3^^^^ 
 
 
 4 c» 
 
 3-* *<v 
 
 
 
 •>t 
 
 >^* . 
 
 :^ 
 
 b y' .°'^ 
 
 lO-7- 
 
 tt^ 
 
 ^ '^-. -/^ 
 
 0*0 
 
 9 o'^ ^' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^^0 
 
 s^^ 
 
 • « 
 
 0'' ^- ♦ 
 
 
 ,0 '^ 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 A* «»'•♦ <^ -O* .•'1 
 
 

 
 
 •^0 
 4? 
 
 A°^ 
 
 
 
 
 >0 
 
 4 
 
 A 9^ 
 
 
 ,■t°,^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 ,-1°^ 
 
 
 
 ^\ 
 
 
 Vc,- 
 
 
 
 \. .o^C^.% .**\'J^%V /.C^.*«. 
 
HOWDY 
 ALL 
 
HOWDY ALL 
 
 And Other Care-free Rhymes 
 
 By 
 WIL4LIAM HERSCHELL' 
 
 Author of 
 
 Songs of the Streets and Byways 
 
 The Kid Has Gone to the Colors 
 
 The Smile-Bringer 
 
 Etc. 
 
 m 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Copyright, 19122, by 
 The Bobbs-Mereill Company 
 
 
 Printed in. the United States of America 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 BRAUNWORTH & CO 
 
 BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
 
 BROOKLYN, N. Y. 
 
 AUG -5 1922 
 
 ©CI.A(J81254 
 
To 
 
 JIM McCORMICK 
 
 Editor 
 
 Who taught me it is easier to swing a pencil 
 than a hammer. 
 
To The Indianapolis Nezvs and The Red Book 
 the author expresses his gratitude for permission 
 to reprint the verses contained in this volume. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ain't Boys Funny? . . . .... ... r.^ ,., . 143 
 
 At Granny's House .41 
 
 At Monticello Dam 122 
 
 Barnyard Band, The 47 
 
 Beloved Fat Man, The 131 
 
 Blue Smoke 120 
 
 Bookworm, The 39 
 
 Boy Next Door to the Circus, The 3 
 
 Breakin' In 81 
 
 Butter-Bread Bandit, The 29 
 
 Chawberry 25 
 
 Cloud-Children 49 
 
 Creek that Runs through Town, The .... 45 
 
 Deserted Inn, The 60 
 
 Doctor Grin 115 
 
 Empty Jug 68 
 
 Eve Eternal 70 
 
 Free Show, The 72 
 
 Funny Cakes the Baker Makes, The .... 66 
 
 Garden Patriot, A 145 
 
 GiGGLEBUG, The Ill 
 
 Glorious First, The 98 
 
 Have You Been To See ''October"? 56 
 
 Heck Hutton 9 
 
 Hills of Indiana, The 14 
 
 Howdy All , . i 
 
CONTENT S— Continued 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hymn-Singin' Jim 104 
 
 If Everything Went Just So 75 
 
 In Memory's Garden 62 
 
 Indispensable Dobbin, The i33 
 
 "Is 'At So?" 31 
 
 Kitchen Pump, The 93 
 
 Latticed Prisoner, The 12 
 
 Lights of Five O'Clock, The 7 
 
 Little Gray Church in the Circle 64 
 
 Little Mister Fixer ]\Ian 85 
 
 Little Thing Called "Good Morning," The ... 91 
 
 Log of the Limpy Lou, The 83 
 
 '•Makin's,'' The 128 
 
 Migrant Melody, A 9^ 
 
 Moods of Winter, The 113 
 
 Neighbors 5i 
 
 Old Man 136 
 
 Old Man's Christmas Shop, The 102 
 
 Old Year, The i35 
 
 Passing of the Comic, The 117 
 
 Patient Friend, The 54 
 
 Pipe of Peace, The 124 
 
 Postmaster Tree 20 
 
 Punkinheads 37 
 
 Pups and A Boy 109 
 
 Ridin' Around 23 
 
 RooF-Top Reverie, A 138 
 
 Rubbernecks, The 18 
 
 Runaway Shoes, The 35 
 
CONTENT S— Concluded 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Said the Traffic Cop, Smilingly ...... 89 
 
 Second-Hand Hosses 100 
 
 Street Scale, The 43 
 
 Tantalizin' Days 53 
 
 Trader in Dreams, The 27 
 
 Tree Doctor, The 147 
 
 Tree Nobody Bought, The 87 
 
 Vanished Forum, The 79 
 
 Wayfarer's Valentine, The 58 
 
 Wayside World, A 77 
 
 What the Toymaker Thinks 126 
 
 When Ain't Nobody Home 16 
 
 When Mother Rubs It In 140 
 
 When Sugar Was Up 5 
 
 When th' Firemens Come 107 
 
 Who Says When It's Marble Time 22 
 
HOWDY ALL 
 
 There are some who give their greetings 
 
 In an arctic sort of way ; 
 Some who make us kind of doubtful 
 
 As they "pass the time of day"; 
 But there's one we'll always cherish, 
 
 For we like his cheery call 
 As he passes by each morning 
 
 Singing out his '*Howdy all!" 
 
