Good," "Santa Claus," "Wil- 
 lie's Opinion of Babies," "Squash," "The Confessions of a 
 Dunce," "He Knew It Then," etc. The Currier Boyce Co., 
 of The Woman's World and Homefolks, for "Mandy and 
 Si," "Since Katie Went to Cooking-school," "God Knows," 
 "When Pop Played Santa Claus," "The Little Bird That's 
 Always Telling Ma," "Butt Right In," "Careful Ma," "A 
 Few Things to Be Thankful For," "Actor's Story," "So 
 
 5 
 
6 AN APPRECIATION. 
 
 Did I," "Hard-Luck Story," "A Novelty at Last," "Mat- 
 ter of Money." Spare Moments for "The Boy Who 
 Talked and the Boy Who Did." The Sunday Telegraph 
 for "The Actor's Prayer," "Summer Plans," "Tragedian's 
 Lament," "Confessions of a Villain," "The Family The- 
 atric," etc. The Brown Book, of Boston, for "The Tragedy 
 of an Apple." New Idea for "Dollie's Sick." The Class- 
 mole for "Passing of the Old Church," and Home Life, 
 Chicago, for the greater portion of the biographical sketch. 
 
 The Author. 
 
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 N February, 1897, after some years of failing health, 
 I was stricken with an obscure nervous trouble, 
 which rendered me almost entirely helpless, 
 and put me on a bed of sickness, which I have 
 never left. 
 
 Sickness is an expensive matter, and it forced .me event- 
 ually to sacrifice a home and surroundings of refinement 
 for a ward in a hospital. After nine months of hospital 
 life, as the doctors could do nothing for me, I was listed 
 as a chronic case, and informed that I must vacate, or go 
 to a public hospital, which is a polite term for the poor- 
 house. My means were exhausted, and, with the excep- 
 tion of one or two faithful friends, everyone had forgotten 
 me. 
 
 I realized the plight I was in, and begged the hospital 
 authorities to give me a few days' grace. My request was 
 granted, and then if ever a man prayed for help and guid- 
 ance I did. I did not pray in vain, and I never have. An 
 inspiration came to me to write the words for a song. Coon 
 songs were then all the rage, and, as I had sung many dur- 
 ing my stage career, I decided I would write a coon song — 
 and, on borrowed paper and with a borrowed pen and ink, 
 the words of my first lyric were dictated to a fellow-patient. 
 I had not held a pen in months, and had almost forgotten 
 how to write, but my amanuensis was patient and skilful, 
 and eventually got my lines on paper. A borrowed envelope 
 
 7 
 
8 A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 and borrowed stamp took my little verses to a very cele- 
 brated actress. Two days of agonizing suspense passed, 
 and then, to my intense delight and unspeakable joy, a let- 
 ter was brought me from the famous singer, and inside the 
 envelope was 1 a check for twenty dollars. That night I 
 thought out another song "pome," and Weber and Fields, 
 then in the zenith of their fame, sent me twenty dollars for 
 it. Forty dollars now were mine. I felt richer than Rocke- 
 feller, and if happiness were wealth I certainly had the oil 
 king beaten to a finish. With my forty dollars I moved 
 to another hospital, and here I wrote my first magazine 
 poem — "Sundays in the Old Church" — which, after months 
 of effort, I sold to the Christian Herald for twelve dollars. 
 My next product, an eight-verse humorous "pome," went to 
 Youth's Companion, and brought me twenty-five dollars. 
 
 My initial successes were too much for me in my in- 
 tensely delicate condition, and soon after moving to the 
 new hospital, I collapsed, and for three months hardly knew 
 my own name. From this on it it was one long, grim, 
 heart-breaking, soul-crushing fight, but I was not in the 
 least discouraged. In the slang of the day, I was up 
 against a tough proposition, but it is the same thing every 
 other man has had to experience who has sought a living 
 by the pen. One piece, I remember, in which I had sub- 
 lime faith — a faith afterward justified by events — I sent 
 out twenty-nine times. It was a set of humorous verses 
 entitled "The Tragedy of an Apple," and it nearly became 
 the tragedy of a would-be versifier before I got through 
 with it, for after it had been rejected twenty-eight times, 
 for once my optimism left me and I think I broke down. 
 At last I sent the verses off on their twenty-ninth mission, 
 to the Broivn Book, of Boston, and a substantial check was 
 the result. It had taken me two years to sell that poem — 
 out I sold it! 
 
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 9 
 
 I now moved to a home for incurables, where I spent 
 three years, in an attic, under a tin roof, roasted in sum- 
 mer, frozen in winter. My companions were a blind man, 
 a speechless and helpless paralytic, a lunatic, and a poor 
 young man who had broken his back when seven years old 
 and had spent all his life in institutions. Here I wrote 
 some two hundred song lyrics and poems, the majority of 
 which I marketed. Sometimes my funds were so low I 
 would have to practically give my work away. Once cir- 
 cumstances were such that I sacrificed an entire book of 
 juvenile verse for seven dollars. The seven dollars were 
 sent me by check, the check I gave to a friend to cash, he 
 never returned — the work of two months went with him. 
 
 My one hope and prayer had been that I might once 
 more have a home of my own, where I could again sur- 
 round myself with those little things a man of refined and 
 artistic tastes craves so much. At times I despaired of ever 
 accomplishing my object, but I toiled on, hoped on, prayed 
 on, and, finally, in September, 1902, after close on six 
 years of unspeakable misery, I turned my back on the hos- 
 pitals forever, I trust, and moved into a home of my own. 
 
 Can you imagine what that change meant to me? For 
 three years I hadn't seen a vestige of nature. Spring came ; 
 I saw not its verdant splendor; Fall rolled on, but the 
 gorgeous tints of autumn were not for me. I could only 
 tell the seasons from the heat or cold. At night the blind 
 man was in the habit of wandering around, and losing his 
 bed. He invariably passed his hand all over my face, 
 my nose — which is of generous proportions — being the 
 landmark by which he located his lost sleeping-place The 
 demented gentleman used to keep me in a constant state 
 of suspense, and, at times, almost in a state of terror, for 
 often no nurse appeared for an hour or more, and then the 
 maniac would come and inform me that I was trespassing 
 
10 A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 on his property, and if I didn't vacate at once he would 
 be under the painful necessity of assisting me through the 
 window. At such times the most delicate tact and alert 
 mental gymnastics were necessary, or there would have 
 been a tragedy. On these occasions I reminded him that 
 he had sold me half his property the night before, and the 
 gentleman opposite (the old blind man) had witnessed the 
 sale and had the deed in his possession. This immediately 
 sent him scurrying to the blind man, who was quite pow- 
 erful and pugnacious, and, while the imaginary deed was 
 being discussed by them, I was forgotten, and help came. 
 Sometimes this ruse would not work, and then I always 
 had an old newspaper handy, and the lunatic would often 
 spend half an hour examining the signatures (?) and 
 terms of the deed, and (thank heaven) he invariably re- 
 turned to tell me it was "all correct." 
 
 I got a good deal of entertainment out of this poor soul, 
 for usually he was in excellent humor, but I always had to 
 do my work with one eye on my paper and one on him, 
 for* I never knew what wild scheme was hatching in his 
 poor, distracted brain. 
 
 You can imagine, I say, what my delight was to leave 
 all these scenes of suffering, and have my bed in a win- 
 dow which gave me a splendid view of the world, of which 
 I'd seen nothing in six years. I shall never forget my ex- 
 citement as I watched the first automobile chug-chug past 
 on the street below. But perhaps the most delightful and 
 refreshing sight was a band of lovefy children — darling lit- 
 tle tots — playing "King-a-ring, a-rosy" on the lawn of a 
 house opposite me. Ah, me! how little we appreciate the 
 small things of life until we lose them, and then, and not 
 until then, do we realize what we've lost. For a week I 
 could do nothing but gaze out of my window, and laugh 
 and sing, and thank God I was alive. It was glorious ! In 
 
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ]_]_ 
 
 March, 1903, my connection with Comfort began. This was 
 an epoch in my life, as it brought me the abiding love of 
 six millions of people. As "Uncle Charlie," in Comfort, 
 and "Uncle George," in Homefolhs, I have become an in- 
 stitution in nearly two millions of homes. 
 
 I have also social departments in several other maga- 
 zines, and have the great privilege of talking monthly to 
 and reaching sixteen millions of people. In connection 
 with Comfort I have organized a league of young folks, 
 everyone of whom is solemnly pledged to do "sunshine 
 work" — work that will make this world a better place to 
 live in. I have organized similar leagues in other maga- 
 zines, and my mail in connection with this work ranges 
 from one to two thousand letters per week the year round. 
 Through these leagues I have been able to brighten the 
 lives, and obtain substantial aid for hundreds of poor, help- 
 less sick and suffering "shut-ins" scattered all over this 
 broad land. The love these unfortunates lavish on me is 
 most touching and beautiful, though not one of these sus- 
 pect that my physical condition is no better than their own. 
 
 I have written some seven hundred song lyrics, also 
 "pomes" during my invalidism, and have had one song 
 that was sung all around the world. I have also compiled 
 a huge dictionary of quotations, in addition to my other 
 work. This work, in which I have gathered the world's 
 literary gems, consists of two volumes of one thousand pages 
 each, and is entitled "Forty Thousand Sublime and Beau- 
 tiful Thoughts." It is probably the most complete work of 
 quotations in existence, and, though I do not claim it is 
 the best, it certainly contains twice as much matter as 
 can be found in any other compilation of this kind. 
 
 I have mentioned this quotation work to show that a 
 man on a bed of sickness may still do good work and ac- 
 complish much that is useful, if he will develop, to the ut- 
 
12 A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 most, any latent talent he may possess, and take advantage 
 of every opportunity that may come his way. 
 
 Personally, I had never written a line until circum- 
 stances forced me to make a supreme effort, and, as the 
 result of that effort meant practically life or death to me, 
 you can imagine that I threw my very soul into the task. 
 
 To those millions of friends who know me through the 
 pages of popular magazines, I dedicate this little book, 
 and I trust that its pages will still further strengthen the 
 ties of affection that already exist between us, and add to 
 that loving appreciation which will ever be the inspira- 
 tion of my shut-in life Gratefully, 
 
 The Author. 
 
to 
 o 
 os 
 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS, 
 
UNCLE CHARLIES POEMS. 
 
 WHEN" FATHER HANGS A PICTUEE ON THE 
 WALL. 
 
 HEN" Father hangs a picture on the wall there's 
 lots of fun, 
 An' everyone aroun' the house has got to move 
 an' run. 
 The ol' step-ladder's fixed in place, the hammer's nowhere's 
 
 round, 
 An' when they start to look for nails, the nails ain't to be 
 
 found. 
 Pa shouts aloud his orders, an' Ma says 'twas ever thus, 
 When a man starts in to do some work there's bound to 
 
 be a fuss. 
 An' Pa says women's useless things an' always have to call 
 A man if they should want to hang a picture on the wall. 
 
 Pa gets a roll of picture wire, an' then a measurin' tape, 
 An' says he'll show the women how to put the house in 
 
 shape. 
 Off to the parlor then he goes and partly there disrobes, 
 And bangs the ladder right against the shandyleer and 
 
 globes, 
 
 15 
 
16 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Then shouts for Ma, an' gives her fits because she didn't 
 
 fly 
 
 To warn him when the ladder to the shandyle^ 
 Then Baby 'mongst the broken glass unnfV 
 
 crawl. 
 Oh ! there's heaps of fun when Father hn -. are on 
 
 the wall. 
 
 They bandage up the Baby, an' they sweep up all the glass, 
 An' Pa says, at hangin' pictures, nobody's in his class. 
 There's artists in most every line, Pa 'lows, but you can bet 
 That for real artistic hanging, no one's equalled him as 
 
 yet. 
 Then he holds a nail between his teeth, and Ma remarks 
 
 she's glad, 
 As now at least his tongue is stopped, an' that just makes 
 
 Pa mad, 
 An' down he lays the law to Ma, who goes out in the hall, 
 An' leaves Pa in his glory hangin' pictures on the wall. 
 
 Pa measures up the wall an' squints and then starts in to 
 
 back, 
 So as to get a better view, and gives his head a crack ; 
 An' oh ! the things that poor Pa said, I'm glad no one was 
 
 near 
 When his bald head bumped up against that parlor shan- 
 
 dyleer. 
 Then up the ol' step-ladder, nail in mouth, he starts to 
 
 climb 
 An' says he 'lows that picture's just as good as fixed this 
 
 time, 
 Then hits that nail a mighty whack, an' "murder !" starts 
 
 to bawl, 
 For it's not the picture, but Pa's thumb's got nailed against 
 
 the wall. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 17 
 
 The damaged thumb is bandaged up, the head is plastered, 
 +hen 
 
 ' I ladder, "do or die,'"' once more Pa sails agen; 
 
 pes for that oP nail, an' hits it such a swipe 
 
 lH ii'* j uu ives it through the wall, but through an' 
 
 ov 
 
 r - 
 
 An' just cd we all smell the gas, the ladder gives a crack 
 An' crash it goes an' sends poor Pa a-sprawlin' on his back. 
 His ankle sprained, for Doctor Jones we send a hurry call 
 To tell him Pa is sick with "picturitis on the wall." 
 
 The Baby's cut with broken glass, an,' as for poor ol' dad, 
 He's sprained a foot, an' lost a thumb, his head's cut awful 
 
 bad. 
 The shandyleer is wrecked for life, the gas it's made Ma 
 
 ill, 
 An' 'twill take Pa's savings for a year to pay the plumber's 
 
 bill. 
 The parlor looks as if a cyclone slept in it a week, 
 Or a band of Texas steers had been there playin' hide and 
 
 seek ; 
 An' ever since that day, Dad, he's been singin' mighty 
 
 small, 
 An' Ma, not Pa, henceforth will hang the pictures on the 
 
 wall. 
 
18 UNCLE CHARLIES POEMS. 
 
 THE INTERRUPTED SERENADE. 
 
 (By kind permission of Francis Wilson, Esq.) 
 
 'M under thy casement, my own lady love, 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 The stars in their glory are shining above, 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 Oh, you are my angel, my idol, my queen, 
 Excuse my guitar — at music I'm green, 
 I bought it a bargain — a dollar sixteen. 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 
 Your eyes make the stars of the Heavens turn green, 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 At least sweet they would, if those eyes could be seen, 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 Oh, come to thy casement, fair lady, come quick; 
 I'm weary of waiting, I'm sad and heart sick, 
 Excuse that last note — someone threw a brick. 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 
 The roses are sleeping; they dream, love, 01 you, 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 The breeze murmurs softly ; it sighs for thee too, 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 It moans at your casement, oh, open it now. 
 'Twill waft you my kisses, to print on your brow. 
 There's Jones' Maria — did you hear her me-row ? 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 19 
 
 Ah, could I but hear the soft notes of your voice, 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 All Nature would wake, and with me rejoice, 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 Oh, come to your lattice, one word only speak. 
 'Tis early, too early, your slumbers to seek. 
 My Gr string has "bust," my voice sprung a leak. 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 
 Oh, list to my pleadings, my soul is on fire, 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 I yearn for thee madly, my heart's dear desire, 
 
 TVang, twang, twang. 
 Ah, why do those eyelids in slumber now droop, 
 And o'er your white shoulders your fair tresses loop. 
 There's Pop with a shotgun come out on the stoop. 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 
 Oh, come to that window ; well, you take the cake, 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 You snore like a cyclone, the dead you would wake. 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 I'm down in the mud, the bulldogs on top ; 
 I'm plugged full of buckshot; I guess I will stop. 
 Tra la la, sweetness, I'm off — here's the Cop ! 
 
 Twang, twang, twang. 
 
20 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 DON'T FORGET THAT GUN. 
 A Little Boy's Letter to Santa Claus. 
 
 EAR Sandy Claws, I guess it's time I wrote you 
 just a line, 
 To hope you're well, an' tell you that I'm feelin' 
 extry fine. 
 An', oh! I'm lookin' forward to your comin' roun' this 
 
 year, 
 An' I thought I'd let you know just what to bring me, 
 
 Sandy dear. 
 I know you're awful good an' kind to little boys like me, 
 An' that is just the reason I'm a-writin to you, see ? 
 An' 'fore I mention other things, an' through the list I 
 
 run, 
 I'll be awful grateful, Sandy, if you'll bring along a- gun. 
 
 It's one of them nice "twenty-twos," dear Sandy, that I 
 
 need, 
 The sort a feller uses when he's got a panther treed, 
 Or is holdin' up the Deadwood coach, an' handy for to use 
 In standin' off a whoopin' band of Rapahoes or Siouxs. 
 They're handy, too, when Jones' cat comes roun' our yard 
 
 to sing, 
 Or Browns' pigeons squat about an' to the fence-rail cling. 
 There'll be a most excitin' time, an', oh ! such heaps of fun, 
 If you'll only mind, dear Sandy, an' bring along THAT 
 
 gun. 
 I need a pony next thing, dear Sandy, an' if you 
 Will bring him roun' I'll show the boys some circus tricks 
 
 that's new. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 21 
 
 He won't go in the stockin's I'm hangin' on the bed, 
 But you can leave him in the barn, an' that'll do instead; 
 An' 'twill save you lots of trouble, for it makes a heap of 
 
 mess 
 A-luggin' of a pony down a chimney-flue, I guess ; 
 An' bring a saddle, bridle, bit — a nickel-plated one — 
 Likewise a ton of hay and feed, an' DON'T forget that 
 
 GUN! 
 
 I guess an autermobill will be the next upon the list 
 (You needn't bring no kerosene, there's heaps that won't 
 
 be missed). 
 I don't know how you'll get it down the chimney or the 
 
 flue, 
 An' my stockin's they won't hold it, but I guess my pants'll 
 
 do, 
 For in one leg alone last year you put a train of cars; 
 But if they won't do, an' you won't tell, I'll go an' borrow 
 
 Pa's. 
 There'd be one leg for the pony, an' in the other one 
 You could stow the autermobill an' have room left for the 
 
 GUN. 
 
 You can bring along some peanuts — about a half a sack — 
 You needn't bring no apples, for Ma she's got a stack, 
 An' we're all fixed up for turkey, an' there ain't no lack of 
 
 pie, 
 But drop a ton of candy an' ice-cream as you go by. 
 The sled's wore out, an' so's the skates, so mind an' put 'em 
 
 down, 
 An' fetch a horn that makes a noise that's heard all over 
 
 town; 
 An' that ain't half that's on my list — in fact, I ain't begun. 
 Oh ! make a note for oranges, an' DON'T FORGET THAT 
 
 GUN! 
 
22 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Pa says, dear Sandy, I should think, at this time of the 
 
 year, 
 Of other things besides just what you're going to bring me, 
 
 dear. 
 That I should bear in mind just what took place on Christ- 
 mas Day, 
 Of "tidin's glad, good-will to men," an' then goes on to say, 
 That you're only nice an' kind to little boys that's good, 
 Who never tear their pants an' clothes, but split the kin- 
 
 dlin'-wood, 
 So, Sandy dear, remember me, an' all them bad boys shun, 
 An' bring what Pa calls "peace on earth," an' DON'T 
 FOPGET THAT GUN!!! 
 
 WILLIE ON CLASSIC FICTION. 
 
 SUPPOSE that Aunt Jemima thought she'd done a 
 powerful lot, 
 When she brought me this old novel by that feller 
 Walter Scott, 
 
 And another one by Dickens, or some funny name like that, 
 An' Pa says that I must read 'em, an' has laid the law down 
 
 flat, 
 That my much-loved yellow story books forever I must quit. 
 So here I'm tackling Ivanhoe, and don't like the thing a bit, 
 For, though I'm at the second page, to my intense regret, 
 No Indians 'peared upon the scene, and no one's killed as 
 yet. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 23 
 
 Pa's told me quite a little 'bout the story Ivanhoe, 
 
 An' says the whole thing's simply grand — but, oh ! it's 
 
 dreadful slow, 
 An' that Richard Cur de Lion, Pa says was great to fight, 
 Put with Pawnee Jim and Buckskin Bill he wouldn't be a 
 
 bite, 
 An' as for Mr. Eobin Hood, an' that ole six-foot bow, 
 Why, with Buckskin Bill's Win-chest-er, he wouldn't have 
 
 have a show. 
 So, Mister Scott and Dickens, if Willie's heart you'd win, 
 Just re-write all your stories, and put lots of Indians in. 
 
 Why, Johnny Jones, he tells me (and he's read an awful 
 
 lot), 
 That in some of these ol' stories by Dickens and by Scott — 
 ( An' when young Johnny told me, oh ! I laughed until I 
 
 shook) — 
 Why, he says that they make one murder do to last clean 
 
 through the book. 
 Of course, I didn't contradict, but, oh ! that can't be true, 
 That for just one single murder folks would read a whole 
 
 book through. 
 So I'm startin' to investigate, an', oh ! how mad I get, 
 For, here's page three, and, oh ! dear me ! nobody's killed as 
 
 yet. 
 
 Those funny days of chivalry, that Scott tells all about, 
 Where knights would get long lances to pry each other out. 
 Of them ole tin-can suits they wore, likewise a thick mail 
 
 shirt — 
 Why, them cowards must have dressed like that for fear of 
 
 getting hurt. 
 
24 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Could Buckskin Bill just come iu sight, and start in pump- 
 in' lead, 
 
 An' make his ole Win-chest-er smoke, them knights would 
 all drop dead. 
 
 An' while Bill he was pumpin' death, he'd smoke a cigar- 
 ette, 
 
 Ah, that's the type of hero for a real live boy, you bet. 
 
 Of course, in them ol' bygone days, folks wasn't go-ahead, 
 An' didn't know the proper way of killing people dead. 
 They didn't have no Maxim guns, an' then, maybe agen, 
 The 'Paches and Comanches weren't a showin' fight just 
 
 then. 
 But, with modern new improvements, they kill folks off in 
 
 style, 
 An' can knock a fly's hind leg off, an' stand off twenty mile. 
 So now it's just plain reason, boys in this progressive age 
 Want gore galore, and quite a score of killin's to a page. 
 
 So just take your classic ^ficti on an' lay it all aside, 
 While I will sweep the western plains, an' along with Wild 
 
 Bill ride. 
 An' haul a gay ole Gatling way upon a crested butte,* 
 An, lay low till the Redskins come, an' then wade in an' 
 
 shoot. 
 Then I'll wed an Indian Princess, a Sioux, or Chicksaw, 
 An' have an Indian pony and an Indian ma-in-law. 
 An' I'll write a book about it, and just look out for fun, 
 For every Indian living will be killed in Chapter One ! 
 
 *Pronounced lute; is a lone mountain. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 25 
 
 TURKEY AN' PIE. 
 
 HANKSGIYIN' DAY has come again an' Pa says 
 there is much 
 For us to all be thankful for, an' then he starts to 
 touch 
 Upon the various blessings that has happened through the 
 
 year, 
 An' the way that Pa just gets it off, 'twould do you good 
 
 to hear. 
 He says the harvest has been good, the corn an extry yield, 
 An' smilin' plenty's been the rule in pasture and in field; 
 An' for these acts of Providence, the turkey's got to die, 
 An' wholesale slaughter will be waged on cranb'ry sauce an' 
 pie. 
 
 Pa says, of all the years he's known, the one that's drawin' 
 
 out 
 Has been the one that most he's got to thankful be about ; 
 The summer-boarder crop this year has been the finest yet, 
 An' one young city feller Sister Sue's caught in her net. 
 She's been what they calls "on the shelf" an' never had no 
 
 beaus, 
 An' just how glad she's off his hands, Pa says, there's no 
 
 one knows ; 
 An', to show that we are grateful to Providence, we'll try 
 To fill ourselves up to the ears with turkey, sauce an' pie. 
 
 Pa says when he compares this year with other years he's 
 
 known, 
 This one, for real prosperity, just stands out all alone; 
 
26 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Grasshoppers and such birds of prey in other years have 
 
 come 
 An' chawed up everything in sight, an' never left a crumb. 
 But this year, Pa says, they'se been good, so good, with joy 
 
 we laugh, 
 To think, instead of all the crop, this year they took but 
 
 half; 
 An', for this special favor, we think we all should try 
 To swim around in cranb'ry sauce an' pulverize the pie. 
 
 Pa says he thinks a great improvement steadily goes on 
 An' gives a feller hope an' grist with which to build upon. 
 He says, this year, that Fortune's been a-smilin' extry kind 
 An' int'rest on the mortgage now's but sixteen months be- 
 hind. 
 An' he thinks, with great exertion, if we all wade in an' 
 
 work, 
 An' never leave a thing undone, and nothim round us shirk, 
 The organ for the parlor, on installments, we can buy, 
 So we'll organize a fierce assault on turkey, sauce an pie. 
 
 Pa says the tramps that's came around within the twelve 
 months gone, 
 
 Shows him a brighter era for humanity will dawn. 
 
 For tramps that once would, for a crust, split up a cord of 
 wood, 
 
 Now help themselves and kick like steers unless the cook- 
 ins good. 
 
 An', as for them mosquiters ; well, that's a thing that we 
 
 Have all got special reasons to extry thankful be, 
 
 For they were but a puny crop, some less than two feet 
 high, 
 
 So breathe a blessing 'tween the chunks of turkey, sauce 
 an' pie. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 27 
 
 Pa says, some folks they make him tired the way they soon 
 
 despair, 
 An' loads that break some backs,. to Pa are trifles light as 
 
 air; 
 An' there, out in the field, he sings with joy the livelong 
 
 day 
 To think the skeeters, bugs an' things ain't carried him 
 
 away, 
 But left him here upon the farm, his back to labor bent, 
 To pay the interest on loans at ninety-five per cent. 
 An' that Pa he can do the job's sufficient reason why 
 We've wrastled with the turkey an' got hunkey with the 
 
 pie. 
 
 "WHEN THE NEW BOY CAME." 
 
 HEN the New Boy came to school we awaited 
 eagerly 
 That gentleman's arrival, and wondered if he'd 
 be 
 
 A valuable addition to our youthful baseball nine, 
 And did his trunk contain a cake or other gifts divine, 
 And did he look a likely chap to bully or to lick, 
 And would he on the football team perchance be called to 
 
 kick, 
 And help the school to victory in many a glorious game — 
 Were the questions we debated when the New Boy came. 
 
 Now, Billy Benson said he'd heard — though he never men- 
 tioned where — 
 
 That the New Boy was quite big and strong and wouldn't 
 take a "dare." 
 
28 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 That he'd pitch a ball across a plate with most terrific 
 
 curve, 
 And, in stealing bases, never seemed to lack prodigious 
 
 nerve. 
 At jumping, he could clear with ease the highest kind of 
 
 gate, 
 And could swim a mile at least — or more — at simply record 
 
 rate. 
 Then run ten miles at "hare and hounds" and never fetch 
 
 up lame, 
 Which filled our souls with envy, ere the New Boy came. 
 
 Then Aubrey Montmorency said he thought that Benson 
 
 erred, 
 And from little hints dropped here and there he knew — or 
 
 p'raps inferred — 
 That the gentleman in question did not go in for sport, 
 But studied like a demon, and seclusion he would court 
 To sweat away at Virgil until he'd nearly drop, 
 Then scoop in all the prizes, and in his class be top. 
 This made us all disgusted, and it seemed so beastly tame, 
 And we looked quite tired and weary, ere the New Boy 
 
 came. 
 
 Then Master John MacDonald here ventured to remark, 
 
 That he'd private information, if we'd swear to keep it 
 dark, 
 
 That the youth we were expecting was not studious but 
 rich ! 
 
 Which excited us instanter to the highest kind of pitch ; 
 
 His parents simply rolled in wealth and delighted to in- 
 dulge 
 
 Their offspring's evr'y fancy — and here our eyes would 
 bulge ! 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 29 
 
 And to school with less than fifty "bones" this Croesus 
 
 never came, 
 Which drove us simply frantic, ere the New Boy came. 
 
 At last up on the playground that youthful soul emerged, 
 And a wild and curious eager crowd like Indians round 
 
 him surged. 
 But, oh ! what looks of horror, for there before us stood 
 A little nine-year stripling, just removed from babyhood. 
 A measly, puny weakling, a tear-drop in each eye ; 
 All! in vain had some fond mother that morning kissed 
 
 them dry; 
 We were righteously indignant — such a beastly, awful 
 
 shame; 
 We were horribly disgusted when the New Boy came. 
 
 Ah! boys, dear boys, appearances will very oft deceive; 
 Not always does the fairest flower the sweetest fragrance 
 
 leave. 
 The puniest of youngsters to robust strength will climb, 
 And captain all your baseball nines — if you'll but give 
 
 them time. 
 For even mighty Nelson was delicate and frail, 
 Yet gloriously he followed in Fame's lustrous blazing trail. 
 So give the youngsters time to grow and with pride you'll 
 
 yet acclaim 
 The memorable occasion, when the New Boy came. 
 
30 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 SIDNEY ALEXANDER AND HIS HALIDOME. 
 
 WAS wondrous the impression that novels used to 
 make 
 On the plastic brain of boyhood, and the forms 
 it used to take, 
 And the influence it wielded upon the youthful mind 
 Which between those magic coverlids a Paradise would find. 
 If you'd watch Sid Alexander, in a second you could tell 
 What EICT-I-O-NAL wizard over him had cast his spell, 
 And 'twas best for you to cut and run when o'er some well- 
 thumbed tome 
 You heard him mutter awful words about his "halidome." 
 
 We used to blame that Wizard of the North, Sir Walter 
 
 Scott, 
 For half the dreadful lickings and the bruises that we got. 
 P'or Sir Walter had o'er Sidney an influence immense ; 
 When 'neath his spell 'twas best for you to hide or climb a 
 
 fence. 
 For the battle-axe and lances and the swords that he would 
 
 wield 
 Would have sent the great Napoleon in terror from the 
 
 field, 
 For there never was an army 'neath the Heavens' eternal 
 
 dome 
 Could face Sid Alexander and his awful halidome. 
 
 In mediaeval castles he was living all the time, « 
 And over castellated Avails and postern gates he'd climb 
 To rescue lovely maidens who were lying in distress, 
 And for reward his lips upon their lily hands he'd press. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 31 
 
 He'd squires, pages, men-at-arms, you'd hear his charger 
 snort, 
 
 And he spoke the knightly lingo of great King Arthur's 
 Court. 
 
 In dungeons deep he'd victims chained, the wicked little 
 gnome, 
 
 And he benisoned and blessed 'em (?) by his knightly hali- 
 dome. 
 
 'Twas then you had to watch him, for danger it was rife, 
 For though he didn't really have a battle-axe or knife, 
 Yet his looks were so bloodthirsty, as the air he cleaved and 
 
 smote, 
 'Twas hard to think a shirt of mail was not beneath his 
 
 coat. 
 "Ah ! Caitiff dogs !" you'd hear him cry, and swiftly wheel 
 
 about 
 To drive the hosts of Saladin in sanguinary rout. 
 Then erstwhile as a Troubadour he'd sweetly sing of home 
 And the ladye-love he cherished, by his knightly halidome. 
 
 'Twas grand to watch Sir Sidney when he bade his love 
 
 adieu. 
 You'd have killed yourself a-laughing at the antics he went 
 
 through. 
 He'd fix a sprig of lilac for her colors in his cap, 
 Then vault upon his charger, and you'd hear his visor snap. 
 Then he'd gallop like a whirlwind and he'd shout his battle 
 
 Then homeward, wildly panting, like a meteor he'd fly, 
 And doff his cap and wave his hand, his sword to heaven 
 
 thrown, 
 As is fit for knightly lovers when they've got a halidome. 
 
32 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 We used to feel a great relief when Marryatt he'd read, 
 
 For then he'd drop the murd'rous and was nautical in- 
 stead. 
 
 And the way he hitched his trousers and the slang that he 
 let rip, 
 
 Why, anyone would think he'd spent his life aboard a ship. 
 
 The sails that he'd be setting and the anchors he'd let go, 
 
 The boarding parties he'd repel, the French that he laid 
 low, 
 
 Oh ! 'Twas glorious to watch him steer his frigate o'er the 
 foam, 
 
 And we had a welcome respite from his awful halidome. 
 
 But if we heard blood-curling whoops and sharp staccato 
 yells, 
 
 We knew that Sidney then was in his wickedest of spells, 
 
 And was reading of the "red men," as per Cooper or Mayne 
 Eeid, 
 
 And we rushed at once for safety with a most prodigious 
 speed, 
 
 For Sidney then a demon was, with knife and tomahawk; 
 
 And 'twould freeze your blood to watch the way his enemies 
 he'd stalk. 
 
 His face looked simply fiendish, a wicked, yellow chrome, 
 
 And we prayed he'd quit the Indian and resume his hali- 
 dome. 
 
 Oh, Sidney Alexander, I wonder if the books 
 
 That now you read still influence your actions and your 
 
 looks. 
 For if they do, be careful, and pray forever blot 
 From your mature perusal works by Cooper and by Scott. 
 For he whose temp'rament is of the impressionable kind 
 Should keep exciting literature forever from his mind. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 33 
 
 Read Paley's "Evidences" or Gibbon's "Pall of Rome," 
 And don't use naughty words about that dreadful hali- 
 dome. 
 
 "BUTT RIGHT IN." 
 
 HEN the work's accummulating, 
 As the work will, as a rule, 
 An' you're sort'er hesitating 
 An' cantak'rous as a mule, 
 An' you feel so all-fired lazy 
 
 That your tasks you want to shirk 
 An' it fairly makes you crazy 
 
 'Cause you got to go to work; 
 Don't hesitate and rail at fate, 
 An' start to wag your chin, 
 But roll up sleeves — that's what achieves 
 And Butt 
 Right 
 In! 
 
 When at night you're out a-calling, 
 
 On the girl that you adore, 
 An' your courage keeps a-falling 
 
 As it never fell before, 
 An' she edges closer to you 
 
 With a world of thrilling sighs, 
 An' her glances they go through you 
 
 As the lovelight fills her eyes ; 
 Don't run, you jay, that ain't no way 
 
 A maiden's heart to win. 
 Just whisper, "Sis, I want a kiss;" 
 
 Then Butt 
 Right 
 In! 
 
34 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 When you're kind'er speculating 
 
 On the cost of married life, 
 An' the question you're debating 
 
 Whether you can keep a wife, 
 For your wages they are scanty 
 
 So you think you'll throw down Sue, 
 For you're too durned mean to ante 
 
 Up the price of board for two, 
 Don't fool aroun', you measly clown 
 
 And count the cost; but shin 
 To Sue or Kate, to church go straight, 
 
 And Butt 
 Eight 
 In! 
 
 Should a jug of old Kentucky 
 
 Chance to wander 'round your way ; 
 You'll say it's most unlucky 
 
 I ain't touching none to-day; 
 I've had my farewell jag on, 
 
 I've took the temp'rance vow ; 
 I'm on the water wagon, 
 
 Carrie Nation's got me now ; 
 Don't let it pass, you durned jackass, 
 
 To miss it would be sin, 
 Throw back your head, "Here's how !" 'nuff said, 
 
 Just Butt 
 Eight 
 In! 
 
 When you see a feller critter 
 
 A-stagg'ring 'long life's road ; 
 An' he stops so he can get 'er 
 
 Better grip upon his load; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIES POEMS. 35 
 
 Then beneath his burden crushing 
 
 With an anguished moan he falls ; 
 Swift by the crowd goes rushing 
 
 While for help he vainly calls ; 
 You see his need, don't let him plead, 
 
 A crown in Heaven you'll win 
 If you will bear his load of care, 
 
 So Butt 
 
 Eight 
 In! 
 
 You fellers what are dreaming 
 
 Your precious hours away ; 
 You idle souls who're scheming 
 
 To keep the wolf at bay ; 
 You churlish clods who ever 
 
 Are hoarding up the pelf; 
 You selfish hulks who never 
 
 Had e'er a thought but self; 
 Don't waste in dreams, or idle schemes, 
 
 Your days, but work begin, 
 God only heeds a life of deeds 
 
 So Butt 
 
 Eight 
 In! 
 
36 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 MANDY AND SI IN EUROPE. 
 
 E'VE been across to Europe's shore, has Mancly 
 Jane and me, 
 To view its ancient cities, an' its aristocracy. 
 We've wandered over England, Scotland, Por- 
 tugal and France; 
 At Italy and Germany we likewise took a glance. 
 We hopped around in Switzerland, in Austria and when 
 A squint we'd took and had a look, we butted home agen, 
 An' though we both sized Europe up, including Greece and 
 
 Spain, 
 I'll say this much, no place can touch old Pumpkin Cor- 
 ners, Maine. 
 
 We sailed from home, and went to Rome — a queer old sort 
 
 of town. 
 The Coliseum's roof is off, the walls are tumbling down. 
 The whole place wanted fixing up and putting in repair ; 
 They ought to got the roof put on before we landed there. 
 The Pope was sick, so Mandy quick a note wrote to him 
 
 thus : 
 "Dear Pope, some day if you should stray down East, come 
 
 board with us." 
 We tried to scan the Vatican, but, though I ain't no scholar, 
 The cans we got in Maine, great Scott ! beat the Vatican all 
 
 holler." 
 
 Then off we went to Athens, bent on seeing Greece, but, say, 
 More grease will rise when Mandy fries than Greece has got 
 to-day. 
 
UNCLE CtiARLIE'S POEMS. 3f 
 
 Them Grecian pillers they were fine, but Mandy said, 
 
 "What hams ! 
 If we'd them marble pillers hum, we'd dress them up in 
 
 shams." 
 Then Venice we inspected next; 'twas grand to gaze upon, 
 But the streets were full of water — guess they had a freshet; 
 
 on. 
 Then the hungry souls of Hungary we peeked at from the 
 
 train, 
 But the hungriest guys the world supplies are in Pumpkin 
 
 Corners, Maine. 
 
 Then we went to Kice, but 'twasn't nice; then off to Ger- 
 many, 
 
 And Kaiser Wilhelm greeted us and axed us both to tea. 
 
 "My bologny's swell," said William. "Well," said I, "it's 
 quite a feast, 
 
 But for cheese that walks and sausage that talks, you got 
 to go down East." 
 
 "Our Princes, Counts — they never work," said William, 
 "understand 
 
 You've got no aristocracy in your benighted land." 
 
 "The man who shirks and never works," said I, "gives me 
 a pain; 
 
 We calls them bums from where I comes, down Pumpkin 
 Corners, Maine." 
 
 To Paris next, and there we dined table de hot; 'twas nice, 
 The soup it was de hot ; the table, that was cold as ice. 
 Meals a la carte, folks think they're smart, but here I'd 
 
 like to state 
 We don't eat vittels from a cart; we eat ours from a plate. 
 That Ark de Triomphe, that's a fraud — them French have 
 
 got a gall — 
 A mass of stones, that's what it was ; no animals at all. 
 
38 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS 
 
 They talk of wine and make a shine in France about cham- 
 pagne. 
 
 My faith I tack to the apple jack at Pumpkin Corners, 
 Maine. 
 
 We skipped across to England, and on Shakespeare called, 
 but, say, 
 
 Bill wasn't home to see us, as he'd gone out for the day. 
 
 Then we struck the Tower of London next, that place was 
 simply great; 
 
 We'd have seen 'em chop a king's head off, but got there 
 just too late. 
 
 To Westminster's famed Abbey then ; you'll be surprised to 
 larn 
 
 It cuts no ice and ain't so nice as old Eph Simpson's barn. 
 
 The folks, you know, are too dead slow, but here I'd best 
 explain — 
 
 Eor a dead slow place you got to chase to Pumpkin Cor- 
 ners, Maine. 
 
 That Forum, too; at that we drew the line right there in 
 
 Rome. 
 "They stand for rum," said Mandy; "come, we're prohi- 
 
 • bition home." 
 That leaning tower of Pisa — scour the earth — there's not 
 
 its mate. 
 If we'd that leaning tower down East, we'd make it stand 
 
 up straight. 
 Venus de Medici ; well, she's a statue I suppose. 
 I do declare she stood right there without a stitch of 
 
 clothes. 
 My coat I draped about her shape, and up and told her 
 
 plain, 
 "We'd give you ten days in the 'pen' in Pumpkin Corners, 
 
 Maine !" 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 39 
 
 Well, here I am, gay as a clam, back in the Pine Tree State. 
 I've crossed the tide and now decide that Europe's second 
 
 rate. 
 To travel through a week or two, I guess it has no peer, 
 But to make a pile — well, I should smile — you want to stay 
 
 right here. 
 Outclassed, outstripped, we've got 'em whipped, till they 
 
 can't draw a breath. 
 No need to blow ; we head the show ; we've got 'em skinned 
 
 to death. 
 Them Monarchs they don't go to-day — I hope I make this 
 
 plain. 
 It's pork and beans, not Kings and Queens, in Pumpkin 
 
 Corners, Maine. 
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOITBTH, AND HOW WE GOT IT. 
 
 A Dramatic Sketch. 
 
 Characters — King George, Washington, The American 
 Boy, the Goddess of Liberty. 
 
 (Washington and King George enter arm in arm from 
 center.) 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 OST noble liege and mighty King, 
 The colonies to you now cling 
 With fond allegiance, and we pray 
 To live beneath your royal sway. 
 No better monarch, Sire, than you 
 E'er reigned o'er people tried and true. 
 We're ever loyal, I give my word, 
 To you, illustrious George the Third. 
 
40 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 Thanks, thanks, most noble Washington. 
 I'm glad the people's hearts I've won — 
 I'm glad contentment now doth reign 
 From Florida to pine-clad Maine; 
 I'm glad the people are not bent 
 On change and want new government. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 New government, oh, no, great Sire ! 
 
 No government do we require 
 
 But yours, and we allegiance give 
 
 And crave 'neath Britain's flag to live 
 
 In happiness for ever more, 
 
 With you, great King, to lord it o'er 
 
 Old England and New England, too. 
 
 KING GEORGE (sadly). 
 
 Thanks, thanks, but, ah, 'twill never do. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 What ails my liege, your cheeks turn pale. 
 Your words in deep emotion fail; 
 Some burden's on your noble heart ! 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 The colonies and I — must part! 
 
 Washington (deeply agitated). 
 
 Must part ! Oh, King, what do you mean ? 
 We, who are happy and serene, 
 While we have you, our King, to love 
 And Britain's flag to wave above; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 41 
 
 Why must we part ? I lose my breath ; 
 Great King, you've scared me half to death. 
 Speak ! speak ! my liege, that I may glean 
 Some ray of hope. What do you mean ? 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 Ah, Washington, my noble friend, 
 "Tis sad to think my reign must end 
 Upon this continent, but so 
 The fates have willed, and I must go ! 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 You break my heart, see how I grieve? 
 What secret have you up your sleeve ? 
 Some awful weight preys on your mind. 
 Explain, oh, Sire ! don't be unkind ! 
 Tell me, great King, what does this mean? 
 We want no other King or Queen 
 But you and she, your royal spouse. 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 To swift revolt you must arouse 
 The colonies at once. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 And why 
 Must we revolt, who're loyal, and die? 
 Why must grim bloodshed's gory stain 
 Besmirch fair valley, hill and plain ? 
 Why must we fight? 
 
 (The American boy rushes on center. He is a typical 
 twentieth-century boy, full of life, dash and vigor.) 
 
42 UNCLE CHARLIES POEMS. 
 
 AMERICAN BOY. 
 
 I'll tell you why : — 
 If you dou't we'll have no Fourth of July. 
 I am the great American boy, 
 That sprite of palpitating joy; 
 And I demand — mind, no excuse — 
 One day a year to turn things loose ; 
 One day to let the fireworks off ; 
 One day to make the old cat cough, 
 And watch her o'er the fence top sail a 
 With strings of crackers at her tail; 
 I want a day to shriek and shout 
 And blow myself clean inside out; 
 I want a day to work off steam 
 And hear the American eagle scream; 
 A day to let old Europe know 
 That our band wagon heads the show ; 
 A day of grand hilarious mirth, 
 When Uncle Sam owns all the earth ; 
 A day when Europe looks amazed 
 And all creation sits back dazed ; 
 A day when small boys rule the world 
 And brave Old Glory swings unfurled — 
 Defiance breathing to the spheres, 
 And I, bereft of nose and ears, 
 Sing Yankee Doodle, Doodle Doo ! 
 Now then, you fellows — biff ! — set to ! 
 Get up and fight — don't waste my time 
 With fire crackers, twelve a dime, 
 And Eoman candles, six for ten ; 
 I'm out for sport ; now fight like men ; 
 Go pound each other till you're sore, 
 Or stand disgraced for evermore. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 43 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 Where are you from, sweet youth so coy? 
 
 AMERICAN BOY. 
 
 I am the twentieth-century boy, 
 
 And down the years I've come, poste haste, 
 
 To tell you both you'll be disgraced 
 
 Forever in our boyish eyes 
 
 If you don't fight; so, if you're wise, 
 
 Great Washington, King George you'll take 
 
 And mince-meat of that monarch make. 
 
 And if you don't, take this from me : 
 
 There will be no Washington, D. C. ; 
 
 No statues soaring to your name ; 
 
 No songs triumphant to proclaim 
 
 You father of your country grand, 
 
 The idol of your native land ; 
 
 No pictures hanging everywhere 
 
 Of you crossing o'er the Delaware, 
 
 Upstanding thus, hand stuck in coat, 
 
 With patriotic boys to gloat 
 
 Upon your grand, heroic manner, 
 
 While small lips hum "Star Spangled Banner !" 
 
 These awful things will happen if 
 
 You don't give old King George a biff. 
 
 I'll have no chance to lose an eye 
 
 And walk around three fingers shy, 
 
 And Chinese Union Firework Packers 
 
 Will strike if they can't sell their crackers. 
 
 Come, boys ; come, boys, from everywhere. 
 
 (Boys rush on, and encircle the stage.) 
 