 It's the same to rogue and righteous, 
 
 It's the same to cad and churl ; 
 It's a joy to man and woman, 
 
 It's a thrill to boy and girl. 
 He will make you feel as royal 
 
 As a king in palace hall, 
 As he waves his hand and greets you 
 
 With his smiling "Howdy all!" 
 
HOWDY ALL 
 
 At the wedding feast his presence 
 
 Gives good omen to the day ; 
 He is welcome where there's sorrow — 
 
 Where he is no tear can stay. 
 Why, perhaps poor Humpty Diimpty 
 
 Still might be upon the wall 
 Had he never lost his balance 
 
 Chuckling at some ''Howdy all!" 
 
 Howdy all's a joy-magician 
 
 Welcome everywhere he goes ; 
 Where he plants a friendly greeting, 
 
 There a day of gladness grows. 
 IVe a thought that when the curtain 
 
 Called Eternity shall fall, 
 He will start the angels laughing 
 
 When he sings out "Howdy all!" 
 
THE BOY NEXT DOOR TO THE CIRCUS 
 
 When Pa an' Ma they move ag'in — > 
 They're alius movin' out er in — 
 I'm goin' to say to them : *'Gee whiz, 
 Let's move out where th' circus is !" 
 
 I know a guy whose backyard fence 
 Goes right up to th' circus tents, 
 An' he can sit right there an' see 
 Th' whole dog-gone menagerie! 
 
 His alley's where th' show comes in, 
 An' then, at night, goes out ag'in. 
 He sees more stuff on circus day 
 Than folks 'at go an' haf to pay. 
 
 He gits to hear th' keepers cuss 
 Th' big ole hippopotamus, 
 An' gee, his alley fence is right 
 Where all th' roustabouters fight. 
 3 
 
THE BOY NEXT DOOR TO THE CIRCUS 
 
 Say, he can tell you to th' dot 
 How many clowns th' show has got. 
 An' soniethin' else — he says he knows 
 Th' giiy 'at trims th' tiger's toes. 
 
 He knows th' bosses by their names. 
 An' he's fed lions, too, he claims; 
 Oh yes, an' he says he give — once — 
 Terbacker to th' elephunts! 
 
 He ist knows everything about 
 A circus show — inside an' out ! 
 But what gits me, he acts so swell 
 'Cause they git water from his well ! 
 
 When Pa an' Ma they move ag'in — 
 They're alius movin' out er in — 
 I'm goin' to say to them : "Gee whiz, 
 Let's move out where th' circus is I" 
 
WHEN SUGAR WAS UP 
 
 Fings is actin' mighty queer 
 'Tween myself an' Muvver dear. 
 Muvver she ist act like she 
 Ain't got one bit use for me. 
 'Specially I've noticed that 
 When I'm where our sugar's at. 
 
 Muvver all time used to say : 
 "You ain't e't a fing to-day. 
 Guess I'll maybe haf to bake 
 My sweet child a sugar cake. 
 Maybe make some candy, too, 
 'Fore I git my bakin' through." 
 
 Yes, an' ever' day she'd spread 
 Sugar on my butter bread. 
 But she don't do that no more 
 Like she used to do before. 
 Sugar's all ist for herself 
 Hid away upon our shelf. 
 5 
 
WHEN SUGAR WAS UP 
 
 I ist sit an' suck my fumbs 
 But no sugar never comes. 
 Nen if I start in to squall, 
 Muvver she don't care at all. 
 Muvver she ist says: "Gee whiz! 
 Sugar's scarcer'n babies is !" 
 
THE LIGHTS OF FIVE O'CLOCK 
 
 When the Lights of Five O'Clock come on, 
 Man's afterglow to a day that's gone, 
 I find it pleasant to sit and dream 
 Who fares beneath each friendly beam. 
 From my window here I watch them glow; 
 Some far above me and some below ; 
 Some are as soft as a baby's kiss, 
 Some flare forth with an emphasis. 
 
 L^p in the heights, where the roof and sky. 
 Play with the smoke-waves wafting by, 
 I see a girl, in the shadowed light. 
 Peer far out in the deepening night. 
 She prays fair weather ! For soon her feet 
 Will dance with Love in a rhythmic beat. 
 Toil-wearied now — that will soon be gone, 
 For the Lights of Five O'Clock are on ! 
 
 7 
 
THE LIGHTS OF FIVE o'CLOCK 
 
 I see men hurry, I see some sway 
 With fag that comes at the close of day. 
 I see some laugh, though some may sigh ; 
 See typewriters closed and books laid by. 
 Now is a woman — her hair grown gray- 
 Putting the wares of her shop away. 
 There goes an errand boy — on the run! — 
 With the mail in post his day is done ! 
 