44 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh, join me in this fervent prayer 
 To this, our hero Washington, 
 To give us just one day of fun ! 
 One day of wild, hilarious mirth, 
 The greatest day for boys on earth. 
 Great Washington, quick, make reply, 
 Do we get our Fourth of July ? 
 
 (Washington, in deep distress, gazes at the floor, sighs 
 deeply, as King George takes his arm.) 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 You see, my friend, what they require. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 Oh, yes, I see it, noble Sire. 
 
 But, oh, it grieves my inmost soul 
 
 To think that martial drums must roll, 
 
 And midst the cannon's deadly roars 
 
 You're headlong pitched from off these shores, 
 
 And just because these horrid boys 
 
 Want some excuse to make a noise. 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 I know, old friend, it does seem tough. 
 
 AMERICAN BOY. 
 
 It's time to fight; you've talked enough. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 I will not fight. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 45 
 
 AMERICAN BOY. 
 
 Then stand disgraced. 
 Your name from school books be erased. 
 New York a Washington Arch won't boast, 
 No Sousa's Band play "Washington Post," 
 And that story of the hatchet, see, 
 Where you cut down the cherry-tree, 
 We won't believe you told your pa. 
 Well swear you told a fib. Ha ! Ha ! 
 
 (Boys all laugh derisively.) 
 
 Washington (indignantly). 
 You'll tell the world I told a lie? 
 
 AMEEICAN BOYS. 
 
 Yes ! unless we get the "Fourth" of July. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 I will not be intimidated. 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 Now, boys, you've got him animated ; 
 
 Leave him to me, I'll make him fight. 
 
 I've got a scheme, just watch him bite, 
 
 He'll get so mad, he'll fairly choke, 
 
 And then off goes my kingly yoke. 
 
 I'll put a tax on Lipton's tea (All groan.) 
 
 All Yankees now my slaves shall be. 
 
 I'll grant you not the least concession, 
 
 Bat grind you down with fierce oppression. 
 
46 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Boston shall have no pork and beans, 
 
 No literary bell-boys or auto machines. (Groans.) 
 
 Tammany Hall shall be demolished, 
 
 Cranberry sauce at once abolished 
 
 And turkey, too, as I'm a sinner, 
 
 Shall never grace Thanksgiving dinner. (Groans.) 
 
 Pumpkin pie, and, I repeat it, 
 
 No one in America shall eat it. 
 
 Boys shan't whistle, girls shan't hum, 
 
 No baby's allowed to chew its thumb. (Groans.) 
 
 And tho' the nation's blood may boil, 
 
 I'll smash the trusts and Standard Oil. 
 
 No American girl shall wed a lord ; 
 
 All tramps must wash and pay their board. 
 
 (Loud cries of "Shame!" from the boys.) 
 
 I'll abolish, though my great throne quakes, 
 Popcorn, candy and buckwheat cakes. 
 And, to cap it all, you wretched creatures, 
 I'll abolish Jersey's fierce mos'keeters. 
 
 Washington (fighting mad). 
 You shan't! 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 I shan't ? I say I will ! 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 Then be prepared for Bunker Hill. 
 Pumpkin pie, that you can stop. 
 Pork and beans from menus drop. 
 Buckwheat cakes and biscuits, they 
 Can be abolished right away. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 47 
 
 Turkeys, cranb'ries, you can banish, 
 Thumbs from babies' months can vanish, 
 But I'll spoil all your kingly features 
 If you monkey with New Jersey's 'skeeters. 
 Those noble birds of freedom, they, 
 Unchained upon bald heads must play, 
 For, if you stopped their funny capers, 
 There'd be no jokes in Sunday papers. 
 They're our greatest, grandest institution, 
 The bulwark of our constitution. 
 To banish beans, great King, 's all right, 
 But touch the 'skeeters and I fight. 
 
 (Boys cheer lustily as Washington takes off his coat for 
 action. ) 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 Thank Heaven, I've made him mad at last ! 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 Go, nail "Old Glory" to the mast 
 And know ye all that now I sever 
 Old England from the "new" forever. 
 
 king george (in fighting attire). 
 Quit parleying and come to blows. 
 
 (Boys cheer as Washington taps King George on the 
 nose.) 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 There's one jiu jitsu on the nose ! 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 My cause is lost, I'm licked, I'm done ! 
 
48 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 America's free ; hurrah, I've won. ! 
 (Goddess of Liberty, from Liberty Island, enters center.) 
 
 GODDESS OF LIBERTY. 
 
 Immortal George, forever glorious, 
 I crown you in your hour victorious ; 
 'Twas not for liberty you fought, 
 And splendid deeds of valor wrought; 
 But for a nobler purpose you 
 Have fought and bled — 
 
 BOYS 
 
 Hurrah ! Hurroo ! 
 
 GODDESS OF LIBERTY. 
 
 You knew that boyhood one day needed 
 For joyous mirth ; their cry you heeded ! 
 You've been a boy and took compassion 
 On them and brought the "Fourth" in fashion. 
 
 KING GEORGE. 
 
 In my steamer trunk I'll put my crown, 
 
 And hustle back to London town ; 
 
 Farewell to all, so glad you're 'appy, 
 
 I'm going 'ome to be a chappie; 
 
 I'll send a wireless from Southampton, 
 
 And tell the Times how I've been tramped on. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 (Shakes King George's hand.) 
 Ta! Ta! George; so sorry to lose you. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 49 
 
 BOYS. 
 
 We wanted the "Fourth." 
 
 WASHINGTON-KING GEORGE. 
 
 We couldn't refuse you. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 Proclaim this fact from tower and steeple, 
 I only fought to please young people ; 
 King George's head, I had to crack it 
 Just so the "kids" could raise a racket; 
 And incidentally, know all creatures, 
 I fought to save the Jersey 'skeeters ; 
 So, know ye all, South, East, West, North, 
 Just how you got the glorious "Fourth." 
 You've got these facts all in your noodles, 
 
 ALL. 
 
 We have ! 
 
 GODDESS OF LIBERTY. 
 
 Then let's sing "Yankee Doodle, Doodles." 
 
 (All sing "Yankee Doodle" as Liberty takes Washing- 
 ton's hand. King George, with trunk, exits left. Cheers 
 and curtain.) 
 
50 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 THE CAT AND THE CANARY 
 
 HE Canary bird sat in his cage and sang, 
 When a Thomas Cat happened along. 
 "Good-morning, my dear/' said the gentleman 
 eat, 
 
 "A remarkably beautiful song ! 
 Your shakes and your trills my little heart fills 
 
 With a very exuberant joy." 
 "You flatter yours truly," said birdy, unduly ; 
 "You are awfully kind, dear boy!" 
 
 Tweet, tweet, tra-la-la-la ! 
 
 Awfully kind, dear Tommy, you are. 
 Me-ow, me-ow; caterawaul, caterawaul; 
 
 You're a glorious singer, that's all, that's all. 
 
 "I'm a bit of a singer, myself," said the cat, 
 
 At least, my Maria thinks so. 
 In a moonlight sonata., or backyard cantata, 
 
 Oh, I make a respectable show. 
 But it puzzles me quite, when rehearsing at night, 
 
 That out of each window should pop 
 Head after head, and my cheeks they blush red 
 
 At the way I'm requested to stop." 
 
 Meow, meow ; cater-mer-row ! 
 
 To the moon, from the roof, politely I bow, 
 But no one, alas, ever seems to admire 
 
 The love-songs I sing to my darling Maria. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 51 
 
 "Now, suppose I should give you a lesson or two,'* 
 
 The Canary bird smilingly said. 
 "I'll touch up your tones, and I'll calm down your groans, 
 
 And I'll fix up the chords in your head. 
 Then a world that derisively shouted you down, 
 
 Whenever you sang on the fence, 
 Would cry out for more, and demand an encore. 
 
 And they'd say it was simply immense." 
 
 "Tra-la-la-la, tra-la-la-lee !" 
 
 Said the Canary, "Pray, imitate me: 
 Me-yow, me-yow, likewise meyew ; 
 
 Oh, we'll soon make an opera singer of you !" 
 
 With his lesson well learned, off that night Thomas went, 
 
 And he warbled as never before. 
 His trills and his shakes, and his vocal earthquakes, 
 
 With great patience the neighborhood bore, 
 Till, wearied at last, there was wafted a blast 
 
 That hurtled 'round poor Tommy's head. 
 On buckshot bouquets, oh, he liked not to gaze, 
 
 So off, like greased lightning, he fled. 
 
 Bang, bang, bang ! went a gun, 
 
 Off went Tom's ear, of tail now he'd none. 
 "Oh, lor" ! Oh, my !" Tom shrieked, with a hiss. 
 
 "That dad-binged Canary, I'll fix him for this !" 
 
 In the morn Tom appeared in a terrible plight, 
 
 Underneath the Canary bird's cage. 
 The Canary bird exploded, and said : "You're a sight !" 
 
 While poor Thomas just trembled with rage. 
 The little Canary he then gobbled up, 
 
 And said : "This will teach you, you brat, 
 It's very absurd, for a vain little bird, 
 
 To play pranks on an old Thomas cat !" 
 
52 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 "Tra-la-la-la, tra-la-la-lee !" 
 
 Sang Tom, as he struck a grand high C. 
 "No wonder my voice is hirdlike and clear, 
 
 That's the hundredth Canary I've swallowed this vear !' 
 
 SO DID I. 
 
 HAT long, lank dude as sparks our Sue was to the 
 house last night, 
 An' talk of having fun, well, say, I thought I'd 
 die outright. 
 
 Laugh, well, I'm a-laughing still, I guess I'll never quit ; 
 I've only got to think, an' then I durned nigh have a fit. 
 He came to supper, an' we had, o' course, a dandy spread. 
 Sue trotted out her choe'late cake, an' Mom her fancy 
 
 bread, 
 An' that long dude he stuffed hisself with cake, preserves 
 
 an' pie, 
 An' then drank sixteen cups o' tea, an' — so did I. 
 
 Jim Snaggs he eat, an' eat, an' eat ; my, how that dude did 
 
 stuff, 
 Till every plate was cleared, then Jim he guessed he'd had 
 
 enough. 
 Most folks in love don't eat at all, but Jim ain't one of 
 
 such, 
 For he allowed love always made him eat just twice as 
 
 much. 
 Up from his chair Jim staggered, you could almost see him 
 
 swell. 
 He'd eat so much, how he got up thaf s more than I can 
 
 tell. 
 I saw him beckon Sue, an' she just answered with her eye, 
 Then to the parlor off they sneaked, an' — so did I. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 53 
 
 They made for that old settee in the corner by the door, 
 An' I crawled in an' hid behind, where oft I hid before. 
 An' then I heard him whisper : "Sue, just let me give you 
 
 one !" 
 An' Sue, she said: "Jim, if you do, I'll get right up an' 
 
 run." 
 An' then she giggled foolish-like; you know how young 
 
 folks spark 
 A-fore the parlor lamp is lit, an' things is kind 'er dark. 
 Well, Jim he kissed her good an' hard, an' Sue, she said: 
 
 "Oh, fie," 
 Then jabbed her fist in Jim Snaggs' neck, an' — so did I. 
 
 I bobbed down quick, Jim didn't see, for love, you know, is 
 
 blind ; 
 An' then with cord I started in Jim's swell coat-tails to 
 
 bind. 
 He'd on his new Prince Albert, for Jim was quite a card, 
 An', 'fore you knew a thing, I'd got him tied up good an' 
 
 hard, 
 An' 'neath the settee then I crawled, an' laid flat on the 
 
 floor, 
 With Sue's steel hatpin in my hand, six inches long, or 
 
 more. 
 Then, just as Jim was kissing Sue, I jabbed it in his thigh; 
 He yelled an' rolled in fourteen fits, an' — so did I. 
 
 You should have seen the circus, when that pin got busy — 
 
 you 
 Must know Jim hit the ceiling, an' the settee went there, 
 
 too, 
 An' 'round the room he dragged it, like a mule hitched to 
 
 a truck, 
 Till both his coat-tails they tore off, an' Jim just cussed 
 
 his luck 
 
54 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 An' stamped an' yelled till all the folks rushed headlong 
 
 through the door 
 An' stumbled over Sue, who lay unconscious on the floor. 
 Pop dashed right off for water; say, you should have seen 
 
 him fly; 
 He soused ten buckets in Sue's face, an' — so did I. 
 
 At last they got Sue on a chair, poor gal, she couldn't stand, 
 While Jim stood there an' rubbed hisself, a coat-tail in each 
 
 hand. 
 An' Sue no sooner saw him than she started in to grin, 
 Then flopped down on the floor, an' chucked another fit 
 
 again. 
 We soused her "to" with water, then an argument arose 
 Just as to what old animal had bit Jim through his clothes. 
 Sue guessed a snake, Ma said she thought 'twas lightning 
 
 from the sky, 
 But, last, they blamed it on the cat, an' — so did I. 
 
 THE TEAGEDY OF AN APPLE. 
 
 'M returning Willie's photograph, I'm sending back 
 his ring, 
 And across the picture's written, "You're a base, 
 deceitful tiling," 
 Oh! I never would have thought it, in the light of what 
 
 has been, 
 He'd have acted quite so selfish, so contemptible and mean, 
 
 n 
 
 1 1 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 55 
 
 But, alas ! it ever happens thus, for nearly every boy 
 Thinks a girl is little better than a plaything or a toy; 
 But my feelings can't be trampled on, and all the world 
 
 shall see 
 That everything is over, now, 'twixt Willie Jones and me. 
 
 My courage fails, and tears they come, when I recall the 
 
 past 
 With all its tender memories, too beautiful to last : 
 How we shared our candy, apples, gum, and how he made 
 
 a rule 
 To wait around our gate, and see me to and fro to school. 
 And, oh ! that blissful moment when he handed me a rose 
 And asked if he — (well, never mind) and how he bumped 
 
 my nose 
 And blushed as much as I did — ah ! 'tis cruel I've lived to 
 
 see 
 The day when all is over 'twixt Willie Jones and me. 
 
 i 
 It was all about an apple — he thought I wasn't nigh, 
 
 And I saw him go behind a tree to eat it on the sly ; 
 
 And his little guilty conscience made him gobble it so quick 
 
 That I thought it would have choked him, or have made 
 
 him deathly sick. 
 I saw that rosy apple as he bit with a zest 
 (It was one of those big juicy ones — the kind I like the 
 
 best), 
 And my mouth, oh, how it watered as his lips together 
 
 smack't ; 
 Then I dashed behind the tree and caught the culprit in 
 
 the act. 
 
 At first he tried to face me out, but 'twasn't any use, 
 For, trickling down from Willie's mouth, were tell-tale 
 streams of juice, 
 
56 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 And, oh ! the scent of apples just hung about his clothes, 
 And drove me simply frantic as it played about my nose. 
 I pressed him to confess his crime, he only fibbed the more, 
 When, sticking from his pocket, I observed an apple core; 
 And I snatched this proof of infamy forth from its hiding- 
 place, 
 And, with an air of triumph, then I shook it in his face. 
 
 'Twas only pride that gave me strength, as on the ground I 
 
 threw 
 The remnants of that apple — and I guess he never knew 
 Just what that action cost me, for it wasn't finished quite, 
 And there was yet enough upon it for just one lovely bite. 
 But I scorned it, and I threw it, with a haughty air, aside, 
 And, just as I was doing it, upon his coat I spied 
 Two long red hairs of Susan Payne's, confirming my worst 
 
 fears, 
 And, with this proof of perfidy, I "bursted" into tears.- 
 
 There's a yawning gulf existing now, 'twixt William Jones 
 
 and me, 
 And when he's near, the temperature descends most rapidly, 
 And an icy, frigid atmosphere o'er both a silence throws, 
 (Accentuated somewhat by my elevated nose). 
 I forgive him for his fickleness, I've dried the eyes once wet, 
 But there are things we may forgive, but never can forget; 
 And though Willie, on his bended knee, for pardon he 
 
 should crave, 
 Still the memories of that apple I shall carry to my grave. 
 
 I forgive him for his conduct with that freckled Susan 
 
 Payne ; 
 I forgive his haughty manner and his icy, cold disdain ; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 57 
 
 I can overlook the meanness of the priggish little elf, 
 (When passing cake he always took the biggest piece him- 
 self) ; 
 I forgive the cruel injustice, the indifference and neglect, 
 For, with the way he's been brought up, what else can you 
 
 expect ? 
 But I never will forgive him, for he broke my heart out- 
 right 
 When he ate that whole big apple without giving me a bite. 
 
 THE PREDICAMENTS OF A POET. 
 
 IS lady's locks of Titian red inflamed the poet's soui, 
 And soon with frenzy fine, and wrapt, his eye 
 
 began to roll. 
 He hied him home and seized his lyre, and gaily 
 twanged and smote, 
 And then a matchless sonnet to those ruddy locks he wrote. 
 Then, with his poesy, to his love he straightway hurried 
 
 back. 
 But, oh ! ye Gods ! that Titian hair was now a raven black. 
 
 Homeward in haste the poet hied, there was no time to 
 
 lose; 
 And soared Parnassan heights afresh, and wooed anew his 
 
 muse. 
 And, forthwith, then he grabbed his lyre and smote it many 
 
 a smack; 
 Then wrote his lays in frenzied praise of tresses raven 
 
 black. 
 
58 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Then, with his sonnet, sought his love; alas, poor hapless 
 
 clown ! 
 The fashions they had changed, and now his lady's locks 
 
 were brown. 
 
 The poet tarried not, nor wept, but hastened home full 
 
 swift, 
 And in the praise of nut-brown hair his voice right soon 
 
 did lift, 
 And, on the parchment, glowing words of eloquence express 
 The poet's adoration of each silken, glossy tress. 
 Then rushed unto his lady-love, in horror to behold 
 That nut-brown hair that once was there was now peroxide 
 
 gold. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 While fashion sways the sex called fair, 
 
 It would be wise, mayhap, 
 In writing sonnets to their hair, 
 
 To keep all hues on tap. 
 
 MAYBE! I GUESS! PERHAPS ! 
 
 HEY'VE got a social at our church, there's going 
 to be a time, 
 An', oh, such things they promise if you'll only 
 bring a dime. 
 
 You can give the wheel of fortune some gentle little taps, 
 An' every boy's to get a prize — maybe ! I guess ! perhaps ! 
 
 Pa's awful short of cash just now, he went to Mr. Jones, 
 And had a business talk with him concerning sundry loans. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 59 
 
 Pa told him if he'd wait until he'd gathered in the craps, 
 He'd pay him every cent he owed — maybe ! I guess ! per- 
 haps ! 
 
 We've got two beaus a-callin' on our Liza an' on Jane, 
 
 The way they spoon an' carry on would drive you 'most in- 
 sane. 
 
 My old-maid aunt says, 'fore she'd set aroun' in fellers' 
 laps 
 
 She'd rather die a thousand times — maybe ! I guess ! per- 
 haps ! 
 
 Pa got a circular in his mail, an advertisement, which 
 Told how a man without work might soon get all-fired 
 
 rich. 
 Pa's sent the man a dollar to explain this snap of snaps, 
 An' says his fortune's good as made — maybe ! I guess ! per- 
 haps ! 
 
 I've got a dandy bird-gun and a bulldog, too, I've got, 
 An' Jones' cat we fixed last night, and for her made things 
 
 hot. 
 Between that dog, an' gun an' me, we tore that cat in 
 
 scraps, 
 But she ain't dead, she's eight lives left — maybe ! I guess ! 
 
 perhaps ! 
 
 The chap that's courtin' sister Jane is thin an' dreadful 
 old, 
 
 But Ma, she says he's awful rich, got houses, land an' gold. 
 
 It ain't his wealth Jane's after, an' this the climax caps, 
 
 She's going to marry him for love: — maybe ! I guess ! per- 
 haps. 
 
 Ma says, some day, a long ways off, if boys don't steal an' 
 cry, 
 
 That lots of lovely things there is, awaits them by-an'-bye. 
 
(30 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 They'll all be angels if they're good, no more cross words 
 nor slaps, 
 
 And I'm to have a haro an' wings — maybe ! I guess ! per- 
 haps! 
 
 I 
 
 SANDY CLAWS. 
 
 ELL, Christmas, good old Christmas, it will soon 
 be here ag'en, 
 And dear old Sandy Claws once more will 
 creep out from his den, 
 And, I think, for him to stay away all through the year is 
 
 wrong, 
 When he could call 'most every day, and leave toys right 
 
 along. 
 I've often wondered where he lived, and just where Sandy 
 
 stops, 
 And, from his whiskers, I should judge it's near no barber- 
 shops ; 
 And, they say, he works both night and day, just like a 
 
 perfect slave, 
 A-making toys for girls and boys, and don't have time to 
 shave. 
 
 Some folks say Sandy don't exist, and that it's all a sell ; 
 
 I must confess there have been times I've had my doubts 
 as well, 
 
 For when, last Christmas, we received our old friend, Mis- 
 ter Claws, 
 
 Tho' face and whiskers they were his, his voice and pants 
 were Paw's ! 
 
 He may have had an accident, and borrowed pants from Pa, 
 
 But Dad he's only got one pair, and they was made by Ma, 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 61 
 
 And if Sandy ever got them on, and went from door to 
 
 door, 
 Them home-made pants that mother made would get him 
 
 locked up, sure. 
 
 It ain't alone them pants don't fit, but Ma can't measure 
 
 straight, 
 And, while one leg is three foot six, the t' other's two foot 
 
 eight, 
 And, as goods just now are scarce and dear, the pants ain't 
 
 all one piece; 
 And they're patched just like a crazy-quilt, and two foot 
 
 thick in grease. 
 And there's another funny thing, Bill Smith, Tom Jones, 
 
 and Brown, 
 And all the other boys and girls that live for miles aroun', 
 Say, when Sandy came to visit them — and that just made 
 
 me sore, 
 My Pop's pants had disappeared — and 'twas their Pop's 
 
 pants he wore. 
 
 So that's just got me guessing, to know what Sandy did, 
 
 With Pop's old pants when he left us, and where he's got 
 'em hid, 
 
 For there ain't no place to change 'em, 'cept in the open 
 air, 
 
 And, if Sandy Claws got doing that, you know how folks 
 would stare. 
 
 And yet in every house he went, to make young hearts re- 
 joice; 
 
 He had on different pantyloons, likewise a different voice, 
 
 And just what puzzles me is this, and to know I'd give a 
 dime, 
 
 How he changed his pants at every house, and. still got 
 'round on time. 
 
G2 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 It ain't as if he only had a single call to make, 
 
 But, as soon as Christmas morn arrives, and everyone's 
 
 awake, 
 In just about three hours, or less, of wild and boisterous 
 
 mirth, 
 Old Sandy Claws has made a call at every house on earth. 
 You talk about chain lightning, and say how mighty swift 
 
 'twill go, 
 But, compared to Sandy's getting 'round, that old chain 
 
 lightning's slow. 
 And how could he hand out his toys, in India, Spain and 
 
 France, 
 If he fooled 'round in snowdrifts while changing of his 
 
 pants? 
 
 And if he was to change 'em, as on his rounds he rolled, 
 It seems to me the dear old man would catch his death of 
 
 cold; 
 And then, if Sandy was to die, farewell to Christmas joys, 
 For what, in thunder, would we do for candy, sleds and 
 
 tcys ? 
 One pair of pants on t'other, he could put, so people state, 
 But with tons of pants on either leg, 'twould surely make 
 
 him late; 
 And, I can tell you one thing, if he wore many pants like 
 
 Pa's 
 He wouldn't get three hundred feet, unless he took the 
 
 cars. 
 
 Well, pants or no pants — I don't care, so long as Sandy 
 
 comes 
 All loaded down with whiskers, and sleds, and toys, and 
 
 drums ; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. (53 
 
 And, so long as he is right on time, and don't forget to 
 
 stop, 
 I don't care if Pop is Sandy Claws, or Sandy Claws is Pop ! 
 And whether he comes through the door, or down the chim- 
 
 bley flue, 
 Don't cut the leastest figure, just so long as he gets 
 
 through ; 
 And his voice, and pants, and whiskers don't concern the 
 
 girls and boys 
 So long as Sandy's 'round on time, and hustles out the 
 
 tovs. 
 
 
 "BEST TO KNOW NOTHLN' AT ALL." 
 
 jSTOWLEDGE is good for the hoys and the girls, 
 At least SO' the teacher says ; 
 An' ignorance, sure, is a blighting thing, 
 An' hurts us in various ways. 
 An' teachers is right, an' knowledge is fine — 
 
 Both for boys, an' girls, an' men, 
 But a goodly-sized stock of ignorance 
 
 Comes handy, too, now an' then. 
 It's nice to be smart, an' answer up quick, 
 
 When the minister comes to tea, 
 An' get the j'ography questions all right, 
 
 An' bound the Carribean Sea. 
 But if they should ask who stoned the black cat, 
 
 Or stole them apples last Fall, 
 Then Knowledge, you'll find, is a snare an' a fraud, 
 An' it's best to know nothin' at all. 
 
64 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 If Pop says : "Boy, I will give you a dime 
 
 If, without any pencil or slate, 
 You can multiply eighty by sixty-six 
 
 An' then subtract twenty-eight." 
 Then you want to look up to the ceiling hard, 
 
 An' see if the answer's there, 
 While your brains become an adding machine, 
 
 An' dimes float around in the air. 
 It's a mighty fine thing if you're good on sums ; 
 
 In fact, if s simply immense 
 To be able to answer up quick and correct, 
 
 An' collar that ol' ten cents. 
 But if Pop inquires how the window got broke 
 
 When you were out playing ball, 
 Well, Knowledge, you'll find, ain't good for your health, 
 
 An' it's best to know nothin' at all. 
 
 If your Ma should take you onto her lap, 
 
 As Mas they will sometimes do-, 
 An' the Sunday-school lesson gets down from the shelf, 
 
 An' the questions begin to run through, 
 Then visions of apples begin to appear 
 
 An' dazzle a poor boy's eyes, 
 An' you wish you knew more than Solomon did, 
 
 An' were fifty, or more, times wise. 
 Oh ! it's nice to know all 'bout Noa-n-th' Ark, 
 
 An' get all the Ten Plagues right, 
 An' tell about Samson losing his hair, 
 
 An' them Philistines puttin' to flight. 
 But if Ma should ask who stole that mince pie 
 
 She left on the tray in the hall, 
 Then Knowledge, you'll find's the worst thing on earth, 
 
 An' it's best to know nothin' at all. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 65 
 
 If sister's dude beau sits down .on a tack, 
 
 With the business end in the air, 
 An* cobbler's wax, it gets stuck in a pile 
 
 'Bound the edge of the easy-chair, 
 An' the neighbor's puppy scoots down the street 
 
 With a tin-can tied to his tail, 
 An' they can't draw water out of the well, 
 
 Because there's no bucket or pail, 
 An' a jar of preserves is nearly gone, 
 
 An' another is empty quite, 
 An' every old clock in the house strikes wrong, 
 
 An' none of the lamps will light — 
 Should Pop, with a raw-hide, then upon you 
 
 For exact information call : 
 Well, Knowledge ain't what it's cracked up to be, 
 
 An' it's best to know nothin' at all. 
 
 A CAEEFUL MA. 
 
 Y ma, she is a careful ma. When I go out to 
 play, 
 She'll say : "Now John, dear, have a care just 
 where you go to-day; 
 Now don't play ball, because a ball is dangerous, and you 
 Might get a fatal blow, and then whatever should I do ? 
 And don't go near the water, for you're liable to drown, 
 And look up at the housetops, as a cornice might blow 
 
 down, 
 For the wind is very high, John, so now, my dear, ta ! ta ! 
 And mind the automobiles, dear !" Oh, I've such a care- 
 ful ma ! 
 My ma, she is a careful ma. I've scarcely gone a yard 
 Before she's shouting, "Johnnie" — and a-shouting good 
 and hard. 
 
(Jg UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 "I guess you'd better stay at home," she'll say, f 'for John, 
 
 my pet, 
 Jones' dog went mad last week, and no one's caught it yet. 
 There ! You've stepped right in that puddle ; come in and 
 
 change your shoes, 
 For the influenza's raging, and I read in last night's News 
 That boy of Smith's that got wet feet has took pneumonia; 
 You'd better change your stockings, too." Oh, I've such a 
 
 careful ma ! 
 
 My ma, she is a careful ma. She cuts up all my meat, 
 But fish she never lets me touch, and, whiter than a sheet, 
 She tells how, years and years ago, a boy in Delaware 
 Got two fishbones lodged in his throat, and died right then 
 
 and there. 
 And as for knives and forks; well, they're a thing that's 
 
 quite taboo ; 
 Ma says a fork is dangerous, and a little boy she knew, 
 His knife it slipped and cut his lip, 'twas in Pennsylvania ; 
 So I use a spoon for pie at noon. Oh, I've such a careful 
 
 ma! 
 
 My ma, she is a careful ma. She never lets me run, 
 For fear I'd stub my toe and fall, and when the golden sun 
 Shines down, she keeps me in the house, for fear a stroke 
 
 I'll get; 
 And when it rains, I'm locked indoors, for fear I might get 
 
 wet. 
 She never lets me read, for ma says reading hurts your 
 
 eyes. 
 She never lets me laugh, for ma don't think that laughing's 
 
 wise, 
 For if I laughed as loud, she says, as Uncle Jim and pa, 
 I'd take a fit, and die in it — Oh, I've such a careful ma ! 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. G7 
 
 "OLD HOSS JIM. 
 
 T just beats ev'ry thing to fits, the way a feller feels, 
 When first he claps his eyes upon them autermoby- 
 
 eels, 
 An' strange, but some folks like the things, and 
 think they're just divine — 
 But, speaking for myself, right here, I don't want none in 
 
 mine. 
 No auto ear, I thank you, sir, will yank this chap around, 
 A-kitin' long the road like sin, a foot above the ground. 
 An' I'll bet, no benzine buggy ever built for mortal's whim 
 Can hold its own a second with, or touch, our old hoss Jim ! 
 
 It ain't that Jim's so beautiful, it ain't that Jim's so fast, 
 For the speediest days of Jim, I guess, are over now and 
 
 past. 
 But when I look back thirty years,, and rack my brain 
 
 awhile, 
 And think of old Jim's palmy days, them 'mobeels make 
 
 me smile. 
 Them days, when Jim was sleek and fat, and had a fiery 
 
 eye, 
 When I grabbed the reins, and held my breath, prepared to 
 
 do or die — 
 And with ears laid low, and tail stuck out, a type of speed 
 
 and power — 
 Jim dashed along the old pike-road at fifty yards an hour. 
 
 I'd like to see the pacer that could pass old Jimmy then, 
 Ah ! many a one had tried it, but Jim he knew just when 
 The t'other hoss was coming, then Jimmy he would stop, 
 And across the road he'd spread himself, and in the middle 
 flop— 
 
(53 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 And the hoss that tried to pass him then, it had to climb 
 
 or fly — 
 Or dig a tunnel under Jim, or there warn't no getting by. 
 Then off to sleep old Jim would go, and into dreamland 
 
 roam, 
 While I hitched a rope around his neck, and hauled the 
 
 victor home. 
 
 Another thing about old Jim, if he didn't go the clip, 
 All that a feller needed was to just haul out his whip, 
 An' then you'd soak it to him for about an hour or so — 
 An', to show Jim bore no malice, he would go ten times as 
 
 slow — 
 Now, with them ol' automoby-eels, if they don't go the 
 
 pace, 
 It's just a-wastin' time to get the whip down from its 
 
 place, 
 You can pound and cuss a hoss until the atmosphere turns 
 
 green, 
 But 'tain't no use to lick a durned ol' can of kerosene. 
 
 An' then them automoby-eels, they cost a sight of pelf, 
 
 An' they need a heap of groomin', too, while Jim — he 
 grooms himself. 
 
 An' they're chock full of bolts and things, how many I 
 forget, 
 
 While Jim, I will say that for him — he's never bolted yet. 
 
 An' then they've got rheumatic tires, and pumpin' air's re- 
 quired ; 
 
 Yes, ev'ry blessed wheel needs tires, while Jim he's never 
 tired. 
 
 An' Jim don't need no hay, nor oats, such things he never 
 ate, 
 
 He just chews up a fence-rail, and he thinks he's doin' 
 great. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 69 
 
 So, taks your automoby-eels and throw 'em all aside, 
 
 An' your ol' balloons an' flyin' ships that through the 
 
 heaven's glide; 
 Your Empire State expresses, your whizzin' trolley cars. 
 You can harness up the comets an' the meteoric stars, 
 You can grab a wirless cablegram an' sit upon its tail, 
 You can catch greased lightnin' as it flies, or follow in its 
 
 trail, 
 But, with all your wheels, an' 'beels, an' things that o'er 
 
 our planet skim, 
 When it comes to rapid transit, why, I pins my faith to 
 
 Jim. 
 
 A MATTER OF MONEY. 
 
 AUD SMITH is quite the sweetest girl, I think, 
 I ever met. 
 What glorious sparkling eyes has Maud, what 
 hair of glistening jet ! 
 Brunettes I've always much preferred to any type of 
 
 blonde, 
 Of blue-eyed girls with creamy cheeks I ne'er was extra 
 
 fond. 
 How strange that Maud's so lovely, for Maudie's sister Sue 
 I think is quite the homeliest girl I've ever met, don't you? 
 I've laid my net for Maudie, and, by the way, I'm told. 
 She has a fortune, all her own, some fifty thousand "cold." 
 
 Well, I've clean gone back on Maudie, for I can plainly see 
 Brunettes no longer have the charm that once they had for 
 
 me. 
 Blue eyes and golden hair, somehow, they always have the 
 
 knack 
 Of making girls look very plain whose hair is merely black. 
 
70 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Then Sue's so interesting, while Maud is far from that, 
 And, after Sue, Maud always seems to fall a trifle flat. 
 So Sue's the girl of girls, I guess, to fill the bill just now. 
 Oh! by the wry, it's Sue, not Maud, that has that fifty 
 thou'. 
 
 I find those Smith girls, after all, are nothing extra grand : 
 
 Susie's feet are rather large, she's not a pretty hand; 
 
 She's rather shallow, too, I find ; those baby faces pall ; 
 
 Somehow, I don't think, after this, I'll make another call. 
 
 To tell the truth, they're homely, and, then, they're not my 
 style. 
 
 And Sue and Maud will sing and play ; and, oh, their pay- 
 ing's vile; 
 
 And, anyway, just now at least, I'm not on marriage bent. 
 
 (Deuced frauds, those Smith girls are; they haven't got a 
 cent!) 
 
 "MAY-BE. 
 
 EW YEAR'S a-looming up again, and Dad's re- 
 solved that he, 
 A different man entirely in the coming year, will 
 be. 
 
 He's turned a new leaf over, he's a-thinking deep and long, 
 And Dad's a-resolutin' and a-resolutin' strong. 
 He says he knows in years gone by he's made some awful 
 
 breaks. 
 But man is only mortal, and we all make some mistakes. 
 But in this year a-coming, in Dad a change you'll see — 
 He's made ninety resolutions, and he'll keep 'em all — 
 
 Meb-be ! 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 71 
 
 Dad thinks that drink's the greatest curse in this wide 
 world to-day, 
 
 And Dad's resolved he'll quit it, and he'll quit it right 
 away. 
 
 Xo more he'll to the drug-store go and tip the pill man off, 
 
 And wink, and say he wants some drops to cure whooping- 
 cough. 
 
 Then, when he's got the cough cure (which is old Kentucky 
 
 Bye), 
 
 !No more he'll make out he's a bird, and show Ma how to 
 
 Pa says, saloon-men should be in the penitentiary ; 
 He'll never touch another drop in all his life — 
 
 Meb-be ! 
 
 Another thing that Pop's resolved, a thing he's wild about, 
 
 He says that swearing ain't genteel, he's going to cut it out. 
 
 So when the hammer hits his thumb, or razor cuts Pop's 
 cheek, 
 
 He'll do his cussing inwardly, and say long words in Greek. 
 
 He says it's mighty hard, no doubt, your language to ad- 
 just, 
 
 And if he don't cuss sometimes, well — he calculates he'll 
 bust. 
 
 Pop says he's cut the cuss words out of his vocab'laree ! 
 
 And when he sits down on a tack he'll only smile — 
 
 Meb-be ! 
 
 Pop's made a resolution that he's going to be genteel, 
 His table manners from henceforth will tony be, and real. 
 Pop's knife won't go into his mouth, he says, that action's 
 
 rude; 
 Henceforth he'll be a 'ristocrat, and fork up all his food. 
 
72 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 And when he gets his pie henceforth, 'twill just delight 
 
 your soul, 
 He'll eat it in one bite instead of swallering of it whole. 
 A napkin, too, Pa's going to have spread out across his 
 
 knee, 
 No more he'll wipe his mouth upon the tablecloth — 
 
 Meb-be ! 
 
 Another thing that Dad's resolved, and his resolve will 
 
 hold; 
 He says the truth it must prevail ; truth's better far than 
 
 gold. 
 So Dad no more will tell us how at Vicksburg in the war, 
 He killed three hundred men stone dead, and captured 
 
 ninety-four. 
 No more he'll yarn about that fish he hauled in last July, 
 That measured eighty-four feet long, and took six weeks to 
 
 fry. 
 And 'bout the "skeet" who ate the sheet, the bureau and 
 
 settee, 
 Pop's never going to lie again in all his life — 
 
 Meb-be ! 
 
 And so Dad — he's resolving, and resolving day and night. 
 He says he's lived the past all wrong, he'll live the future 
 
 right. 
 The golden rule he'll follow up, and pointers he will give 
 To erring fellow-critters, on the proper way to live. 
 No telling fibs, no monkeying with liquor that is red ; 
 No cussing and no fussing, no grabbing pie or bread ; 
 No cheating or contrariness, and good old Pop, you'll see, 
 Will keep his resolutions — for a half a day — 
 
 Meb-be ! 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 73 
 
 THE ART OF BEING GOOD. 
 
 H, Christmas Day is coming, and 'twould do you 
 good to see 
 The wondrous transformation scene that's taken 
 place in me. 
 
 This change it always comes about this season of the year, 
 When Sandy Claws and Yuletide joys are slowly drawing 
 
 near, 
 "lis then the boist'rous manner of the youth begins to go, 
 And an angel halo 'round my head and wings commence to 
 
 grow; 
 And folks start in to wonder why I've dropped my noisy 
 
 ways. 
 Well, 'tain't because I like to, but because I find it pays. 
 
 Oh, say, you ought to see me as I walk around the house, 
 As meek, and mild, and humble, and as silent as a mouse ; 
 And Ma shell say : "Oh, son dear, will you kindly close the 
 
 door?" 
 And I reply: "Of course, Ma, with the greatest pleasure, 
 
 sure !" 
 Then I close it, oh, so gently, while Ma looks on and 
 
 smiles, 
 (The bang it gets at other times is heard around for 
 
 miles.) 
 You'll wonder why I shut that door so gentle and so pat: 
 On Christmas Day I'll get a sleigh and pair of skates for 
 
 that ! 
 
 And when we're at the table, then an angel boy am I, 
 No grabbing for the sugar-bowl, or scrambling for the pie. 
 The red-hot soup I put aside, and give it time to cool ; 
 I blow it till it decorates the ceiling, as a rule. 
 
74 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Mamma she looks so proud, of me, and, when I ask for 
 
 cheese, 
 I startle everybody by saying : "If you please !" 
 Then Pa he says: "I guess we'll make a gentleman of 
 
 Nat !" 
 On Christmas morn I'll get a horn and train of cars for 
 
 that! 
 
 And when we go to meeting, I sing just like a bird, 
 And find the place for Pa and Ma, and follow ev'ry word; 
 While, as a usual tiling, I'm in the depths of dire disgrace, 
 Get half the leaves torn out the book, and never know the 
 
 place. 
 But now I'm like an angel, and when they pass the plate, 
 I drop in it a whole red cent, and Pa says : "Sure as fate, 
 We'll send our Nat as Mission'ry to Siam or Kelat"; 
 At Christmastime, I'll get a dime and phonograph for 
 
 that ! 
 
 Oh, say, you ought to see me when my sister's beau and she 
 Are in the parlor holding hands ; of course, I never see 
 What's going on; but let 'em spoon, while scarce a month 
 
 before, 
 You'd have found me 'neath the sofa hid, or squinting 
 
 through the door. 
 But now — well, I just turn my head (wonders will never 
 
 cease). 
 I let them make their "goo-goo" eyes and spark in perfect 
 
 peace. 
 And when Jim kisses Sis; well, say, I'm blinder than a 
 
 bat; 
 When Sandy's 'round, I'll get a pound of chocolate fudge 
 
 for that! 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 75 
 
 Now, boys, take this advice from me — it's natural you 
 should ; 
 
 And listen to a lecture on the art of being good. 
 
 There's not much money in it, on ordinary days, 
 
 But, when December looms in view, you'll find that good- 
 ness pays. 
 
 For Sandy Claws is watching you, and so is Pa and M a ; 
 
 On your behavior all depends, just what you get, Ha ! Ha ! 
 
 But when old Sandy's left the toys, and Christmas Day is 
 o'er, 
 
 Quit the angel business, and become a pesky boy once more. 
 
 "I DON'T KNOW WHO HE WAS. 
 
 OME boys and girls are bright and smart, but folks 
 can see at once, 
 That I'm a little, backward child, a perfect little 
 dunce. 
 
 My Maw an' teachers try so hard to get things in my head, 
 But in a second I forget just ev'ry word that's said. 
 Maw said to-day I ought to try my little life to plan, 
 And imitate George Washington — I think that that's the 
 
 man; 
 And I'd like to do what Mamma says, but I can't, you see, 
 
 because 
 I never heard of Washington, and I don't know who he 
 was. 
 
 Ma talked to-day of Lincoln, and, my! how her tongue 
 
 did run, 
 But I knew no more when she got through than when she 
 
 first begun. 
 
76 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 She mentioned something 'bout the slaves, but my poor 
 
 brain's so slow. 
 Whether he freed them, or they freed him, I'm bothered 
 
 If I know. 
 He may have been an Englishman, a Eussian, or a Turk ; 
 Perhaps he was some lazy boy that wouldn't go to work ; 
 Oh, I'd like to do what Mamma says, but I can't, you see, 
 
 because 
 I never heard of Lincoln, and I don't know who he was. 
 
 Napoleon's another name my Maw holds up to me. 
 
 She keeps a-mumbling o'er that name, at breakfast, dinner, 
 
 tea; 
 I've listened to her now for years, and listened to her good, 
 But don't know if "Nap's" a boy or girl, or some new 
 
 breakfast food. 
 He might have been, for all I know, a woman or a man, 
 Or, maybe, it's some patent stuff that comes packed in a 
 
 can. 
 Oh, I'd like to do as Mamma says, but I can't, you see, 
 
 because 
 I never heard of Napoleon, and I don't know who he was. 
 
 Ma talks of Julius Caesar, and she talks on by the hour, 
 And, when she strikes that name, her voice has majesty and 
 
 power. 
 She shakes with fierce excitement, as she walks the parlor 
 
 floor, 
 But the only Caesar that I know is the dog that lives next 
 
 door. 
 If Caesar was a man, a cat, a dog, door, or kangaroo, 
 My little head's too thick to learn, my brains they never 
 
 knew. 
 Oh, I'd like to imitate him, but I can't, you see, because 
 I never heard of "Sneezer," and I don't know who he was. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 77 
 
 Oh, knowledge is the tiling I want; it's knowledge that I 
 
 lack, 
 But I can't learn while boys are chalking monkeys on my 
 
 back ! 
 It's impossible to study hard, no matter how you try, 
 When you have to sit 'most all the day on tacks ten inches 
 
 high. 
 And no wonder I'm a dunce, and all my brains are in a 
 
 wreck, 
 When boys, all day, put bumblebees and "waspses" down 
 
 my neck. 
 So Washington and Lincoln I can't imitate, because 
 I never heard their names a-fore, and I don't know who 
 
 they was. 
 
 THE LITTLE BIRD THAT'S ALWAYS TELLING 
 
 MA. 
 
 'VE had a present from my pa, a dandy new air-gun, 
 And now I'm going out-of-doors to have no end of 
 
 fun. 
 The neighbors' cats are safe from me, I've got no 
 quarrel with them; 
 The rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, hares, to death I don't 
 
 condemn. 
 Wolves, Indians, mountain-lions, coyotes, bear and deer 
 Can look into the muzzle of my gun and have no fear, 
 But I have sworn fierce vengeance, and am on the trail; 
 
 ha! ha! 
 Of the horrid, spiteful little bird that's always telling Ma. 
 
78 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 How happy would have been my life, how gay, and free 
 
 from care, 
 Had Nature made no little birds to navigate the air. 
 What whippings I would have been spared, the lash that 
 
 fiercely stung, 
 Had one mean tell-tale bird had but the sense to hold its 
 
 tongue. 
 For, since I can remember (that's some eight long, troubled 
 
 years), 
 That horrid bird has spied on me, and, oh ! the bitter tears 
 That tell-tale wretch has caused me; for, no matter what 
 
 I do, 
 That little bird has told my Ma before the day is through. 
 
 If we had birds in all the rooms, in cellar, attic, too, 
 I shouldn't wonder, then, if Ma of all my actions knew, 
 But all we've got's a parrot, and since the day Pa came 
 Crash ! headlong down the parlor stairs, Poll's never been 
 
 the same. 
 She just sits in that cage of hers, repeating, word for word, 
 The strange remarks Pa made the day his accident oc- 
 curred. 
 So my Ma's chance of hearing tales from Polly's mighty 
 
 small, 
 For she's so busy swearing, she's no time to talk at all. 
 