 When the Lights of Five O' Clock come on, 
 Man's afterglow to a day that's gone, 
 I find it pleasant to sit and dream 
 Who fares beneath each friendly beam. 
 And, oh, I hope, as each light goes out, 
 It sends none home with a sigh or doubt. 
 Instead, may Happiness find its dawn 
 When the Lights of Five O'Clock come on! 
 
 8 
 
HECK HUTTON 
 
 Heck Hutton, down at Tailholt, he's my sub- 
 ject fer to-day, 
 
 An' I'd like to make you know him in an under- 
 standin' way. 
 
 Philosopher an' joker, an' a Jack-of-all-trades, 
 too, 
 
 Heck never shies at nothin' that a human hand 
 can do. 
 
 His humble shop, vine-covered, fronts a little 
 byway street. 
 
 Where th' un-elected statesmen of th' town an* 
 country meet. 
 
 9 
 
HECK HUTTON 
 
 Heck doctors ailin' harness or he'll give your 
 
 shoes a sole; 
 He'll make your pump give v^ater if there's water 
 
 in th' hole. 
 Th' v^immen bring their pots an^ pans to him from 
 
 miles around, 
 An* they know, too, that in his shop their men 
 
 folks can be found. 
 Yes, sir, they'll always find 'em there, each 
 
 argyin' to see 
 How fur from Heck's position all th' rest can 
 
 disagree. 
 
 Heck's always crowded full o' facts — an' figgers, 
 too, I'll state — 
 
 So don't go at him half-informed when itchin' 
 fer debate! 
 
 But, to my mind. Heck's funniest when he be- 
 gins, off-hand, 
 
 A-talkin' scientific stuff th' rest don't understand. 
 
 He gits all loaded up with facts that can not be 
 denied. 
 
 Then holds th' boys in magic spell — just clean, 
 plum mystified! 
 
 lO 
 
HECK HUTTON 
 
 Heck Hutton, down at Tailholt, ain't concerned 
 
 with wealth or style; 
 He'll take a grin most any time an* swap it fer a 
 
 smile. 
 He may be just a tinker on th' common wares 
 
 of life, 
 But Heck's a true mechanic, too, at patchin' woe 
 
 an' strife. 
 Fact is, good old Heck Hutton binds my soul to 
 
 this belief — 
 That smile o' his could solder up th' leaky eyes 
 
 of Grief! 
 
 II 
 
THE LATTICED PRISONER 
 
 Each sunny day, when passing by, 
 
 I catch the twinkle of her eye; 
 
 I find a gladness in her smile 
 
 That makes my passing well worth while. 
 
 There's Heaven in the face of her — 
 
 My little latticed prisoner! 
 
 It is not hard to understand 
 Why she is held with sturdy hand. 
 But for that latticed gate she'd be 
 Engaged in roving witchery, 
 For as it is she holds complete 
 The royal thraldom of our street. 
 
 12 
 
THE LATTICED PRISONER 
 
 I see her glances range afar 
 
 And wonder what her dream-thoughts are. 
 
 She knows the world goes on somewhere 
 
 Beyond the comer of the square. 
 
 The Grocery Boy, the Mail Man, too, 
 
 Go down that way and pass from view. 
 
 How long, she wonders, must she wait 
 Till, challenging her latticed gate. 
 Her feet, grown bolder, may be free 
 To leave the Porch of Infancy ? 
 The Corner first — and then the Square — 
 And then the boundless Everywhere ! 
 
 13 
 
THE HILLS OF INDIANA 
 
 The hills of Indiana 
 
 All are happy hills to me, 
 A page of high-and-byway 
 
 Out of God's geography. 
 The prairies may be richer 
 
 In their providential soil. 
 But give me hills for haven 
 
 When I'm tired of men and toil. 
 
 The hills of Indiana 
 
 Roll and tumble all about 
 As children do, at bedtime, 
 
 When they have their riot out. 
 The comradeship of nature 
 
 Is a comradeship of all ; 
 The big hills never bully 
 
 Little hills because they're small. 
 14 
 
THE HILLS OF INDIANA 
 
 The hills of Indiana 
 
 Are not so unfriendly steep 
 They glory, like a hermit, 
 
 In a lone, seclusive sleep. 
 Instead they offer pathways 
 
 To each flower-favored crest, 
 Where city-weary pilgrims 
 
 May find happiness and rest. 
 
 The hills of Indiana 
 
 Seem to know and understand 
 They are celestial stairways 
 
 Fashioned by a Master Hand. 
 They lead us up and upward 
 
 As though, in a friendly part. 
 When we fare forth to Heaven 
 
 They'll give us a better start ! 
 