 If my Tom cat had told on me, I should not wonder, for, 
 These many moons, 'twixt Tom and I there's been a state 
 
 of war. 
 But Tom has never said a word, nor has the goat, or dog; 
 The roosters, hens, the ducks, the geese, the horse, the mule 
 
 or has, 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 79 
 
 With all of these at various times I've had fierce scenes of 
 
 strife, 
 But not a one lias ever told on me in all my life. 
 While feathered friends I've left unharmed, to sing up in 
 
 the tree, 
 Have joined in a conspiracy to tell Ma tales on me. 
 
 I once got in the cellar deep, where Ma keeps all her pies ; 
 I grinned, and said : "Well, here at least no little birdie's 
 
 eyes 
 Can. look and see what's going on, though birds they know 
 
 a trick, 
 I guess they can't peek through a wall that's close on three 
 
 feet thick." 
 And so I chuckled, and I ate till I was sick as death. 
 Then dragged myself up to my bed, and fairly gasped for 
 
 breath. 
 Then Ma arrived with fierce rawhide, and, as I squealed 
 
 with pain, 
 I quick inferred that same old bird had told on me again. 
 
 So wonder not that I am hot upon the trail of one 
 Who's robbed poor me, from infancy, of oceans full of fun. 
 And when that bird lies safe interred in Mother Earth, 
 
 then I 
 Can softly creep in cellar deep, and fill myself with pie. 
 If cream and cake I chance to take, should ball through 
 
 window go, 
 I'll fear no wrath; for, now henceforth, who did it, none 
 
 will know. 
 Oh, life will be sweet bliss to me, a Paradise, ha ! ha ! 
 When I have lured to death the bird that's always telling 
 
 Ma! 
 
80 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 SINCE KATIE WENT TO COOKING-SCHOOL. 
 
 NE dreadful day, to my dismay, Kate got it in her 
 head 
 The cook should go, the maid also ; she'd run the 
 house, instead. 
 She'd lessons take, to roast and bake ; she'd cook the meals, 
 
 while I 
 Paid ev'ry bill, and made my will, and then prepared to 
 
 die. 
 A cooking course, without remorse she took, and then with 
 
 glee 
 Swift home returned, and all she'd learned she tried on 
 
 helpless me. 
 Soups boiling hot for me she got, and wouldn't let them 
 
 cool. 
 0, cruel fate that prompted Kate to go to cooking-school. 
 
 Kate used to say, ten times a day, I was her only mash ; 
 Now she mashes the potatoes, and she dotes upon the hash. 
 And, when of soul I talk, she'll roll her eyes and say : "Of 
 
 course ; 
 You save that sole for me, and I will serve it with a sauce." 
 I never saw so many sauces as that girl can fix ; 
 If she'd my heart, then a la carte she'd serve it boiled at 
 
 sis. 
 Her head's a kitchen range, and all deranged. Oh, what a 
 
 fool 
 I was to let my Katie pet go to the cooking-school ! 
 
 But, oh ! the scenes, when she serves beans ; I greet them 
 
 with a yell. 
 I'm a "has-been," so she calls me, and Fve been a brute as 
 
 well. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 81 
 
 And the corned beef, it's so full of corns, I instantly insist 
 She send for a corn doctor, or expert chiropodist. 
 And, as for game, it is a shame, for help I have to bawl. 
 I'm pretty game, but Katie's "game" — well, I can't stand 
 
 at all. 
 Her tapioca ; it would choke a goat, or kill a mule. 
 Oh, wicked fate that tempted Kate to go to cooking-school. 
 
 Kate's bread has bred dyspepsia. I'm not a carpin oaf; 
 But her yeast will raise a riot, but 'twill never raise a loaf. 
 Her ketchup, it will fetch up a train of mem'ries vile, 
 And, when it's served, I ketch up my hat and run a mile. 
 We've cereals at all the meals — it makes my poor heart 
 
 bleed — 
 They're the kind of cereals you can't eat, and neither can 
 
 you read. 
 Her punch I have to punch it — it's sure death, as a rule. 
 Oh, sad the day Kate strayed away to go to cooking-school. 
 
 Kate's bully on the bouillon — that soup I guess you know. 
 Her ox-tail soup gives me the croup, it's made of tales of 
 
 woe. 
 Her salad-dressing keeps me guessing, makes me whoop and 
 
 prance. 
 The way her dressed tomatoes taste, they must be dressed 
 
 in pants. 
 Her shredded wheat the world will beat; for months that 
 
 stuff I've stood. 
 She says it's shredded wheat, but I can swear it's shredded 
 
 wood. 
 Her consomme is cream of hay. Oh, what a luckless fool 
 I was to let my Katie pet go to the cooking-school. 
 
 Kate's custard pie, it will defy a buzz-saw ; it's a crime, 
 And, when I get that pie, you bet it's cust-hard ev'ry time. 
 
82 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Her kidney stews give me the blues. I take one bite and 
 shriek ! *» 
 
 I touch that stew, and when I'm through I'm stew-pid for 
 a week. 
 
 Her fricassees they fail to please; 1*11 touch them not 
 again. 
 
 Whene'er I touch her fricassees I'm frica-seized with pain. 
 
 Her beef extract, my cranium cracked; it makes me tear 
 my wool 
 
 And cuss the fate that tempted Kate to go to cooking- 
 school. 
 
 WHEN POP PLAYED SANDY CLAWS. 
 
 HERE are memories that haunt a fellow till his 
 dying day, 
 And scoff at Father Time's attempt to banish 
 them away; 
 There are thoughts that crush the heart and soul, and 
 
 make the eyelids droop, 
 And funny thoughts that make a man get up and fairly 
 
 whoop. 
 As Christmas is a-coming, somehow I tho't that you 
 Would like to know of the events of Christmas, '92 ; 
 And I'm going to tell you 'bout it, and, most of all, because 
 It was that particular Christmas that Pop played Sandy 
 Claws. 
 
 I was just a little nipper then, but I remember well 
 How Pop had got a secret; what it was he wouldn't tell, 
 And he kept a-talking to himself, and wandered 'round the 
 
 house 
 Mysterious as a Tom cat when it's stalking down a mouse. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 83 
 
 We youngsters used to follow him, for boys, of course, they 
 
 know 
 When something strange is in the wind ; and so, one night, 
 
 oh ! oh ! 
 We crept up in the attic, an old store-room of Maw's, 
 And .there saw Pop dressing up in clothes like Sandy 
 
 Claws. 
 
 Well, Christmas Day it came around, and happy boys were 
 
 we, 
 For fun we knew was in the air, and kids adore a spree. 
 We waited at the chimney hours, for Sandy to come down 
 And fetch a ton of candy, toys, and presents in from town. 
 We asked the folks where Pop had gone, but no one seemed 
 
 to know, 
 And Sandy, where was he? — folks guessed he'd got stuck 
 
 in the snow. 
 Then dinnertime rolled 'round, and we all burst in tears, 
 
 because 
 We couldn't find a single trace of Pop or Sandy Claws. 
 
 Maw — she was simply furious — the clock had just struck 
 
 two; 
 No sign of Pop, and dinner pretty nearly half-way through. 
 She guessed that Pop was lost or killed, then started in to 
 
 cry, 
 And brother Bill, he showed his grief by grabbing half the 
 
 pie. 
 We polished off the dinner, and were munching at the fruit, 
 When crash ! bang ! down the chimney came a half a ton of 
 
 soot, 
 And then we heard an awful yell — the voice resembled 
 
 Paw's, 
 And Bill said : "Bud, I'll bet that's Pop a-playing Sandy 
 
 Claws." 
 
84 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Aunt Jane rushed to the chimney; say, I thought that I 
 
 should die, 
 For half a brick flopped on her nose and bounced off in her 
 
 eye. 
 Then up the chimney Maw she peeked; her head, it shot 
 
 back soon, 
 Her face all covered thick with soot, and blacker than a 
 
 coon. 
 The yells grew worse ; we recognized the voice of Dad ; and, 
 
 say, 
 His language, it will haunt my ears until my dying day. 
 "I've got stuck in the chimney," said Pop ; "get ropes and 
 
 saws/' 
 Say, this is what a feller gets for playing Sandy Claws. 
 
 We rushed out for a ladder, then, and Uncle Joe and Dick, 
 They banged it 'gainst the chimney, and that loosened up a 
 
 brick; 
 And the brick, of course, fell down inside ; and, oh ! the 
 
 words Pa said 
 When that old brick connected with the bald spot on his 
 
 head. 
 Then down we let a rope to him, and tugged times out of 
 
 mind, 
 While, broom in hand, Maw went to work and boosted Pop 
 
 behind ; 
 They tugged, but all in vain, for Pop was trapped, and all 
 
 because 
 His pants were stuffed with straw, to make him fat like 
 
 Sandy Claws. 
 
 Well, Pop was stuck, and stuck for keeps ; we had to send 
 
 to town, 
 And get a wrecking-crew to come, and tear the chimney 
 
 down. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 85 
 
 Then they hitched Pop to a derrick, and out they yanked 
 
 him quick, 
 And, when we saw the sight he was, we laughed till we 
 
 were sick. 
 We had to turn the hose on him, and wash off all the dirt. 
 You ought 'er heard Pop's language when the hose began 
 
 to squirt. 
 "I've lost an eye and arm," he said, "and pulverized my 
 
 jaws." 
 That was the last time, bet your life, that Pop played 
 
 Sandy Claws! 
 
 "WHEN BABY WRITES A LETTER." 
 
 HEX Baby writes a letter to her Daddy far away, 
 The occasion's most important, for she has so 
 
 much to say. 
 She sits up to the table, as grown-up folks all 
 do, 
 And then a pile of paper all around her we must strew. 
 With Grandma's golden spectacles safe perched upon her 
 
 nose, 
 She dips her pen into the ink, then straight to work she 
 
 goes, 
 And the onslaught fierce that follows would fill you with 
 
 dismay — 
 When Baby writes a letter to her Daddy far away. 
 
 "Baby sends her love to Daddy, and hopes that he is well," 
 Is the sentence Baby first indites — her methods I must 
 
 tell— 
 For the sweet and simple message that expresses Baby's 
 
 love 
 Is a clot and dash, and big ink-splash below and just above. 
 
gg UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 She perforates the paper with many tiny pricks, 
 
 And plays a tattoo on her chair with sundry little kicks, 
 
 And all the floor is scattered o'er with fragments of the 
 
 fray, 
 To tell us Baby's writing to her Daddy far away. 
 
 The letter is a long one, for scores of sheets are used, 
 And every one bears witness to the way it's been abused. 
 A page for every word she takes, she quite ignores the lines, 
 While each one, as it's written, to oblivion she consigns ; 
 Then proudly for an envelope Miss Baby now will call, 
 And she fills it full of paper, with no writing on at all. 
 The address is so illegible, I must regret to say, 
 It's doubtful if 'twill ever reach dear Daddy far away. 
 
 HELP WANTED. 
 
 E went housekeeping, Maud and I, 
 And vainly both of us did try 
 A maid to find, but none came by, 
 The desired girl. 
 
 At last, after a search of years, 
 Of offers golden — copious tears, 
 Upon the threshold there appears 
 The hired girl; 
 
 A maid from Erin's Emerald Isle, 
 Of foot-thick brogue and yard-wide smile, 
 Who slept all day and snored the while, 
 The tired girl. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 87 
 
 At last, one silent, fateful night, 
 An Irish maid took sudden flight, 
 And on the sidewalk did alight 
 The fired girl. 
 
 WILLIE'S OPINION OF BABIES. 
 
 ALWAYS thought that hahies, they was kind of 
 useless things, 
 Eor none of them can use their legs, an' none of 
 them has wings. 
 They're funny little helpless mites, can't neither walk nor 
 
 fly, 
 
 An' they ain't no use for nothin', except to bawl an' cry. 
 Pa says we all was babies once, but guess that can't be so, 
 An' if we was, then my ideals has got a fearful blow. 
 For if Washington an' Lafayette ate pap an' used to cry, 
 You'll please excuse poor Willie if he thinks if s time to 
 die. 
 
 When of Washington I think, an' Napoleon the First, 
 A-bein' little babies all cuddled up an' nurst, 
 A-suckin' of a bottle, an' a-rubbin' of their nose, 
 An' a-trying might an' main to fill their little mouths with 
 
 toes, 
 An' eatin' paddy goric, an' kickin' up a din, 
 Because of close connections with some unsafe safety pin, 
 Then my heart is just clean broken, an' if some dark cor- 
 ner's nigh, 
 I feel like crawlin' in it an' a-layin' down to die. 
 
88 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 It's just a horrid shame to go an' burst a boy's ideals. 
 It simply breaks a feller up, you don't know how it feels. 
 To think of mighty Washington, who crossed the Delaware, 
 The man who fought ten thousand foes, and never turned 
 
 a hair ! 
 The Father of his Country, a-sprawlin' on the floor 
 An' yellin' murder, 'cause of pains beneath his pinafore. 
 Oh ! it drives me wild an' frantic, an' I feel I want to fly 
 An' take my torn an' bleeding heart to some far land an' 
 
 die. 
 
 I thought that mighty Washington was half a god like 
 
 Jove., 
 An' had a fiery chariot, an' fiery horses drove, 
 An' bounced down from the clouds at dawn, an' put King 
 
 George to flight: 
 An', when the red-coats all was licked, went back agen at 
 
 night. 
 A sort of close relation to Olympus Jove, Esquire, 
 Who roasted red-hot thunderbolts before his kitchen fire. 
 But Washington was just a boy, ate cake an' yelled for pie. 
 So please excuse poor Willie if he crawls away to die. 
 
 An' thus I was a-musin' an' a-nursin' brother Ben; 
 
 I'd push his carriage up the block an' half-way home agen, 
 
 When Jimmy Doolan came along, an' Jim so cheeky got, 
 
 There wasn't nothin' else to do but thrash him on the spot; 
 
 An' as I was a-doin' it, my baby brother he 
 
 Just cooed, an' laughed, an' stomped his feet, an' went just 
 wild with glee, 
 
 An' when I licked that Doolan boy, his little hands he 
 claps, 
 
 An' made me think that Wash'ton was a baby once — per- 
 haps. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 89 
 
 One morning Aunt Jemima put Ben into bed with, me; 
 He was suckin' at his bottle, an' I thought 'twould be a 
 
 spree 
 To pull the rubber from his mouth, an' see what he would 
 
 do; 
 An' so I did, an', in a jiff, into a rage he flew, 
 An' doubled up his little fists an' pummeled me right there, 
 An' rolled his eyes, an' snorted fierce, an' pulled my nose 
 
 an' hair, 
 An' gave me such a-hidin' that for help I had to call. 
 So Washington an' Nap', I guess, were babies, after all. 
 
 A FEW THINGS TO BE THANKFUL FOR. 
 
 HEY'EE a-fixing up the turkey, they're a-touching 
 up the sass, 
 They're cuttin' up the pumpkin' pie — it's handier 
 to pass; 
 
 They've got the ol' plum puddin' a-sizzlin' in the pot, 
 An' the vegetables, Mandy says, will all be pipin' hot. 
 So, now, it is my privilege, an' honor, for to go 
 An' tap a keg of cider in the cellar down below ; 
 I'm the only one who'll touch it, an' I'm going to tell you 
 
 pat, 
 Of all Thanksgiving blessings, I am thankful most for 
 that. 
 
 We've got a crowd invited to the dinner; there's Bill 
 
 Hubbs, 
 You recollect of Bill, of course, what married Widder 
 
 Grubbs. 
 An' there's ol' Joshua Tadpole, what sparked Jemima Gee, 
 Without exaggerating he can eat enough for three; 
 
90 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 An', when the good ol' turkey shows itself upon the deck, 
 Mandy takes good care to see ol' Joshua gets the neck. 
 The doctor's stopped Josh eating 5 said he'd suffocate in 
 
 fat— 
 So humbly ask a blessing an' thank Providence for that. 
 
 Nell Quackenbush is comin', too, of course you all know 
 
 Nell, 
 Her eyes are like twin vi'lets; she's the Hick'ry Corners 
 
 belle. 
 An' the most romantic thing on earth, no feller will deny, 
 Is when Nell's pearly teeth shut down on half a pumpkin 
 
 pie. 
 Nell always sits right next to me, an' when I pass the 
 
 cheese, 
 Or cake and cream, she bows perlite, an' gives my hand a 
 
 squeeze. 
 Mandy, she wears glasses, an' is blind 'er than a bat ; 
 She don't see half that's goin' on — let's thankful be for 
 
 that! 
 
 The minister's a-comin', he's a man we all hold dear ; 
 
 (Eats as tho' he hadn't tasted food for half a year.) 
 
 An' the way he says the blessin' — it's a blessin' short and 
 
 slim — 
 Shows turkey, not religion's, got the upper hand of him. 
 His wife, too, was invited — say, that woman talks a streak; 
 Can't get a Avord in edgeways, if you waited for a week ; 
 She's bedfast with the rheumatiz, an' sicker than a cat, 
 So pulverize the turkey, an' thank Providence for that ! 
 
 01' Doctor Squills, alas ! can't come — you know old Doc, of 
 
 course ; 
 He'll practice on a human being, or medicate a horse. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 91 
 
 Doc never went to college, but he'll kill a man as slick, 
 
 r As them there city doctors can, an', maybe, twice as quick. 
 
 "Doc" ain't much good at treatin' folks, but ev'ryone al- 
 lows 
 
 He's a wonder when it comes to doc'trin' horses, hens an' 
 cows. 
 
 Doc's gone to-day to treat a hog thaf s sick at Poker Flat ; 
 
 So, down the cranb'ry sass an' thank kind Providence for 
 that. 
 
 We'll gather 'round the festive board that's groaning with 
 
 good cheer, 
 For ol' Thanksgivin' only comes just one day in the year. 
 Don't bother 'bout dyspepsee, but let the vittles soar 
 To that spot assigned by nature till you just can't hold no 
 
 more. 
 Just loosen up the buttons, an' the neckwear get untied ; 
 So's to give the good ol' turkey room to circulate inside. 
 Then slide into the rocker, or stretch out upon the mat, 
 An' that you ain't exploded, thank kind Providence for 
 
 that! 
 
 "WHEN CASEY CAME HOME SOBER." 
 
 HERE'S trouble down in Casey's block, there's 
 heaps of trouble there, 
 And many an imprecation deep is flying through 
 the air; 
 
 For Casey has disgraced himself, and the block it feels ag- 
 grieved — 
 For it's very proud of Casey, and it hates to be deceived. 
 Pat Casey never yet was known to draw a sober breath, 
 And Casey said that if he did 'twould surely cause his 
 death ; 
 
92 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 And now the block is crazy, and trouble there is rife, 
 For Casey 's come home sober, for the first time in his life. 
 
 Pat Casey was the "mixed-ale king/' the champion of his 
 
 class. 
 He drank a half a dozen kegs while others drained a glass. 
 The block was madly proud of him, and now it feared to 
 
 lose 
 The glorious reputation of its uncrowned king of booze. 
 So ev'ry growler, duck and can was quickly on the chase, 
 And quarts of ale and lager soon were dashed in Casey's 
 
 face, 
 And soon the glorious news went out to thousands 'round 
 
 the door, 
 "The honor of the block is saved ; great Casey 's full once 
 
 more." 
 
 Poor Casey couldn't understand how things all came about ; 
 He must have sobered while asleep, of that there was no 
 
 doubt. 
 He deeply felt the sad disgrace, he keenly felt the pain. 
 And swore that beastly sober he would never be again. 
 The morals of the neighborhood he'd never more offend, 
 But a decent, drunken Casey he'd remain until the end ; 
 And he promised ne'er again that he to death would scare 
 
 his wife, 
 By coming home quite sober any more in all his life. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. <)3 
 
 SETTLIN'-UP TIME. 
 
 T'S settling time at Jones' store, and folks for miles 
 aroimd 
 For Happy Valley Corners, with their produce, 
 now are bound; 
 There's Hiram Lucks, he's hauling ducks, and Bill Smith's 
 
 freighting hogs. 
 He's going to exchange 'em for some brand-new Sunday 
 
 togs. 
 Samanthy Denns, her eggs and hens, is going to convert 
 Eight into sugar, coffee, tea, and gingham for a skirt; 
 Old Jabez Reece has squash and geese, and turkeys, too, a 
 
 score ; 
 And, bright and gay, all wend their way to Jones' general 
 store. 
 
 It's settling time at Jones' store, and country folks all 
 
 meet, 
 And with a hearty "Howd'y do!" each other now they 
 
 greet. 
 "Well, Mandy Jane," says Farmer Blaine, "how's Joe, and 
 
 sister Liz?" 
 "Joe 's good and slick," says Mandy quick, "but Liz has 
 
 rheumatiz." 
 "How goes the crops?" says Eeuben Hopps of Ebenezer 
 
 Hugs. 
 Says Eb. "0. K. we find the hay, but fruit 's eat up with 
 
 bugs." 
 Thus to and fro, enquiries go, from eight a. m. till four. 
 Then roosters crow, to let you know that settling time is 
 
 o'er. 
 
94 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Now homeward roll, the jovial souls, along the country 
 
 roads, 
 All blithe and gay they wend their way to scattered far 
 
 abodes ; 
 And in each wagon snugly lies all that the city yields 
 In rich abundance to the man who tills the smiling fields. 
 There's ribbons for the housewife, muslin good for Sarah 
 
 Anne; 
 For Gran-dad there's tobacco, shirts and shoes for Ed and 
 
 Dan; 
 And an organ for the parlor that makes melodies sublime. 
 No joys there are like to the joys that come with settling 
 
 time. 
 
 THE CAUTIOUS LOVER 
 
 AELING, at last I am alone, and now take up my 
 pen 
 To tell thee that, indeed, I am the happiest of 
 men. 
 
 Thou art my first, my only love — I ne'er have loved before 
 (Excepting Sue and Mayme and Liz, and half a dozen 
 more). 
 
 Oh, wondrous is this thing called love that now fills all my 
 
 life! 
 Ah, blessed day that soon will dawn when I shall call thee 
 
 wife! 
 Ah, then with jo}', full, full will be and brimming o'er my 
 
 cup 
 (My bliss depending on the way your father "ponies" up). 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 95 
 
 So filled am I with thoughts of thee, my heart and breast 
 
 aflame, 
 That ev'ry wand'ring zephyr seems to murmur o'er thy 
 
 name. 
 With thee and thoughts of thee I live, and hunger flees 
 
 away — 
 For love is all the food I crave (and three "square" meals 
 
 per day). 
 
 I pace my chamber through the night and gaze up at the 
 
 stars, 
 And then my soul leaps forth in flight and breaks down all 
 
 its bars, 
 And with thee, sweet, in other worlds a lover's tryst I keep 
 (Which proves a man can do a heap when he is fast 
 
 asleep). 
 
 Thou art my life, and shouldst thou ask of me some proof 
 of love, 
 
 To fight with dragons in the deeps or storm the heights 
 above, 
 
 Forth, then, thy champion I would go; my love is so in- 
 tense, 
 
 That for thy sake I'd gladly die (about ten centuries 
 hence). 
 
96 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 "HE KNEW IT THEN." 
 
 s 
 
 WOOED sweet Clementina Jones, 
 In eloquent, impassioned tones, 
 And shrunk unto a bag of bones. 
 I wooed with tongue and pen. 
 I scarce could eat — I'd no desire — 
 I sought seclusion, twanged a lyre; 
 My breast burnt up with molten fire, 
 I knew what love was then. 
 
 I pressed my suit — and at her feet 
 My heart I laid, and fortune neat; 
 Then told her how that poor heart beat, 
 
 Beyond all mortal ken. 
 But icily she answered: "No," 
 Then bade me from her presence go, 
 And, weighted 'neath a world of woe, 
 
 I knew what grief was then. 
 
 Another suitor came one night, 
 
 My heart was frozen at the sight; 
 
 She saw him, and her eyes flashed bright- 
 
 The handsomest of men; 
 He wooed, and to the altar led 
 She whom I loved, and they were wed ; 
 My heart within my breast lay dead. 
 
 Despair. I knew it then. 
 
 Years passed ; by chance I saw again 
 And met once more these lovers twain ; 
 He fat and bald — she thin and plain — 
 Of children they had ten; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 97 
 
 And, oh ! I smiled with sweet content, 
 To find he couldn't pay his rent, 
 And that she squandered every cent. 
 Ah ! joy! I knew it then. 
 
 BELINDA ANNE. 
 
 N Hallowe'en night, when the logs blaze bright, 
 And the frost lies white on the ground, 
 And the bleak wind moans in dismal tones, 
 Then we love to gather around 
 The cheerful glow on the hearth ; and, oh ! 
 
 That's the time when Belinda Anne 
 Such tales will tell of what befell 
 When she first met the "Pollywog Man." 
 
 She said that the Pollywog had a head 
 
 That measured a yard around, 
 And the queerest eyes, like pumpkin pies, 
 
 And walked a foot from the ground — 
 She thought his shoes must be twenty-twos ; 
 
 And he'd a beard of black and tan, 
 Which, to his disgrace, he shook in the face 
 
 Of poor Belinda Anne. 
 
 Then she told how, once, when walking about, 
 
 She came to a fairy court, 
 And the gallants gay, in bright array, 
 
 About her 'gan to sport. 
 They were choosing a queen, such a beauteous scene 
 
 Ne'er had been since the world began ; 
 And, by gen'ral consent, the most votes went, 
 
 Of course — to Belinda Anne. 
 
gg UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 One night, she said, she'd pains in her head, 
 
 And her work wasn't half-way through — 
 Dishes piled in a heap — when she fell asleep, 
 
 As most of the hired girls do. 
 Then she woke with a start; for, bless your heart, 
 
 There stood the Pollywog Man 
 Washing dishes a score and scrubbing the floor, 
 
 To the joy of Belinda Anne. 
 
 POOR DOLLIE'S SICK. 
 
 EEAD lightly on the parlor floor, 
 And mind the creaking stair; 
 Be careful not to slam the door; 
 And, Fido, don't you dare 
 
 To bark, or even wag your tail ; 
 
 And see the clocks don't tick, 
 For Dollie's health's begun to fail. 
 
 And, oh ! she's very sick. 
 
 The doctor's here ! his looks are grave, 
 
 He sounds poor Dollie's chest, 
 And asks what kind of food she craves, 
 
 And if she can digest 
 Her meals; and pulse and temperature 
 
 He takes, and starts to stick 
 Some plaster on the wounds, to cure 
 
 Poor Dollie where she's sick. 
 
 We none of us exactly know 
 
 Just what is the disease 
 Poor Dollie's got, but there's a flow 
 
 Of sawdust, if you please, 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 99 
 
 From limbs, and joints, and ribs and bones; 
 
 So hurry, now, be quick ! 
 Fetch little "Doctor" Willie Jones ; 
 
 For, oh! poor Dollie's sick. 
 
 Then, next her arm he vaccinates, 
 
 (A toasting-fork is used), 
 And Dollie's mamma he berates, 
 
 And says she has abused 
 Her daughter's health ; and, also, we 
 
 Sent for him in the nick 
 Of time to save her life; for she 
 
 Is very, very sick. 
 
 Her temp'rature's a "thousand," and 
 
 Her pulse is nine-naught-two, 
 But "Doctor" Jones can understand 
 
 Her case, and pull her through ; 
 He takes an apple for his fee — 
 
 All fears we now dispel; 
 And, as he bows and leaves, we see — 
 
 Hey, presto ! Dollie's well ! 
 
 BABY'S FIRST SUNDAY IN CHURCH. 
 
 WAS a great event in baby's life 
 When first to church she went; 
 She cried for weeks to go, until 
 Her mamma srave consent. 
 
 Now, up the aisle she's proudly marched, 
 
 Most gloriously arrayed, 
 Decked out in all her Sunday best, 
 
 And not one bit afraid. 
 
100 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 She promised, oh, to be so good, 
 
 And never say a word ; 
 But, as she toddled up the aisle, 
 
 The congregation heard 
 A little baby's voice repeat 
 
 (As baby's always do), 
 "Does ev'rybody, mamma, know 
 
 That all my clothes are new ?" 
 
 At length she's seated, and, amazed, 
 
 She gazes all around; 
 And, when the organ starts to play, 
 
 She marvels at the sound; 
 And, soon again, in accents clear, 
 
 Are heard these childish words : 
 "Oh, mamma, what's the man a-doing 
 
 With the dicky birds ?" 
 In trooped the choir-boys all in white, 
 
 And baby's face was then 
 A study that no brush could paint, 
 
 No ; neither could a pen ; 
 And baby's mamma's face took on 
 
 A brilliant hue of red 
 As baby said : "Look, mamma ! 
 
 Little boys all going to bed !" 
 
 Of course, when all stood up to sing, 
 
 Then baby stood up, too, 
 Perched high upon a hassock, 
 
 To command a better view. 
 She had to have a hymn-book, 
 
 And made poor mamma frown; 
 For, when the place was found for her, 
 
 She turned it upside down. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIES POEMS. IQl 
 
 A lengthy sermon now began; 
 
 She glanced the books all o'er, 
 And longed so much to gather them, 
 
 And play at "keeping store." 
 But the sermon wearied baby so, 
 
 Her eyes they ceased to roam, 
 And a plaintive voice said : "Fse so tired ; 
 
 Please, mamma, take me home." 
 
 WHAT BOYS AND GIRLS ARE MADE OF. 
 
 LITTLE boy was talking to a pretty little maid, 
 And the matter was of import and of weight. 
 The discussion took a turn from which we 
 much can learn, 
 If we study it and then investigate. 
 The little girl had said that she'd heard, or somewhere 
 read, 
 That the things which constitute a little miss, 
 From the bottom of her toes to her airy, fairy nose 
 "Were ingredients fashioned somewhat after this: 
 
 Sugar and spice, things lovely and nice, candy and cara- 
 mels, too; 
 
 Sunbeams' rays from bright golden days, and roses all wet 
 with. dew. 
 
 Beaches and cream, and love's own dream, likewise come to 
 the aid of 
 
 Dame Nature old, when the compound's rolled, of which 
 little girls are made of. 
 
 Then the little boy's blue eyes somewhat expressed surprise, 
 And from his looks perhaps 'twould be inferr'd 
 
 He'd a most decided doubt in his little mind about 
 The truth of what he recently had heard. 
 
102 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Though he did not quite dissent; yet still, of course, he 
 meant 
 
 His sex's cause to then and there uphold, 
 So what constitutes a boy, with proper manly joy, 
 
 His little lips with eloquence now told. 
 
 A heart of gold, a lion so bold, an eagle on the wing, 
 
 Spice of the East, honey, at least, enough for the feast of 
 a king. 
 
 The whole earth's dower of strength and power, for noth- 
 ing is he afraid of; 
 
 Beauty and health, and love and wealth — that's what little 
 boys are made of. 
 
 She heard somewhat dismayed, as these compounds were 
 arrayed, 
 
 But she questioned not, nor did she try to check. 
 But, a little later on, he chanced to light upon 
 
 Some insect strange, and placed it on her neck. 
 And, oh — a scene ensued, for a sudden storm had brewed; 
 
 Indignantly she shook her golden curls, 
 And right then we learned from both, what constitutes the 
 
 growth 
 Of those funny things called little boys and girls. 
 
 Toads and frogs, and queer puppy dogs, mice and owls and 
 
 bats. 
 All things that creep and make you weep, lizards, worms 
 
 and cats. 
 Vinegar, snails, tarantulas' tails and things we're much 
 
 afraid of; 
 Mosquitoes, rats, tin-cans and old hats — little boys and 
 
 girls are made of. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 103 
 
 SQUASH ! ! ! 
 
 LD Uncle Rube, way down in Maine, had never had 
 no luck 
 At raising any fancy sort of vegetable truck. 
 With corn an' hogs, an' such like tilings; well, 
 he would just allow, 
 No critter lived in this broad land to touch him anyhow. 
 But tomaters, 'taters, and the like, that most folks have on 
 
 hand, 
 He couldn't raise the things for shucks, an' mostly bought 
 
 'em canned ; 
 But, one day in his garden patch, he saw, and yelled "Je- 
 
 hosh !" 
 There, glowin' in the mornin' sun, a glorious golden 
 squash. 
 
 His good wife heard the shoutin', and swift/ to the garden 
 
 hied, 
 And there upon the ground, to her astonishment, espied 
 The primest, finest, biggest golden squash that ever grew, 
 An' she no sooner knew of it than all Maine knew it, too. 
 The news it spread like wild-fire, and folks for miles 
 
 around 
 All rushed to view the yellow beauty nestlin' on the 
 
 ground ; 
 And Uncle Rube swelled out with pride, and said : "Look 
 
 here, by gosh, 
 I ain't much on tomaters, but I beat the world on squash." 
 
 A mystery 'twas to Uncle Rube just how that oP squash 
 
 grew; 
 He'd tried to raise 'em all his life, a hundred times or 
 
 two, 
 
104 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 But the more he dug an' coaxed, and tried, the less success 
 
 he had, 
 Till he just quit in sheer disgust, an' went off hoppin' mad. 
 And now, without no tendin', no fixin,' and no care, 
 He'd raised a squash that made Creation hump itself an' 
 
 stare. 
 A dinner then he vowed he'd give, and cut a mighty splosh, 
 And invite all the folks around, to help him eat that 
 
 squash. 
 
 The invites they were all sent out, the peparations made, 
 An' uncle Reuben's wife, to market sundry trips essayed. 
 And lovingly did uncle Rube his golden treasure view, 
 As Nature painted it each morn a deeper golden hue. 
 An' folks went in for fastin', so that on th' eventful day 
 Ten pounds of squash an' turkey each could nicely stow 
 
 away ; 
 Then uncle Reuben 'lowed again, from Maine way to Osh- 
 
 kosh, 
 There never yet was seen the like of that jim-dandy squash. 
 
 Now dawned the day of days that was to see the sumptuous 
 
 feast, 
 An' as the streaks of rosy light were glimmering in the 
 
 East, 
 Up bright an' early uncle Rube arose, an' took his knife, 
 An' sallied to the garden patch, to take the squash's life. 
 Keen was the blade and strong his grasp, an' swiftly beat 
 
 his heart, 
 As now he reached the precious spot an' backward gave a 
 
 start. 
 "Murder ! Thieves ! ! Police ! ! ! he yelled. "Great snakes ! 
 
 oh lor', by gosh !" 
 Some thnnd'rin' gol darn thief has been an' stole the gosh 
 
 blame squash." 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 105 
 
 KICKS IN THE KITCHEN. 
 
 HE utensils kicked in the kitchen 
 At the way they were overworked, 
 And they formed a labor union, 
 And each their duties shirked. 
 Then Bridget berated them soundly, 
 
 And for the kettle she made a grab, 
 When it promptly steamed, 
 While the frying-pan screamed : 
 "Scab! Scab!! Scab!!! 
 
SERIOUS POEMS. 
 

 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 109 
 
 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 WHERE ARE ALL THE OLD BOYS? 
 
 HERE are all the Old Boys ? Where are the dear 
 Old Boys, 
 Who shared those glorious school-days with all 
 their boisterous joys; 
 Who drank deep draughts at Wisdom's fount of knowledge 
 
 un defiled, 
 And shook the earth with shouts of mirth, while blue skies 
 
 ever smiled? 
 Oh! gladsome, happy old school chums, to what spheres 
 
 have you flown? 
 In these sad times, what lands and climes now claim you 
 
 as their own? 
 Ye stars above, oh ! tell me, answer, ye zephyrs rare. 
 Oh! Where axe all the Old Boys, and echo answers 
 "where?" 
 
 Oh ! Where are all the Old Boys? You'll find them if yon 
 
 come 
 And view the starry banner, and mark where'er the drum 
 With throbbing beat is calling Columbia's sons to arms, 
 And the very earth is trembling with the battle's wild 
 
 alarms. 
 Where'er the fight is fiercest with the shriek of shot and 
 
 shell ; 
 Wherever blood runs freest, and all resembles hell ; 
 AVhere hopes forlorn are to be led, or there's a death to 
 
 dare 
 The Old Boys you will find them. You'll find the Old Boys 
 
 there. 
 
110 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh! Where are all the Old Boys? Look down upon the 
 
 Veldt, 
 Where sky and earth, in purple haze, like molten metals 
 
 melt; 
 Where mother Earth is storing her hoard of precious gold, 
 And none can wrest it from her, save he who's strong and 
 
 bold. 
 Look to Alaska's fastness of solitude and ice; 
 Look 'cross the blue Pacific to the lands of palm and spice, 
 Where fickle Fortune's to be wooed for smiles so few and 
 
 rare ; 
 The Old Boys you will find them. You'll find the Old Boys 
 
 there. 
 
 Where'er America's glorious flag majestically waves 
 Its sheltering folds, and savage lands from heathen dark- 
 ness saves, 
 Where awful plague and pestilence are wrestled with and 
 
 fought, 
 Where val'rous deeds by flood and field are daily to be 
 
 wrought, 
 Where Pagan races piteously cry out for Light and Grace, 
 Where sacrifice of self is asked, and Death met face to face, 
 Where sufF ring man for succor calls, and there's a cross 
 
 to bear, 
 The Old Boys you will find them. You'll find the Old Boys 
 there. 
 
 Where burning suns scorch up the earth, and blister Na- 
 ture's face, 
 
 Where jungle, swamp and tropic growth stretch into distant 
 space, 
 
 Where mighty rivers madly race toward the distant deeps, 
 
 Rise little mounds of stone that mark the spot where some- 
 one sleeps. 
 
JNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. Iff 
 
 Oh ! attercd over all the earth, in distant solitudes, 
 Where Nature ever scorns to he, save in her fiercest moods, 
 Those lonesome mounds are heaving in the fever-laden air, 
 Our Old Boys 'neath them sleeping. You'll find the Old 
 Bovs there. 
 
 Yes; scattered to the four winds, gone where? God only 
 
 knows ! 
 Beneath the blistering sun-god, or blinding Arctic snows. 
 Still gone, and gone forever. Let's drop no idle tear; 
 We, too, must follow like them — for none can linger here. 
 Save for the fleeting moments the rolling years unfold, 
 The "new boy" that we greet to-day, to-morrow is the 
 
 "old." 
 But in a land they're gathering, a land that's blest and 
 
 fair ; 
 Beyond the skies we'll meet them. We'll meet the Old 
 
 Boys there. 
 
 "THE CHRISTMAS OF '92." 
 
 (The Actor's Story.) 
 
 SHALL never forget the Christmas, 
 The Christmas of Ninety-two ; 
 I was sick out West in a hospital, 
 With no chance of pulling through ; 
 I'd been on the road but a month or so, ( 
 
 When I suddenly came down sick ; 
 And, though weak as a rat, and suff'ring much, 
 I stuck to my work like a brick. 
 
112 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 But a time there comes, when you've got to give up — 
 
 When courage no longer will do, 
 And one night on the stage I staggered and fell, 
 
 And that was the last I knew 
 Till I woke next day in a hospital, 
 
 And woke up, alas ! to find 
 The company folks had all gone ahead, 
 
 While I was left sick, behind. 
 
 It nigh broke my heart when I realized 
 
 The pitiful plight I was in. 
 I hadn't had time to put by a cent, 
 
 And my purse it was terribly thin, 
 But under my pillow a note I found ; 
 
 And, ere it was half read through, 
 The tears — well, they trickled all down my cheeks, 
 
 And I didn't know what to do. 
 The boys had chipped in, and raised quite a sum, 
 
 And the letter, it went on and told 
 How they hoped I'd soon be up and around. 
 
 God bless 'em, 'twas better than gold. 
 I turned on my side in a dazed sort of way, 
 
 When my eyes, by accident, fell 
 On a note addressed to Jack Barnes, Esquire. 
 
 In a second I knew 'twas from Nell. 
 
 Sweet Helen Boyd was our leading soubrette, 
 
 A girl that was simply sublime. 
 I loved her at sight, but said not a word, 
 
 Though she knew it, I guess, all the time. 
 I learned from the nurse, when the boys brought me in, 
 
 That Nell was right there by my side. 
 And when they all bade me a silent adieu, 
 
 Nell kissed me, and broke down and cried. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 113 
 
 Oh, the joy of those words, and, sick as I was, 
 
 I felt my heart dancing with mirth, 
 And places I wouldn't for millions have changed 
 
 With all the crowned monarchs on earth. 
 "Dear Mr. Barnes" — Just a short, friendly note, 
 
 But what kept me all night wide awake, 
 Was the little "P. S." she put at the end, 
 
 "Get well, if you can, for my sake." 
 
 Oh, the agony grim of those terrible weeks 
 
 For typhoid is far from a joke ; 
 Never a friend to cheer with a smile, 
 
 Far — far from kindred and folk. 
 'Twas agony, yes, but think of the joy, 
 
 When at last I began to get well, 
 And could lie there and weave most exquisite dreams 
 
 And in Paradise wander with Nell. 
 But the horrible thought, it would haunt me at times. 
 
 Maybe I had passed from her mind ; 
 That pity alone might have caused her to write. 
 
 And then, too, no doubt, she would find 
 New faces to make her forget about me. 
 
 The thought brought the tortures of hell, 
 And I wished that the fever had carried me off, 
 
 And never had let me get well. 
 
 It was Christmas Day in the hospital, 
 
 And it fell on a Sunday, too. 
 My money had vanished, and everything gone, 
 
 And I felt despondent and blue ; 
 I was thinking of home and those far away — 
 
 You know how a fellow will dwell 
 On thoughts like to that, when a voice it said "Jack !" 
 
 And there by my side stood Nell ! 
 
11-1 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 I thought 'twas a vision, hut 'twas Nell sure enough, 
 
 And she put her dear face down to mine ; 
 The tears filled her eyes as she proffered her lips. 
 
 Oh, the joy of that kiss — divine. 
 And Nell held my hand, and told me the news — 
 
 The Comp'ny was just passing through. 
 "I got leave to miss just a train, Jack," she said, 
 
 "And came to spend Christmas with you." 
 
 "Get well, dear old boy," she said, e'er she left; 
 
 "Get well just as quick as you can. 
 Your part — I fixed it with Manager Jones — 
 
 Is yours, for the other new man 
 We got in your place, his acting is vile. 
 
 So give that old bed, dear, the shake, 
 And come back and join us, Jack dear, once moi e ; 
 
 Ah, do, laddie dear, for my sake — 
 For it's terribly lonely without you, boy, 
 
 I've missed you, I can't tell you how." 
 Then she put her dear head once more down to mine, 
 
 And the angels above heard a vow 
 That when I was well, and our season was o'er, 
 
 We'd link both our fortunes in life, 
 And Nell murmured "Husband" ere parting from me- 
 
 While I whispered tenderly, "Wife." 
 
 Ah! many a Christmas has now passed away, 
 
 Since the Christmas of Ninety-two, 
 But that is the Christmas I love best of all, 
 
 And will, till life's over and through, 
 For it gave me my Nell, the best little girl 
 
 That ever drew breath in the world ; 
 It gave me the rosy-cheeked, golden-haired lass, 
 
 Whose arms 'round mv neck now are curled; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 115 
 
 It gave me back health, and that brought me wealth ; 
 
 It pointed the pathway to fame. 
 That sickness, a blessing it was in disguise ; 
 
 And God, you see's good, just the same. 
 And the dear, loving eyes now smiling at me, 
 
 So winsome and winning and true, 
 In my heart still hold sway, as on that blest day, 
 
 The Christmas of "Ninety-two." 
 
 LITTLE MAID WITH THE LAUGHING EYES. 
 
 EAR little maid with the laughing eyes, 
 Putting to blush the blue of the skies, 
 Gazing entranced on a world so fair, 
 P ' MTO *? I Never a trouble and never a care ; 
 Ah, what a pity ; ah, lack-a-day, 
 You cannot remain as you are alway. 
 
 Dear little maid with the laughing eyes, 
 
 Looking at us in sweet surprise, 
 
 Soon the years o'er your head will have rolled, 
 
 Silvering white your locks of gold ; 
 
 Merciless Time, your chariot stay, 
 
 And let fair youth linger here alway. 
 
 Sweet little maid with the laughing eyes, 
 Care in the future for each there lies ; 
 Eevel in youth with its golden dreams, 
 Drift down Fairyland's mystic streams — 
 Care-free and happy, joyous and gay; 
 Sad 'tis we cannot be young alway. 
 
116 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 THE BOY WHO TALKED AND THE BOY WHO 
 
 DID. 
 
 LOQUENT James was his father's pride, 
 Great things were predicted for him. 
 His fame it was blazoned both far and wide, 
 And everyone raved about Jim. 
 But Jim's brother John was a silent youth, 
 
 'Twas seldom he had much to say ; 
 He gloried in honor, in work, and in truth, 
 
 And quietly went on his way. 
 But a crowd of folks 'round Jim ever hung, 
 For they seemed quite enraptured to hear 
 This wonderful youth with the voluble tongue, 
 
 Whose voice rang impassioned and clear 
 As he talked, and talked, eternally talked 
 
 Of his plans, ambitions, and aims, 
 And 'round like a peacock strutted and walked 
 This wonderful orator, James. 
 
 While Jim talked on, in his masterful way, 
 
 Of what he was going to do, 
 John bravely toiled through the heat of the day 
 
 With his own and Jim's work to do. 
 For if one but talks, then his share of the work, 
 
 And I think this plain to us all, 
 Must pass from the one who does nothing but shirk, 
 
 On the back of a brother to fall. 
 When work needed doing, Jim's voice it was raised, 
 
 As he lazily lolled in the sun, 
 And ere his advice had been passed on and praised, 
 
 John had the work over and done. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 117 
 
 On memory's tablet this fact should be chalked, 
 
 For the fact can no longer be hid, 
 That James was the boy who looked on and talked, 
 
 While John, he accomplished and did. 
 