 IS 
 
WHEN AIN'T NOBODY HOME 
 
 When ain't nobody home ! Gee whiz, 
 That's 'bout th' toughest time there is I 
 Come home from school an' run around 
 To where your Mother's always found 
 An' she ain't there I Th' kitchen's dark 
 An' locked as fast as Noah's Ark. 
 Th' front door, too, is bolted tight 
 An', gee, it's purty nearly night ! 
 
 You feel a lonesome feelin' come, 
 Your heart beats sad — just like a drum 
 When some one's dead — an' there's a gloom 
 Around your house like it's a tomb. 
 You peep in through th' window, too. 
 An' all inside looks cold an' blue. 
 An' then there comes that awful dread — 
 Some one's been there an' killed her dead ! 
 
 i6 
 
WHEN AIN^T NOBODY HOME 
 
 You think you smell th' flowers an' see 
 Those cards that say "In Sympathy." 
 Then you begin to think it's true 
 How awful good she was to you. 
 Oh, if she'd just unlock that door 
 You'd never sass her any more. 
 You'd never sit around an' pout 
 When ashes must be carried out. 
 
 Oh, there's a million things you*d do 
 If only she'd come back to you. 
 You'd leave th' cookies on th' shelf; 
 You'd wash behind your ears yourself. 
 You'd — Who's that comin' up th' street? 
 Whose footfall could be half as sweet? 
 It's her ! Your mother, sweet an' good — 
 She's just been 'round th' neighborhood! 
 
THE RUBBERNECKS 
 
 When I hear people fume an' fuss 
 About th' selfishness in us, 
 It's then I joy to p'int a case 
 Wherein this earth's a happy place. 
 
 Two little neighbor boys I know, 
 One of 'em's Crip, th' other's Joe. 
 Crip he's a cripple, as you'd guess. 
 But he don't peddle his distress. 
 
 Joe's just a reg'lar normal kid 
 Possessed of smiles he can't keep hid. 
 An' somehow, too, I've always found 
 Joe smiles th' most when Crip's around. 
 
 Crip's little legs is dead as ore. 
 But Joe says his is good as four, 
 An' so this happy, care-free pair 
 Goes gallivantin' everywhere*, 
 
 iS 
 
THE RUBBERNECKS 
 
 They've got a old, discarded rig 
 Some baby's had that got too big. 
 They call it ^'Rubberneck" 'cause they 
 Do nothin' else th' livelong day. 
 
 Joe loads Crip up, then off they go 
 An' stop at ever' picture show 
 To see who's playin' there an' grin 
 At all th' folks a-goin' in. 
 
 They're never home — both out an' gone 
 Where there's excitement goin' on; 
 A fire, a fight, a dancin' bear — 
 Th' "Rubbernecks" is first ones there! 
 
 Why, I once heard a sergeant say 
 He'd bet that on th' Judgment Day, 
 When Heaven's gates was opened wide. 
 Them pals would be th' first inside! 
 
 19 
 
POSTMASTER TREE 
 
 Of all our postmasters, I know you'll agree. 
 The queerest of all is old Postmaster Tree. 
 
 Way down by the Crossroads, in sun, rain and 
 
 hail, 
 He gives out and gathers the neighborhood mail. 
 
 His sturdy old trunk holds the boxes storm-proof; 
 His widespreading boughs are the post-office 
 roof. 
 
 He never is prying, in fact, IVe heard said 
 Of thousands of postals, not one has he read ! 
 
 Nobody complains that — of all faults the worst — 
 He gets your newspaper and then reads it first. 
 
 Still, somehow, I feel the old Postmaster knows 
 When he gives us gladness or adds to our woes. 
 
 20 
 
POSTMASTER TREE 
 
 I know his leaves giggle when Romance unlocks 
 And finds a sweet missive secure in his box. 
 
 Then, sometimes, he sighs when to Love he must 
 
 say: 
 "I'm sorry, my dear, but there's nothing to-day." 
 
 To some he brings treasure, to many their bills; 
 To all printed promise to cure human ills. 
 
 But, oh, the one letter that fills him with joy, 
 Begins with "Dear Mother'* and ends with "Your 
 Boy!" 
 
 21 
 
WHO SAYS WHEN IT'S MARBLE TIME? 
 
 Who says when it's marble time? Who pro- 
 claims the day 
 
 Boys should get their marbles out, then begin to 
 play? 
 
 Governors nor presidents never yet have said : 
 *'Time to get your marbles out, Skinny, Smoke 
 and Red!" 
 
 Robins sometimes say that Spring now is here 
 
 to stay, 
 Then a blizzard comes along and they fly away. 
 
 Who tells boys that Spring is here? How are 
 
 they to know 
 We may not have weather yet twenty-three 
 
 below ? 
 
 2a 
 
WHO SAYS WHEN IT^S MARBLE TIME? 
 
 But, just let a sunny day linger hereabout, 
 Then, hke magic, all the guys get their marbles 
 out! 
 
 Yes, It's here! It's marble time everywhere in 
 
 town; 
 All you hear is: "Git on taws!" "Hey, you, 
 
 knuckle down!" 
 
 Then, another mystery holds me in its sway — 
 Who finds last year's marble bag? Who put it 
 away i 
 
 Boys have fleeting memories — that all mothers 
 
 know — 
 Boys can't find a hat or coat left an hour ago! 
 
 But, Just let that mystic time — marble time — 
 
 come 'round; 
 Somehow, somewhere, marble bags always can 
 
 be found. 
 
 23 
 
WHO SAYS WHEN IT^S MARBLE TIME? 
 
 Who says when it's marble time ? How are boys 
 
 to know 
 We may not have weather yet twenty-three 
 
 below ? 
 
 24 
 
CHAWBERRY 
 
 Dink he's ist so big an' jolly! 
 
 Dink he say to me : "By golly, 
 
 You need sumfin' cool an' pleasant — 
 
 How'd you like to have a present 
 
 Of a bottle cold as ice is? 
 
 We should worry what the price is !" 
 
 I don't want to be contrary, 
 
 So I takes some pop — chawberry. 
 
 Dink ist laugh an' say It's funny 
 How I help him spend his money. 
 He say, too, us wimmen make himi 
 Spend till we ist 'bout near break him. 
 Dink don't care if he ain't wealthy, 
 Long as little girls is healthy. 
 Still, he say, he can't help finkin' 
 I'll ist die th' way I'm drinkin'. 
 
 25 
 
CHAWBERRY 
 
 Dink say, too, Fm sure contrary 
 Way I all time take chawberry! 
 He say, why, he'll buy my fill o' 
 Lemon, grape or else banila, 
 If I'll drink it— well, I tried it. 
 But when it got down inside it 
 Didn't make me feel so very 
 Awful good — like ist chawberry ! 
 
 Dink sometimes he gits me cryin 
 When he say he knows I'm dyin' 
 With my insides painted inkish 
 From chawberry bein' pinkish. 
 Still, he say^ if I'm a-livin' 
 Easter time I'll git forgiven, 
 'Cause if I keep up my habit 
 I can dye eggs for th' rabbit ! 
 
 26 
 
THE TRADER IN DREAMS 
 
 You MAY know my old friend, The Trader in 
 
 Dreams ; 
 Perhaps he has shown you his wares and his 
 
 schemes. 
 His shop is a park bench, his roof-top a tree. 
 His stock an odd lot only dream-eyes can see. 
 
 Just s5t there beside him on some sunny day. 
 He'll sell you a Joy that he has on display. 
 He'll bring out a Hope, a sweet dream that 
 
 endures, 
 And quickly convince you it ought to be yours. 
 
 Ask him for a Glum and he'll proudly declare 
 You'll find none of that in his stock anywhere. 
 In fact he will say, in a manner that cheers, 
 He's not had a Glum or a Grumble in years. 
 
 27 
 
THE TRADER IN DREAMS 
 
 Ah, no ! All his wares are of smiling design ; 
 Just say: "Well, how's business?" He'll answer 
 
 you: "Fine!" 
 And forthwith he'll bring to your fanciful view 
 Some wonderful Dreams that he knows will come 
 
 true. 
 
 His wealth, he will tell you, is not sordid gold ; 
 He treasures his soul, though his body is old. 
 He calculates Youth as still his till the day 
 His shop must be closed and his dreams fade 
 away. 
 
 He thinks of To-morrow as his to enjoy — 
 Though Time may deny him, he'll dream he's a 
 
 boy. 
 For he is quite certain To-morrows are sold 
 Without guarantee to the Young or the Old. 
 
 So there the Dream-trader sits, waiting for you 
 To swap him a Smile for a Day-dream or two, 
 But what I like most is his generous whim — 
 He wants all the world to be partner with him ! 
 
 28 
 
THE BUTTER-BREAD BANDIT 
 
 Like some bold bandit prince he came. 
 His eyes af lash, his soul aflame ; 
 His raiment was of bandit style. 
 He wore a bandit's careless smile. 
 
 His swagger stride, 'twas plain to see. 
 Was born of practised tyranny; 
 His armament was crude enough, 
 And yet it bore a mighty bluff. 
 
 We barkened for his cold commands 
 To each of us to raise our hands ; 
 Instead he passed — as grim as gore — 
 Then vanished through the kitchen door. 
 
 We listened — listened till we heard 
 His mother get the fatal word : 
 "You'd better git some butter-bread 
 Or peril lies upon your head !'* 
 
 29 
 
THE BUTTER-BREAD BANDIT 
 
 His mother called for help — but, no ! 
 Not one of us would dare to go ! 
 "You'd better feed the knave," we said. 
 "That bandit wants some butter-bread !" 
 
 The bandit laughed in fiendish glee. 
 He'd won his battle bloodlessly ! 
 Then soon we saw him marching by, 
 A look of triumph in his eye. 
 