 A troublesome mortgage hung over the farm — 
 
 Threats came, it would soon be foreclosed ; 
 The outlook was dark, and viewed with alarm ; 
 
 Jim protested, orated, and posed. 
 Of mankind's injustice he'd rave by the hour, 
 
 At capital fiercely he'd scoff, 
 While John seemed inspired with additional power, 
 
 And soon he had paid the thing off. 
 Folks now realized how foolish they'd been, 
 
 And eloquent James they ignored ; 
 They saw he was naught but a talking-machine, 
 
 Henceforth it was John they adored. 
 For, though sounding phrases may dazzle awhile, 
 
 If to fame and success you would mount, 
 Fortune alone on true effort will smile ; 
 
 For, with man and God, deeds only count ! 
 
RELIGIOUS. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 121 
 
 "GOD KNOWS BEST!" 
 
 
 REMEMBER the time, in my earlier days, when I 
 used to be worried in mind 
 O'er the way that God had of directing the 
 spheres, and ruling o'er all human kind ; 
 I would think over this, and study o'er that, for 'twas all 
 
 a great myst'ry to me, 
 And then I'd decide that God's ways they were not just all 
 
 that God's ways ought to be. 
 Impetuous youth it will question; aye, yes! and even, at 
 
 times, 'twill condemn 
 The ways of the great Jehovah himself, though his ways 
 
 are beyond mortal ken ; 
 But, ah ! when the years they have ripened the mind, and 
 
 life's evening shadows they fall, 
 Then we're free to confess, as we ask God to bless, that 
 'twas He who knew best, after all. 
 
 I have looked in the eyes of an agonized wife, as a wee, lit- 
 tle life ebbed away; 
 
 I have felt in my breast the turmoil and strife, as we gazed 
 on the poor, silent clay ; 
 
 I have felt fierce rebellion sweep up in my soul, as I 
 yearned for that little one's kiss, 
 
 And I've said, as the tears clown my cheeks 'gan to roll, 
 "Could a merciful God have done this ?" 
 
 But, ah ! when the first throb of anguish was past, when 
 the wounds were less jagged and sore, 
 
 I thought of that babe in the bright world above, an angel 
 of God's evermore. 
 
123 UNCLE CHARLIES POEMS. 
 
 "For of such is the kingdom of heaven/' Christ said, then 
 
 the wife to my side I would call, 
 And I'd point to the skies, and we'd both dry our eyes, for 
 
 'twas God who knew best, after all. 
 
 I have seen this man rise, and that one ascend, to affluence, 
 
 fortune and fame, 
 And I've envied the friends I knew in my youth, who have 
 
 made for themselves quite a name; 
 And I thought God was harsh that he willed I should toil, 
 
 while others around lived at ease — 
 'The full cup of fortune was theirs first to drink, while I'd 
 
 naught to drain but the lees. 
 But now I can see, in the evening of life, as I follow God's 
 
 methods divine, 
 That not one of the lives I envied so much has been blessed 
 
 so completely as mine; 
 And I would not change places with one of the friends of 
 
 those envious days I recall, 
 Which makes it quite plain, all over again, that it's God 
 
 who knows best, after all. 
 
 As now I look back o'er the years of my life, and pass ev'ry 
 one in review, 
 
 And weigh up its pleasures, its cares and its strife, as a 
 man bowed with years oft will do, 
 
 I can see how I wronged the Almighty above when I ques- 
 tioned His mandates divine, 
 
 And I'm glad I was led through the years by His love, re- 
 gardless of wishes of mine, 
 
 For I could not foresee where ambition would lead, as I 
 yearned above others to climb ; 
 
 But ambition is oft but a cloak for mere greed, and God 
 could foresee all the time. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 123 
 
 And not one single tiling the Almighty has done would I 
 
 alter, no matter how small; 
 From beginning to end, I've had God as a friend, and 'twas 
 
 He who knew best, after all. 
 
 It has ever been thus, and 'twill ever be thus, in the Al- 
 mighty's wonderful plan ; 
 The Father all wise, in His home in the sides, knows what's 
 
 best for the children of man ; 
 When the grief's hard to bear, our heart-strings may tear, 
 
 and dazed we may be by the blow, 
 But 'twill all be made plain, let that ease your pain, and 
 
 the reason we some day shall know. 
 When our patience God tries, ah ! don't criticize, but with 
 
 meekness bow down to His will, 
 For whate'er may betide, Christ still doth abide, and God, 
 
 He our Father is still ; 
 Just do what is right, keep your faith ever bright, for not 
 
 even a sparrow doth fall, 
 But in Heaven 'tis known, so let's joyfully own, that God 
 
 knoweth best, after all. 
 
 "GOD WILL TAKE CAEE OF ME." 
 
 ANY a year has winged its flight since mother 
 passed away ; 
 Many a year, but ever near, still seems that 
 solemn day 
 When down I knelt and gently felt the hand so frail and 
 
 white, 
 And gazed into those eyes anew, now lit with Heaven's own 
 light. 
 
124' UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 The silence broke when mother spoke, 'twas but a whis- 
 pered word, 
 
 But, oh, how oft those words so soft, my inmost soul have 
 stirred. 
 
 "We'll meet again," she said, "where pain and sorrow can- 
 not be ; 
 
 Your eyes are wet, John, dear; don't fret, God will take 
 care of me !" 
 
 I wasn't just the best of boys, I wasn't just the worst ; 
 But when those words fell on my ears, my tears in torrents 
 
 burst. 
 I realized that all I prized, and held most dear in life, 
 Would soon depart; it broke my heart, and cut me like a 
 
 knife. 
 I saw the blank, the awful blank, if Providence should 
 
 make 
 Me motherless, and my distress caused her again to take 
 My hand and say : "John, work and pray ; be honest, brave 
 
 and true; 
 Just learn to love the One above, and He'll take care of 
 
 you !" 
 
 On roll the years. List to those cheers, mark that brave 
 
 line of blue; 
 "lis hard, I know, but I must go; the old flag needs me, 
 
 too. 
 "We're coming, Father Abraham!" Oh! wife, dear, heed 
 
 that song, 
 And it will make your courage wake, your heart beat true 
 
 and strong. 
 The babe"s asleep ; once more I'll creep and kiss him — then 
 
 farewell. 
 Just one brave smile to cheer me while I face the shot and 
 
 shell. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 125 
 
 The long day through, my thoughts to you will turn so ten- 
 derly. 
 
 Wipe that dear eye ; be brave, don't cry ; God will take care 
 of me. 
 
 By camp-fire bright, these lines I write; for, ah, my 
 
 thoughts will roam, 
 After the strife, to you, dear wife, and our beloved home. 
 A year has gone, the old flag's torn, but still floats proudly 
 
 o'er 
 The shattered host, now but a ghost of what it was of yore. 
 The live-long day the bloody fray has swept from side to 
 
 side. 
 The North and South at cannon's mouth; let Gettysburg 
 
 decide 
 Which cause shall win. Ere I turn in, these lines I write, 
 
 I see 
 You all so clear; don't worry, dear, God will take care of 
 
 me! 
 
 Once more the roar of guns sweep o'er the valley and the 
 
 plain, 
 And far and near the ringing cheer sweeps up in viet'ry's 
 
 train. 
 "The boys are home !" the very dome of heaven with joy is 
 
 rent, 
 And heads are "bare when muttered prayer breathes out a 
 
 heart's content. 
 Two eyes seek mine, two eyes that shine with love; ah, 
 
 words are tame 
 To tell the bliss when wee lips kiss my cheek, and lisp my 
 
 name. 
 
126 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Ah, me ! that night, what rapt delight, with babe upon my 
 
 knee, 
 And wife at rest upon my breast ! — God did take care of 
 
 me. 
 
 If I but glide on mem'ry's tide; ah, then can I supply 
 A thousand instances to show how Providence is nigh, 
 To shield from foes, and guard all those who put their faith 
 
 and trust 
 In one Great God Omnipotent, all merciful and just, 
 'Tis not for long, ah, soon the song, the blessed angels sing 
 In brighter spheres, will greet my ears as Heavenward I 
 
 wing. 
 When back are rolled the Gates of Gold, I'll cry: "Ah, 
 
 mother, see ! 
 I'm here at last, all sorrows past, God did take care of 
 
 me!" 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE OLD CHUECH. 
 
 HEY want to close the old church, and build them 
 one that's new, 
 And soon its days of glory will have faded from 
 our view. 
 No longer will its walls resound to hymns of praise and 
 
 prayer, 
 And naught but mem'ries will remain of precious worship 
 
 there. 
 No more its loud hosannas will heavenward ascend ; 
 For, like all things on earth, alas ! it, too, must have an 
 
 end. 
 'Tis out of date and style, they say — at least the young 
 
 folks do — 
 So they want to close the old church, and build them one 
 that's new. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 127 
 
 "Out of date and out of style ?" Why, once we thought it 
 
 grand, 
 And not a church to equal it existed in the land ; 
 And we scarce could muster patience when traveling folks 
 
 came home 
 And raved of London's Abbey and St. Peter's there in 
 
 Eome. 
 There were grander, bigger churches — yes, that we'd freely 
 
 own, 
 But we felt that ours was nearer to the Father's Great 
 
 White Throne, 
 That its prayers were answered quicker, and more grace 
 
 and blessings drew, 
 Than any other church on earth, be that church old or new. 
 
 Fourscore long years have passed away since first to church 
 
 • - I came, 
 
 And here alone, in all the world, things still are much the 
 same. 
 
 The same old "Rock of Ages" rings out inspiring^, 
 
 And "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," "Nearer, my God, to 
 _ Thee," 
 
 Have yet the old-time sweetness so full of trust and love ; 
 
 And they seem to lift my very soul to mansions up above, 
 
 As I stand right up and sing them in our old family pew. 
 
 Ah! they'll never sound like that again in any church 
 that's new. 
 
 Ah ! well can I remember when mother took my hand 
 
 And led me first to our old church, which, like the prom- 
 ised land, 
 
 Stretched out before my wond'ring gaze, and still I feel the 
 awe 
 
 That fell upon my childish soul when first God's house I 
 saw. 
 
128 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 The hassock mother knelt upon is in the same old place; 
 The Bible's there, all stained with tears that fell from her 
 
 dear face; 
 And here it was we bade her soul that solemn last adieu. 
 Ah ! leave me but the old church, and you can have the 
 
 new. 
 
 Within these walls I first received the blessed broken bread, 
 And took the cup in memory of the precious life-blood 
 
 shed, 
 And supped with Him who said: "Do this in memory of 
 
 Me," 
 That I might live eternally, and from all sin be free. 
 ? Twas here I felt the meaning of a purer, holier life; 
 'Twas here the solemn words were said which gave to me a 
 
 wife, 
 And here, at last, we breathed a prayer, when her soul to 
 
 heav'n flew. 
 All ! her spirit haunts the old church ; don't tell me of the 
 
 new. 
 
 'Twas here I brought my little ones, to train them in the 
 way 
 
 That leads from this dim shadow-land to realms of bright- 
 est day. 
 
 Here, too, they broke the "Bread of Life," and up there in 
 the choir 
 
 Their voices rose in hymns of praise that mounted high 
 and higher, 
 
 And soared right up to heaven's gate ; ah ! how my soul was 
 stirred, 
 
 For God, I knew, inspired that song, and he surely must 
 have heard, 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 129 
 
 For angels took the song to him — and took the singers, 
 
 • too — 
 And all that's left 's the old church — I ne'er could love a 
 
 » new. 
 
 J Tis sad to think the dear old church will crumble and 
 
 decay, 
 To live no more but as a dream that comes at close of day. 
 It seemed to me a very part of God's eternal shore ; 
 A spot that Great Jehovah threw his shelt'ring mantle o'er ; 
 A mighty Eock of Ages in the shifting sands of time, 
 Where storms of doubt and change might break, but ne'er 
 
 its base could climb. 
 And so my heart in sadness now sends up a human cry 
 That the things I deemed immortal, alas ! must droop and 
 
 die. 
 
 So, brethren, do not take from me the only link that's left 
 
 'Twixt earth and heaven of mem'ries sad and sweet to one 
 bereft, 
 
 "Who oft has prayed that Time would pass this spot, so 
 sacred, by 
 
 And let me worship in this house in peace until I die. 
 
 But if, alas ! 'tis not to be, and the dear old place must go, 
 
 There's one blest thought sweet comfort brings, thank God ! 
 it helps me so — 
 
 Though church, wife, children pass away, through ail eter- 
 nity 
 
 The dear, good God, who changes not, will still "abide with 
 me." 
 
130 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 SUNDAY IN THE OLD CHURCH. 
 
 H, those Sundays in the old church, in the days of 
 long ago, 
 How pleasantly life's placid stream unruffled 
 used to flow. 
 
 My childish soul knew nothing, then, of "higher criti- 
 cism/' 
 Of practices unorthodox, and other kinds of schism. 
 Just simple, childish, lovely faith was all I knew so pure. 
 Ah, sad it is ; ah, cruel 'tis, such faith will not endure 
 As once it did in those dear days by memory now arrayed, 
 When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached 
 and prayed. 
 
 God's day of rest a haven was of quiet and content, 
 
 And Nature hushed her hum of noise, and acquiescence 
 
 lent; 
 For Nature's God from Sinai had issued his decree, 
 And holy calm fell down upon the meadow and the lea. 
 The glorious bells their tidings glad to all the country 
 
 tolled, 
 And called belated worshipers to gather in the fold. 
 And once within that fold secure, no sheep e'er felt afraid 
 When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached 
 
 and prayed. 
 
 No time for ceremonious form, though all was reverent 
 
 there — 
 One thought alone pervades the mind, the thought of praise 
 
 and prayer; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 131 
 
 No ranks of surpliced choristers distract the mind and eye, 
 But each one sang his hymn of praise; and, as it rose on 
 
 high, 
 A glorious, mighty volume, it swept about God's throne, 
 To blend with angel voices, as though it was their own; 
 Then rushed with light and gladness hell's, darkness to in- 
 vade, 
 When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached 
 and prayed. 
 
 I see the grand old pastor, with radiant, noble face 
 
 And glorious voice that never tired in telling of the grace 
 
 That's waiting for the sinner who will take his load of 
 
 care 
 With a humble and a contrite heart to Christ and leave it 
 
 there. 
 Oh, blessed words of comfort, yet never half so sweet 
 As when he gently led you to God's holy mercy seat, 
 And you saw heaven's gate wide open, and its glories all 
 
 displayed, 
 When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached 
 
 and prayed. 
 
 "As through a glass now darkly" was not the way he saw — 
 
 His glass was purest crystal, and never knew a flaw; 
 
 No clouds were e'er obscuring heaven's wonders from his 
 
 eyes, 
 For God to him had given the faith that looks beyond the 
 
 skies 
 And views the mansions there prepared for such of those 
 
 who love 
 To tread the path the Saviour trod, and follow Him above. 
 And few, indeed, if any, from that narrow pathway strayed, 
 When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached 
 
 and prayed. 
 
132 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 If e'er he condescended to acknowledge doubt or fear, 
 A splendid sight our pastor, then, it was to see and hear. 
 His voice rang like the blast that shook the walls of Jeri- 
 cho, 
 And unbelief and scoffing pride were routed and laid low ; 
 He towered like a giant, his eyes flashed scorn and fire, 
 The "God of Battles" came to earth his efforts to inspire, 
 And the hosts of sin and Satan were vanquished and dis- 
 mayed 
 When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached 
 and prayed. 
 
 And then the sword avenging, he suddenly would sheathe, 
 His voice to wooing whispers sank, a smile his face would 
 
 wreathe. 
 The "God of Battles" disappeared, then came the "God of 
 
 Love," 
 The beauteous Spirit fluttering down in semblance of a 
 
 dove. 
 Oh, who that heard could then resist that pleading, loving 
 
 tone; 
 Oh, who would not take up that cross, and bear it for his 
 
 own? 
 Not I, nor you, we heard the voice and willingly obeyed, 
 Singing soft the old hymns over, as the pastor knelt and 
 
 prayed. 
 
 Oh, would that every church on earth were like that one 
 of old, 
 
 And every worn and weary soul at rest within its fold ; 
 
 And would their earthly shepherd and their heavenly Shep- 
 herd true 
 
 Were like the ones I knew of old, and now look heaven- 
 ward to ! 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 133 
 
 His kingdom then would quickly come again upon the 
 earth, 
 
 Mankind with one accord would sing: "One Lord, one 
 Faith, one Birth/' 
 
 If we could spread that living grace that always was dis- 
 played 
 
 When we sang the old hymns over, and the pastor preached 
 and prayed. 
 
 "PREACH JESUS TO ME." 
 
 E'VE got a new minister coming, I hear; the 
 old one, I'm told 's had his day. 
 Too old-fashioned and slow, and not up to 
 date; at least so the younger folks say, 
 So the man who's grown gray in the service of God forever 
 
 aside now must stand, 
 While a youth fresh from college, with brand-new ideas, 
 
 > is going to take things in hand; 
 And we'll hear the old truths told over again, from Gen- 
 esis 'way down to Paul, 
 And told in the latest most new-fangled way, so that no 
 
 one will know them at all. 
 Well, there's this much I know, whoever may come, and 
 
 whoever the preacher may be, 
 If a blessing he wants from this old heart of mine, he's 
 got to preach Jesus to me ! 
 
 The old style of preaching the Gospel of God, with elo- 
 quence simple and strong, 
 
 Repentance, salvation, through Jesus who died, they've dis- 
 covered at last is all wrong; 
 
13-i UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 And, instead, we have lectures on various things — political, 
 social, and such — 
 
 All told in a genteel, half-hearted way, with a matter-of- 
 fact sort of touch, 
 
 And about as much use to a hungering soul, as 'twould be 
 if you gave it a stone; 
 
 All food for the mind, for the spirit and heart, must be 
 left most severely alone; 
 
 Not a word in the whole discourse will you hear of the 
 Cross and of grim Calvary. 
 
 Well — such kind of fare, it may satisfy some; but you've 
 got to preach Jesus to me. 
 
 Ah, me ! what a change has come over the land, from the 
 
 days that I once knew of old, 
 When the good pastor's voice, so grand and inspired, in 
 
 sonorous majesty rolled, 
 And we heard the old story of God and his love, and of 
 
 Jesus, the Saviour of men, 
 And the next Sabbath day, with the same eager hearts, we 
 
 came back to hear it again. 
 We never grew weary, we never grew tired, of that tale of 
 
 God's wonderful love; 
 Our religion we drew not from books or from men, but 
 
 straight from the Father above, 
 For the grace that He gave us came down like the rain, so 
 
 plenteous, so full, and so free, 
 And it's that blessed grace that my thirsty soul craves, so 
 
 preach the dear Saviour to me. 
 
 Ah! in those good old days, a spade was a spade; and sin, 
 
 it was nailed down as sin; 
 No trimming of sails to suit this one and that, but the 
 
 shafts of the Gospel sank in 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 135 
 
 The wrong-doer's heart, and rich man or poor, face to face, 
 in an instant was brought 
 
 With the terrible price the sinner must pay who sets God's 
 commandments at naught. 
 
 No parleys with Sin, temporizing with wrong, but heart- 
 searching within and without. 
 
 Ah! the wonderful faith of those blessed old days, with 
 never a question of doubt; 
 
 Just the Bible — God's word, from beginning to end — and 
 to those precious pages I flee, 
 
 And I pick out the texts that thrilled me with joy, when 
 the Saviour was first preached to me. 
 
 Itfs all very well, in the heyday of youth, to criticize, ques- 
 tion, discuss, 
 
 But to those who have reached the evening of life, ah, how 
 different it all is with us ! 
 
 With the scythe of the Keaper coming daily more near, 
 and the eyes growing dimmer with age, 
 
 Oh! don't take the comfort the Holy Book gives, as we 
 ponder o'er each precious page ; 
 
 Oh ! take not away, but add, if you can, for there's nothing 
 to cheer our last breath — 
 
 No, nothing but those blessed pages to help, as we draw 
 near the portals of death. 
 
 Ah, there's naught but our Lord that can then stand be- 
 tween our souls and Eternity, 
 
 So give me the light of God's Gospel, and preach Christ 
 Jesus the Saviour to me. 
 
 Preach Jesus, Him only, and if you'll do that, there's no 
 
 other topic you'll need; 
 He is the food that the multitude craves, if only their 
 
 voices you'd heed, 
 
136 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 For the world it is hungry for some one to come and arouse 
 it from out of its sleep, 
 
 And into the heavenly garners of God, a harvest of souls 
 you will reap. 
 
 It isn't that people are weary of church, or that spiritual 
 matters have tired, 
 
 But the preachers have strayed from the old paths of faith, 
 and no longer are thrilled and inspired. 
 
 So back to the Cross and the crucified One, and oh ! glo- 
 rious the harvest will be, 
 
 And the whole world will ring with the joy of the saved — 
 so preach Jesus to them and to me. 
 
 'COBBLER JIM.' 
 
 OBBLER JIM was happy and gay, and as his store 
 3'ou passed, 
 You'd hear his voice above the din of the blows 
 that fell on his last. 
 His wasn't a voice of culture, nor was it a voice of power, 
 But as Jim sat at his bench and sang, blithely from hour 
 
 to hour, 
 His song would blend with that of the birds, perched in the 
 
 trees close by, 
 And it seemed as together they sang, the man and the bird 
 
 would try, 
 Which best could prove, by their happy notes, that whether 
 
 at work or play — 
 God's world is full of sunshine and bliss — the man at his 
 bench, or they. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 137 
 
 You'll ask what caused the cobbler's joy, aud what inspired 
 
 his song 
 With that note of perfect happiness, which rang the whole 
 
 day long; 
 What was it gave to those rugged notes a tone almost di- 
 vine, 
 And made them seem so different from a voice like yours 
 
 and mine; 
 What was it made the birds join in whene'er he chanced to 
 
 sing, 
 And hover in the branches near and o'er the lintel cling. 
 The answer's clear, the answer's plain, and all is due to 
 
 Him: 
 The God who gave the birds their song, inspired the notes 
 
 of Jim. 
 
 Time was when Jim was a ne'er-do-well, and never a note 
 
 he sang 
 Unless strong drink inflamed his blood, and then the tavern 
 
 rang 
 With a flood of ribald melody, at once both coarse and 
 
 rude; 
 Then, with an oath, he staggered home in a mean and ugly 
 
 mood; 
 Then trouble came and sickness, and, but for a loving wife, 
 Eight then and there would have ended the cobbler's mis- 
 spent life, 
 And Jim resolved, when health returned, no more he'd be 
 
 a clod — 
 He had worked and sung for the devil ; now he'd work and 
 
 sing for God. 
 
 And how Jim worked, and how he sang, 'twas glorious to 
 
 see 
 No living soul upon the earth was happier than he! 
 
138 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 And every time his hammer fell, or home a nail he drove 
 
 in, 
 He'd say: "There goes another blow at misery and sin!" 
 The dogs, that never came near Jim without a blow or 
 
 kick, 
 Saw Jim had changed, and bravely came his proffered hand 
 
 to lick; 
 For, even in animals, the power, the instinct lies 
 To tell if God or Satan looks at them through human eyes. 
 
 Yes, Jim had "got religion," and it didn't make him sad — 
 He had the proper Christlike kind that ever makes one 
 
 glad ; 
 The kind that lights the heart and soul, and drives out 
 
 gloom and fear; 
 The kind that fills one's life with joy and heaven itself 
 
 draws near; 
 The kind that makes the grave itself a stepping-stone to 
 
 bless — 
 No other kind is Christ-inspired unless it's like to this — 
 For misery, despair, and gloom can never have a part 
 In any truly Christian life when Christ is in the heart. 
 
 Let's take a leaf from out Jim's book, and when our lives 
 
 seem dark 
 Let's join our voices with the birds, and imitate the lark, 
 And make our hymns of joyfulness to heaven's gates as- 
 cend, 
 And angels gathered 'round the throne a listening ear will 
 
 lend 
 And join their melodies with ours, until all heaven rings 
 With mighty Alleuiahs grand unto the King of kings; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIES POEMS. 139 
 
 And God will hear our anthems, and a blessing then from 
 
 Him 
 Will hil our lives with sunshine, and make us just like 
 
 Jim. 
 
 GOD KNOWS. 
 
 HEN the sea of life is stormy and o'ercast, 
 And the clouds of trouble gather grim and 
 
 fast, 
 And the heart is weary sighing 
 In the breast where hope lies dying, 
 And all the joy of life is o'er and past — 
 Sink not, oh, weary brother, 'neath thy woes, 
 Fear not the awesome tempest as it grows ; 
 Eevive thy strength declining'; 
 For, behind the clouds now lining 
 Thy path, God's sun's still shining, and 
 He Knows! 
 
 When the still, small voice of conscience pleads in vain, 
 And the wayward feet stray off in Pleasure's train, 
 And the old, old faith's neglected, 
 And every thought's directed 
 To unhallowed ends, the lust and greed of gain ; 
 Remember, though thine eyes thou mayest close 
 To the path thou'rt treading and the way it goes 
 Down, down the road of ruin, 
 With its wrecks the wayside strewing, 
 God grieves o'er all thou'rt doing, for 
 He Knows! 
 
140 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Take heed, oh, weary brother, in the strife; 
 This is not all, the thing that we call life, 
 With its turmoil and its laughter, 
 With its tears swift following after, 
 Its murm'rings and contentions ever rife. 
 There's a land far, far above the Alpine snows 
 Devoid of pain, and sorrows anguished throes ; 
 There angels now entreat thee 
 To enter, and will meet thee 
 With a smile, and God will greet thee, for 
 He Knows! 
 
THE ACT0R8 CORNER. 
 
 Dedicated to Francis Wilson, Esq. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 143 
 
 THE ACTOR'S PRAYER GUARANTEED TO MEET 
 ALL CONTINGENCIES. 
 
 II, kindly Providence, I pray thee send 
 An angel for my guide, I need a friend; 
 Not one of those with feathers, robes and wings, 
 For, at the best, they're useless sort of things; 
 
 But one with whiskers and the needful dough 
 
 To take me on the road, so I may show 
 
 The Hayseeds, Jays, Yahoos, and such like yaps, 
 
 That I'm the greatest Genius born, perhaps. 
 
 And I would ask thee likewise to provide 
 
 A sure-thing play through which, ah, let me glide, 
 
 The cynosure of every envious eye; 
 
 And calcium by the million tanks supply, 
 
 So that the stage's center I can hog 
 
 And, bathed in radiance, put on endless "dog." 
 
 Give me week-stands, and in the Pullman cars 
 
 The lower berth ; and may the hotel bars 
 
 Be gen'rous with the intoxicating cup, 
 
 And prompt the barkeep's heart to "chalk it up." 
 
 In "three-per" hostelries, oh, grant I may 
 
 Secure a rate of one cold plunk per day, 
 
 With ample table and the necessary heat, 
 
 Plus an electric bell, so I may greet 
 
 The clerks and bell-boys, much to their delight, 
 
 And keep them in a ferment day and night. 
 
 Grant that my name in letters ten feet high 
 May smite me as I pass the billboards by, 
 And ev'ry news-sheet that I chance to see, 
 May it contain some paragraph of me. 
 
144 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Some fiendish lie, perhaps, I do not care, 
 So that my name in good black type is there. 
 Grant that the girls with me may fall in love 
 And, after matinees, may push and shove 
 To see me from the stage's door emerge, 
 And then in serried ranks about me surge, 
 Falling adoringly upon their knees ; 
 Providence, oh, send me triumphs such as these. 
 
 Oh, rid me from those all-pestiferous ills — 
 
 The tailors*, butchers', bakers', printers' bills, 
 
 Shedding my obligations smilingly 
 
 By judicious dalliance with bankruptcy. 
 
 Oh, grant that she, my cumbrous, unloved spouse, 
 
 No hornet's nest about me may arouse; 
 
 For alimony grant she may not sue, 
 
 But support herself — as all good wives should do. 
 
 Send fortune golden capped, wine, women, song, 
 And let me walk Broadway the whole day long ; 
 Envied and ogled down the lane to flit, 
 "The man that has arrived," the man that's "It." 
 These trifling favors grant to me, I pray, 
 Though more I need, this will suffice to-day, 
 And on account, oh, Providence, send "ten"; 
 I guess that's all I want just now — Amen. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 145 
 
 A NOVELTY AT LAST. 
 
 HE manager, with haughty mien, sat in his office 
 chair; 
 And actresses of note and fame surged 'round 
 about him there. 
 "I drove them wild last season," said a voluble soubrette, 
 "And from Buffalo to Kankakee they talk about me yet. 
 My double hand-spring kills 'em dead — laugh, well, say, 
 
 they roar — 
 They flop right over in their seats, and roll clean on the 
 
 floor. 
 Say, I'm the one to knock 'em cold." The manager looked 
 
 vexed, 
 And, scarcely deigning her a word, impatiently said: 
 "Next." 
 
 The next was shy on youth and looks, but talent shone from 
 
 out 
 Her eyes, which blazed with genius, and then she told about 
 Those days with Booth and Barrett, with Jefferson and 
 
 Kean, 
 And other stars legitimate, long vanished from the scene. 
 "I know your record, madam !" said the list'ning manager ; 
 "But I'm looking for a novelty — some one to make a stir ; 
 Some one to make the whole world talk, and play to 
 
 S. E. 0. 
 Nothing doing in your line ; if there is, I'll let you know." 
 
 Approached him now a gorgeous girl, her carriage stood 
 
 without : 
 She was of Mayflower pedigree* — a girl folks raved about; 
 
146 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 She'd wearied of society, now nothing could assuage 
 Her craving for excitement but a life upon the stage. 
 She spoke, and then the manager replied all in a breath : 
 "The society racket, madam, I find's been done to death ; 
 There's not a dollar in it." The fair girl gave a pout 
 As the office-boy threw wide the door, and quickly bowed 
 her out. 
 
 Deep sighed the manager and gazed with troubled, weary 
 
 air 
 Upon a dashing figure that drew near his office-chair. 
 "You'll remember I'm the heroine of the famous Jones 
 
 divorce," 
 The imperious creature rattled on; "you know of me, of 
 
 course. 
 I'm pictured in the papers, and my name's on every page; 
 The whole world's simply crazy to see me on the stage. 
 I'd pack the houses." "Is that so?" the manager replied. 
 "I'm sorry that we differ. John, show the lady, please, 
 
 outside." 
 
 Diamonds, dresses, old blue blood no longer are the thing; 
 Dames from high society, not a dollar do they bring. 
 Divorcees they are passe, not one of them will do — 
 Oh, pray excuse me, madam, what can I do for you? 
 Before him stood a woman who, for quite a little while, 
 Had all the country guessing in a famous murder trial. 
 The manager 'rose promptly, and showed her to the door, 
 And said : "The murder racket, ma'am, I find's been 
 worked before." 
 
 A prim and modest matron now into the office strayed ; 
 The managerial X-ray eyes like searchlights on her played. 
 "I am a woman," she began, "who's led a blameless life; 
 One husband's all I ever had, I'm proud to be his wife; 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 147 
 
 I mind my business, stay at home; my scrubbing, cooking 
 
 do; 
 I crave no costly dresses, all I have or want is two ; 
 I never scandalize or lie; I never get enraged. 
 The manager, as he dropped dead, said : "Madam, you're 
 
 ENGAGED !" 
 
 REFLECTIONS OF THE STAGE VILLAIN. 
 
 ITY the sorrows of a villainous old man 
 
 Who now, alas ! approaches life's allotted span, 
 And soon eternity and the unknown must face 
 With fainting heart and ne'er a single hope of 
 grace. 
 For, oh, my very soul is steeped in fiendish crime, 
 Which I must expiate on, on through endless time. 
 
 From Maine to Texas, from Key West to Oregon, 
 There runs a gory trail of ghastly deeds I've done. 
 In Oshkosh, Red Bank and each cross-roads town 
 My victims cry for vengeance, and the angels frown 
 As overtime they work to record keep 
 Of all my wanton infamies so foul and deep. 
 
 I do mind me of the time when I, a strippling, went 
 
 Upon the stage, of man's blood innocent. 
 
 But villainy was quickly portioned as my lot, 
 
 And, ere the night had gone, sixteen poor souls I'd shot; 
 
 And stabbed, aye, many more, and poisoned twenty-two, 
 
 As it is wont for villains on the stage to do. 
 
 For full twice-twenty years my life of crime has run, 
 And every wanton deed that's known to man I've done. 
 
148 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Eight thousand murders ; ye gods, what seas of gore ! 
 Forgeries, bigamies, and trigamies galore! 
 My victims I both afternoon and night would slay, 
 And thus the self-same man I'd slaughter twice a day. 
 
 My conscience gives no rest; for, here upon Broadway, 
 
 I see my hapless victims pass me day by day. 
 
 Men whom I've shot and stabbed, maids whose jugulars 
 
 I've cut, 
 Familiarly they nod, and leer, and past me strut, 
 And one, alas ! there is my wretched soul affrights ; 
 For that same man I murdered sixteen hundred nights!!! 
 
 And thus in fear I wait the final curtain call, 
 
 My chance of future mercy most exceeding small. 
 
 The greatest villain that the world has ever known, 
 
 One saving hope have I, perchance it may atone — 
 
 That of the thousands I have slain by murder fell, 
 
 Not one is dead, and all, thank heaven ! are hale and well ! 
 
 THE HUNGRY THESPIAN. 
 
 HE shades of night were falling fast, 
 As down Broadway an actor passed, 
 And stopped to read, with eager air, 
 This sign beneath a restaurant's glare: 
 
 LAMB STEW, 10 CENTS. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIES POEMS. ^49 
 
 ''Touch not the stew," an old man said, 
 " "lis full of microbes ; so's the bread." 
 The actor man made no reply, 
 But still read on, with rav'nous eye: 
 
 CORNED BEEF AND 
 
 CABBAGE, 10 CENTS. 
 
 "Beware the cabbage and the beef," 
 The old man cried, "or come to grief. 
 Appendicitis lurks therein." 
 The actor's voice 'rose o'er the din, 
 
 FRANKFURTERS, 10 CENTS. 
 
 "Avoid the sausage," loudly roar'd 
 
 The warning voice, "with dog 'tis stored, 
 
 And other canine mysteries vile." 
 
 Still Shakespear Jones read on the while, 
 
 TWO FRIED, 10 CENTS. 
 
150 
 
 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 "Leave eggs alone/' the old man spoke, 
 "Think of the last that on thee broke 
 And splashed thy face and filled thine eye." 
 On read the thespian, with a sigh, 
 
 SMALL STEAK, 10 CENTS. 
 
 "Beware the steak," implored the man, 
 "For steak's beneath the Beef Trust's ban ; 
 'Tis only food for millionaires. 
 Yon actors shouldn't put on airs. 
 Touch not the steak." 
 
 "Sirrah, avaunt," the actor cried, 
 "Unhand me, scoundrel, stand aside. 
 I want no viands, boiled or fried ; 
 I never eat, and then, besides, 
 I've no darned 10 cents." 
 
 THE FAMILY THEATRIC. 
 
 HO is it burns the midnight oil 
 And paper by the tons will spoil, 
 Swipes plots from Dickens, Scott or Doyle? 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Who is it all the checks doth sign, 
 Backs the show — gets printing fine, 
 And for the soubrette opens wine ? 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 151 
 
 Who is it stands out in the front, 
 And watches each and every stunt, 
 Counts up the house' — and does a grunt? 
 
 THE MANAGER. 
 
 Who is it calls you sharp at ten, 
 And says : "Now, ladees, shcntlemen, 
 Ve dry dis over vonce agen" ? 
 
 DEE HEER CONDUCTOR. 
 
 Who is it, with an eye intense, 
 Seeks out some trivial offense, 
 And fines the whole crowd fifty cents ? 
 
 THE STAGE MANAGER. 
 
 Who gets into most awful scrapes, 
 Dares death in fourteen hundred shapes, 
 And from the villain's toils escapes ? 
 
 THE HERO. 
 
 Who is it, dressed in sombre black, 
 
 Weeps, wrings her hands, and says : "Alack !" 
 
 And on the villain turns her back ? 
 
 THE HEROINE. 
 
 Who raises trouble by the peck, 
 The hero's life starts out to wreck, 
 And later gets it in the neck ? 
 
 THE VILLAIN. 
 
 Who is it finds the stolen will, 
 O'erhears the villain's plans to kill, 
 And with him "raises 'Samuel Hill' " ? 
 
 THE COMEDIAN. 
 
152 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Who is it keeps the house in roars, 
 Dusts furniture, and opens doors, 
 And does a dance to six encores ? 
 
 THE SOUBRETTE. 
 
 Who is it hands you gun and sword, 
 And of stage-money keeps a hoard, 
 And over everything is lord ? 
 
 HIS MAJESTY "PROPS. 
 
 Whom do we talk of tremblingly, 
 With bated breath, and dread that he 
 May fail "to walk" — oh, misery ? 
 
 The beloved and all necessary "GHOST. 
 
 Who is it starts to scandalize, 
 
 Spreads discord fierce, tells endless lies 
 
 And has the whole crowd by the eyes ? 
 
 THE SOUBRETTE'S MAMA. 
 
 Who is it to- the show will come 
 In numbers scanty, faces glum, 
 And then go homerand say "it's bum" ? 
 
 THE AUDIENCE. 
 
 Who is it trouble fierce will hatch, 
 And, when you go your train to catch, 
 Your trunk and gripsack will attach ? 
 
 THE LANDLORD. 
 
 Who is it weary, sad and sore, 
 
 Hoofs o'er the ties a week or more 
 
 And, Broadway reached, cries out for gore ? 
 
 THE TROUPE. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 153 
 
 THE TEAGEDIAN'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 (Parodies on Shakespeare.) 
 
 be, or not to be, that is the conundrum, 
 Whether it is wiser to be biffed in the eye 
 By the o'er ripe fruit of the domestic hen, 
 Or to be soaked and assaulted on the ear 
 
 By the abhorrent and decayed vegetable. 
 
 Who would hotel-bills pay, to sweat under a heavy burden, 
 
 When he can the dull landlord easily evade 
 
 By a noiseless descent of the convenient fire-escape ? 
 
 Is this a ham sandwich that I see before me? 
 
 Come thou tempting morsel, let me catch thee, 
 
 And to this yawning stomach beat a swift retreat, 
 
 And give the lie to those who say I never eat. 
 
 Oh, oft have I been called "ham," now void of pelf, 
 
 I would, ye gods, I were a ham — that I might eat myself. 
 
 Be thou an Actor or a Variety man damned, 
 
 Bring with thee Shakespeare from Heaven, or rag-time 
 
 from, well — 
 Is it thy purpose to oust me from the classic boards 
 And drive me barnstorming to the Hayseed hordes ? 
 Thy mummery of song and dance is for the City's great, 
 While Shakespeare's for the varlets vile of low estate. 
 
 Oh, what a falling off was there, from the "Immortal 
 
 Will," 
 To this hell broth of rubbish — vaudeville — 
 This seething caldron of diablerie, 
 Legs, loveliness, jag-time and lunacy. 
 
154 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 Most impotent, grave and irreverend Hayseeds, 
 My very ignoble and disapproved bad Masters, 
 That I have deigned to show you good acting, 'tis most 
 
 true, 
 And my genius is lost on Punkinheads like you. 
 
 Superb am I in my speech, 
 
 And but little versed in the wily ways of commerce; 
 For, since I was to a grasshopper that much high, 
 I have pursued the Actors' Art, and hoofed the tie, 
 Carrying a banner or spear, at "three per" week, 
 And little of this great world can I now speak 
 More than pertains to things strictly theatrical. 
 
 The quality of whiskey is much strained, 
 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven 
 
 Upon the thirsty palate of the Thespian beneath. 
 
 She loved me for the gallons of it I had drank, 
 
 And I loved her that she did admire my wondrous tank. 
 
 He who steals my purse steals trash; 
 For, being a Tragedian's purse, the darn thing's minus 
 cash. 
 
 LAMENT OF A SAD TRAGEDIAN. 
 
 HIS wretched world is out of joint, the sad Trage- 
 dian said ; 
 The classic drama's buried, great Shakespeare's 
 doubly dead ; 
 
 Art's sacred lamp has flickered out, its temples they pro- 
 fane 
 With exhibitions lewd, nude, rude, and wickedly inane. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 155 
 
 Could I fall down a flight of stairs, or waltz upon my nose, 
 I'd be the star attraction of ten hundred different shows; 
 But, with only art to recommend, I fain must disappear ; 
 Oh, thou immortal Bard, look down — Ah, thanks! Make 
 mine a beer! 
 
 But yesterday I hied me to a catiff agent's den. 
 
 "Your line of business, sir, is dead," he said, and straight- 
 way then 
 
 He offered me — keep still my heart, and burst not from thy 
 bounds — 
 
 A thinking part in "Uncle Tom," play brass, and tend the 
 hounds, 
 
 Understudy Eva, to dance — sand, jig, buck, clogs; 
 
 Give out vile dodgers to the mob, and sleep among the dogs, 
 
 With bloodhounds for my roommates ! Great shades of 
 Shakespeare hear, 
 
 The drama's dead, defunct, deceased — Oh, thanks! Once 
 more a beer ! 
 
 Another catiff agent offered me employment vile ; 
 
 He called the job a lead-pipe cinch, and smiled a ghastly 
 smile. 
 
 The piece was named the "Hooligans — The Happy Danc- 
 ing Micks," 
 
 And in it I was savagely assaulted, sir, with bricks; 
 
 All through the piece it showered bricks — if not, I had to 
 stoop 
 
 While slapsticks on my pants were drummed by all that 
 wretched troupe. 
 
 Again I ask: "Art thou not dead, thou Bard of Avon, 
 dear?" 
 
 Ah, doubly moribund thou art — Ah, thanks! Another 
 beer! 
 
156 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 But yesterday they proffered me a most revolting role, 
 The insult of that offer vile sank deep into my soul; 
 I, that have played with Edwin Booth, with Barrett, and 
 
 with Kean, 
 Was, for a paltry pittance, my manhood to demean — 
 And drain the cup of misery unto its very dregs 
 By capering in a mad burlesque as the elephant's hind legs ! 
 An insult, sir! An outrage, sir! A most revolting crime! 
 Oh, Bard of Avon, me avenge ! — Thanks ! Whiskey straight 
 
 this time. 
 
 Alas, the depths to which we lights of palmy days have 
 
 sunk, 
 The brimful cup of misery, whose dregs perforce we've 
 
 drunk, 
 Have not been told in full till I, with aching heart, reveal 
 What I within mine inmost soul no longer can conceal : 
 A medicine show engaged me to declaim, orate, recite, 
 And to swallow pills between the acts — the memory of that 
 
 night — 
 With mortal horror fills me, and terrors on me seize. 
 Oh, art thou'rt dead and doubly damned — Ah, Blackberry 
 
 brandy, please! 
 
 A HARD-LUCK STOEY. 
 
 TURNING THE TABLES. 
 
 HE hard-up actor saw with joy a friend of his draw 
 near. 
 He needed fifty bones — the chance to get the 
 ''bones" was here. 
 His friend had prospered wondrously — had diamonds, 
 
 bonds and that, 
 While he was "stony," "busted," "broke," and hungry as a 
 rat. 
 
UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 157 
 
 "How do, old chap; delighted much to see you/' then he 
 
 said. 
 "Must have 'fifty' quick, old chap ; an aunt of mine is dead. 
 The Potters' field will get her, if I can't raise the dough; 
 So you'll let me have that 'fifty,' for old times' sake, I 
 
 know." 
 
 "Well, Jack, old boy," his friend replied, "there's not a 
 
 single thing 
 I would not do for you, old chap, for recollections bring 
 The time when you were good to me, when we were strapped 
 
 out West ; 
 But I've got troubles of my own — troubles like the rest. 
 I know my season has been good ; I cleared a tidy pile, 
 But for the last few weeks, old chap, my luck's been simply 
 
 vile. 
 You've lost an aunt, I've buried four, my mother's scarce 
 
 alive ; 
 Won't last the day." "Too bad," said Jack; "we'll make 
 
 it 'twenty- five.' " 
 
 "Twenty-five ! That's kind of you, to put it down so low ; 
 
 I could have managed that all right, but 'bout two days 
 ago 
 
 The baby started yelling, and we got a doctor quick. 
 
 The 'kid' had 'pendicitis, and was critically sick. 
 
 Operation then and there ; had nurses by the score ; 
 
 Cost me sixteen hundred cold, and may cost that much 
 more. 
 
 In fact, dear Jack, you can't conceive how hoodooed I have 
 been." 
 
 "As that's the case," Jack murmured, "suppose we say 'fif- 
 teen"? 
 
158 UNCLE CHARLIE'S POEMS. 
 
 "Fifteen, old boy ; that isn't much ; a trifle, I'll admit, 
 
 But you can't realize, old chap, how badly I've been hit. 
 
 I bought a house, and paid for it — a house that you'd ad- 
 mire — 
 
 But forgot about insurance, and, of course, the place took 
 fire. 
 
 Everything we had was burned, my uncle died of shock ; 
 
 The funeral takes place to-day, at half-past three o'clock. 
 
 Can't pay the undertaker, boy, my grief is just intense." 
 
 "That's tough, indeed, old boy," said Jack ; "we'll make it 
 fifty cents" ! 
 
 "Ah, now you're talking, Jack, old boy ; you're getting near 
 
 the mark, 
 But, as I walked downtown to-day, I came through Central 
 
 Park ; 
 A gang of toughs set on to me, great Scott ! I had a time ; 
 Nearly lost my life, old chap — swiped my every dime. 
 I shouted 'Murder!' and 'Police !' till the scoundrels ran 
 
 away. 
 Haven't got a blessed cent to buy a meal ; and, say, 
 Instead of staking you, old chap, I wish, right now and 
 
 here, 
 You'd hock your coat and pants, dear boy, and go buy me 
 
 a beer" 
 
 THE END. 
 
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