 Fast in his clutches he displayed 
 The profits of his daring raid. 
 Down on the steps he boldly sat, 
 A soul content and waxing fat. 
 
 How eagerly he downed each crumb; 
 He smacked his lips, he licked his thumb. 
 Then came a yawn — long, sweet and deep — 
 Our bold, bad bandit was asleep ! 
 
 30 
 
"IS 'AT SO?" 
 
 Full many a fight has gone un fought, 
 And many a coffin's yet unbought 
 Because mere words sufficed to do 
 What bullets did at Waterloo. 
 Take Youth — how often Youth escapes 
 The dire effect of many scrapes 
 By using words in bandied flow 
 To halt a hard, impending blow : 
 "Is 'at so?" 
 
 "Yes, 'at'sso!" 
 
 "Oh, is 'at so?" 
 
 With faces drawn in boyish wrath 
 Youth waits for Youth to cross its path. 
 Fists grip for fight, but fists don't fly 
 Till one has met the other's eye. 
 
 31 
 
'^IS^AT SO?" 
 
 And so it is that words must do 
 The fighting neither's wanting to. 
 They stand at guard, with toe to toe, 
 But here's as far as they will go : 
 "Is 'at so?" 
 
 "Yes, 'at's so!" 
 
 "Oh, is 'at so?" 
 
 How peaceful this old world would be 
 If men showed such diplomacy ! 
 Full many a tear would go unshed 
 If blows were made of words instead 
 Of bullets, guns and tools of war — 
 Tools humankind should e'er abhor! 
 Far better it would be to show 
 That words are all of war we know : 
 "Is 'at so?" 
 
 "Yes, 'at's so!" 
 
 "Oh, is 'at so?" 
 
 32 
 
RIDIN' AROUND 
 
 They's some kids got their auto-beels, 
 An' some has skates an' some has wheels. 
 But they ain't got no old horse, Bill, 
 An' what's still more — they never will! 
 
 Ain't none o' them got Dads 'at goes 
 An' transfers things fer folks he knows; 
 Ain't none o' them 'at gits to see 
 Th' whole wide town th' same as me. 
 
 I bet their Dads don't never say: 
 **Well, Bud, you gonna 'long to-day?" 
 An' then they don't git up beside 
 Their Dad an' ist sit there an' ride! 
 
 I do — you betcha ! — ever' day ! 
 An' it's more fun than reg'lar play 
 'Cause I see things you never see 
 'Less you're along with Dad an' me. 
 
 33 
 
RIDIN* AROUND 
 
 We drive down alleys to th' stores 
 Where Dad loads boxes from their doors, 
 An' one day was a man *at hit 
 His thumb fer nails — an' cussed at it I 
 
 An* we go down among th' trains 
 An' git in box cars when it rains ; 
 Oh, yes, an' once was man give me 
 His pie because it don't agree. 
 
 An' sometimes mans they tease me so 
 I want to fight — but let 'em go. 
 An' sometimes, too, when I git mad 
 They pay me so's to git me glad. 
 
 Night comes along an' Dad an' me 
 Go home ist tired as we can be, 
 Then Mother says to us : ''Gee whiz. 
 You're hardest workin' boys they is!" 
 
 34 
 
THE RUNAWAY SHOES 
 
 Four big shoes came down the street, 
 
 Clatter! Clatter! Qatter! 
 Inside the shoes were four small feet. 
 
 Patter! Patter! Patter! 
 And then we heard the children say 
 They'd had an awful runaway — 
 Oh, they had had a merry day! 
 Chatter! Chatter! Chatter! 
 
 It all began when Mother said 
 
 Sadly! Sadly! Sadly! 
 She'd rather see her children dead. 
 
 Gladly 1 Gladly 1 Gladly! 
 Than have them go some other way 
 Than in their Dad's steps — day by day — 
 *T would make her feel a deep dismay^-^ 
 
 Badlyl Badly! Badly] 
 
 35 
 
THE RUNAWAY SHOES 
 
 The children thought, to fill Dad's shoes 
 
 Fully! Fully! Fully! 
 They'd find two pairs and take a cruise — 
 
 Bully! Bully! Bully! 
 But when they got inside to go 
 They found them filled with tickle-toe — 
 They had his hunting shoes, you know ; 
 
 Woolly! Woolly! Woolly! 
 
 The children laughed in keen delight. 
 
 Merry! Merry! Merry! 
 Although the shoes had caused a fright — ■ 
 
 Scary! Scary! Scary! 
 At first the shoes ran off, they say, 
 But all got home at close of day — 
 Glad Daddy trained his shoes that way; 
 
 Very ! Very ! Very ! 
 
 36 
 
PUNKINHEADS 
 
 I BETCHA I'm got Uncles home 
 
 'At's badder ones 'an yours, 
 My Muvver say she ist don't know 
 
 How my poor soul endures. 
 Uspecially on Hallowe'ens 
 
 I stand an* hold my breath, 
 'Cause nen my Uncles alius come 
 
 An' skeer me half to death. 
 But what I think most worst of all 
 
 An' makes me mad all through 
 Is when they make a punkinhead, 
 
 Nen says it looks like you. 
 
 They stand me up right by its side, 
 Nen says : "Now ain't 'at rich ?- 
 
 We've got two punkinfaces here 
 An' can't tell which is which!" 
 
 37 
 
PUNKINHEADS 
 
 Oh, they ist laugh an' holler, too, 
 
 An' say they'll try an' see 
 If they can cut another face 
 
 'At don't resemble me. 
 But when they cut anotlier one 
 
 My Muvver's bruvver Jim 
 He say : **Now ain't it Ist too bad ? — 
 
 This here one flatters him I" 
 
 Nen Uncle Curt he scratch his head 
 
 An' say to us he guessed 
 Th* way to tell a punkinhead 
 
 Was make a bumpin' test. 
 Next thing he bumps my head an' nen 
 
 He bumps th' punkin's, too, 
 An' say: "Well, ain't 'at terrible? — 
 
 Th' punkinhead is you !" 
 But 'fore I git a chanst to cry 
 
 They hug me in between 
 An' make me laugh an' holler till 
 
 I'm glad it's Hallowe'en! 
 
 38 
 
THE BOOKWORM 
 
 Dear little baby bookworm, deep in your storied 
 
 thrill; 
 How is my old friend Jack to-day, and did he 
 
 marry Jill? 
 Come now, let's have the gossip; give me some 
 
 news that cheers, 
 Tell me of dear old friends of mine I haven't 
 
 seen for years. 
 
 Tell me of Tom, the Piper's Son — the one who 
 
 stole the pig — 
 You say he's just the same to-day and never did 
 
 grow big? 
 !A!nd — yes, of course — Red Riding Hood! Has 
 
 she a red hood still? 
 Did Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater ever get his fill ? 
 
 39 
 
THE BOOKWORM 
 
 And then — let's see — the two old Spratts who 
 
 never quarreled at meat — 
 I wonder if, as things now are, they get enough 
 
 to eat? 
 Has Mother Hubbard's poor old dog yet found 
 
 a friendly bone? 
 Is Little Jack Homer still in the corner eating 
 
 his pie alone? 
 
 There's Old King Cole and — yes, oh yes! — 
 
 The Woman Who Lived in a Shoe ; 
 Her children now must be grown up and have big 
 
 families, too! 
 Tell me of all our good old friends — I'll thank 
 
 you if you will — 
 I'm in my second childhood now and need a 
 
 second thrill! 
 
 5J.O 
 
AT GRANNY'S HOUSE 
 
 At granny's house things somehow seem 
 Like they ain't real — all just a dream 
 Of days when Granny used to be 
 'Bout big as half as big as me. 
 
 We like to sit in Granny's door 
 An' hear what she calls "days of yore," 
 Which Granny says was 'way back there 
 When sense was sense an' men was square. 
 
 Why, Granny says, one man back then, 
 If he was here, would be worth ten. 
 An' she says wimmen, too, could work 
 As hard as some now sit an' shirk. 
 
 She says to-day things don't endure; 
 Why, just look at th' furniture ! 
 You ain't got rockers more'n a week 
 Till the}r break down er start to squeak. 
 
AT GRANNY S HOUSE 
 
 Them days when folks got wed it stuck—* 
 Judge didn't care who had bad luck. 
 An' Granny says th' wimmens then 
 Got out o' bed 'fore half pas' ten. 
 
 Oh, Granny's mad th' way things is — 
 Girls ought to git th' rheumatiz ! 
 An' she can't stand th' way that they 
 Wear Sunday dresses every day ! 
 
 An' sausage now is all a sin 
 
 Th' way it's got th' cornmeal in ; 
 
 Afi' folks back then cooked fer theirselves 
 
 An' don't git meab from grocery shelves. 
 
 Oh gee, but Granny's mad th' way 
 This world's turned out to be to-day. 
 Still, what I can't git through my head 
 Is why such good folks all is dead ! 
 
 42 
 
THE STREET SCALE 
 
 I AM The Street Scale — free to all ! — 
 The thin, the thick, the great, the small; 
 The meek, the bold, the grave, the gay — 
 I tell them all how much they weigh. 
 
 Yet, when I tell them, it's a fright 
 
 The way they bawl : "Them scales ain't right !" 
 
 I'm either *'over" or "below" — 
 
 But always wrong they all well know. 
 
 Miss Thin comes up and waits to be 
 A confidante, alone with me. 
 But I can't cheat — my hand goes 'round 
 And, heaven's sake! — she's lost a pound! 
 
 Then Mrs. Thick comes slyly up, 
 Takes off her furs and powders up. 
 She tries me out — ^my hand goes 'round 
 And, heaven's sake! — she's gained a pound! 
 
 43 
 
THE STREET SCALE 
 
 Miss Thin declares it isn't true 
 That starches put a pound on you; 
 Says Mrs. Thick, the pyramid: 
 "That's what that blamed potato did I" 
 
 Yet, to their friends, I hear them say : 
 "Oh, I don't care how much I weigh. 
 It makes me tired how some folks stew 
 About their weight the way they do.'* 
 
 No, they don't care — but off they'll trot 
 And try a penny-in-the-slot ; 
 They hope, somehow, the pay machine 
 Will lean the fat or fat the lean I 
 
 44 
 
THE CREEK THAT RUNS THROUGH 
 
 TOWN 
 
 Of all the things that Nature does, 
 
 In rambhng up and down, 
 The oddest trait of all, I think. 
 
 Is bringing creeks to town. 
 A creek is of the country born, 
 
 By birthright fair and free. 
 And why it wants to come to town 
 
 Has always puzzled me. 
 
 But oftentimes we see one flow, 
 
 In dark and sullen tide. 
 Where beauty long has been forgot 
 
 And ugly things abide ; 
 Where discards of the store and shop, 
 
 Of house and crowded inn. 
 Make what was once a pebbled way 
 
 A trough of battered tin. 
 
 45 
 
THE CREEK THAT RUNS THROUGH TOWN 
 
 Here lies a useless, broken stove; 
 
 There drifts a baby's shoe; 
 Beneath the bridge a washboard's wreck, 
 
 A cast-off tub or two. 
 The water lolls by empty cans, 
 
 Plays tag along the shore 
 With broken bottles, broken toys, 
 
 And derelicts galore. 
 
 I sometimes think a city creek 
 
 Of country birth pretends 
 To do these ugly, common things 
 
 For other happy ends. 
 In fact I think they come to town 
 
 In sweet and friendly quest 
 For those of us who might be lured 
 
 To where they're loveliest ! 
 
 46 
 
THE BARNYARD BAND 
 
 Fm got a Barnyard Band 'at plays 
 
 As good as reg'lar bands. 
 An' it can play all differnt ways 
 
 'Thout neither horns rier hands. 
 
 It's out in Gramma's chicken yard. 
 You know where Gramma's is; 
 
 'At's where we go when Pa's worked hard 
 Or got his rheumatiz. 
 
 Well, Gramma she's got chickens there, 
 
 An' geese an' guinea hens. 
 An' ducks an' turkeys ever' where. 
 
 An' pigs inside th' pens. 
 
 An' when ain't nothin' else to do. 
 Like eat an' things like that, 
 
 Nen's when I like to go down to 
 Where Gramma's poultry's at. 
 
 A7 
 
THE BARNYARD BAND 
 
 I always take some jam an' bread 
 
 Like it's all ist fer me, 
 Nen if them poultry s ain't been fed — 
 
 Well, you ist ought to seel 
 
 'At's when th' Band begins to play, 
 An' when I throw 'em crumbs, 
 
 They play their horns ist ever' way — 
 Woodpecker he's th' drums I 
 
 Pigs they're th' big bass horn, you bet, 
 An' roosters, when they crow 
 
 Are ever' one a clarinet, 
 Th' guineas — piccolo. 
 
 An' Gramma says she knows th' tune 
 My Band ist all time play ; 
 
 She says 'at morning, night an' noon 
 It's always "Perfect Day!" 
 
 ^ 
 
CLOUD-CHILDREN 
 
 I THINK of clouds as children of the sky ; 
 They have their moods as children do — they cry, 
 They laugh, they romp, they roll and toss about — 
 One moment beautiful, then changing, sulk and 
 pout. 
 
 Sometimes, at morning, they come trooping in 
 Like children do — to beg that play begin ! 
 Their fleecy garments, worn in care-free way, 
 Show well their mood to have a holiday. 
 
 They dance along the morning's open sky, 
 Play hide-and-seek with comrades passing by ; 
 The friendly sun comes up to find them there. 
 And, beaming, makes their playground doubly 
 fair. 
 
 49 
 
CLOUD- CHILDREN 
 
 Yes, Clouds have moods as children do — from joy 
 They fly in reckless tantrum and destroy 
 Things that to them no simple harm has done — 
 The widow's house, or her last hope — her son! 
 
 I like the dreamy sunset clouds the best. 
 When they, day-weary, anchor in the west. 
 I think of them as something soft and warm. 
 Unskilled in all the banditry of storm. 
 
 And then, sometimes, the white clouds are a nook 
 The angels slip down into, just to look 
 Down in our hearts at closer range — a quest 
 To see which child of us is happiest ! 
 
 SO 
 
NEIGHBORS 
 
 A RICKETY Rocking-chair swayed to and fro 
 
 In front of a Second-hand Store ; 
 You could tell it was sad, for it wearily sighed : 
 
 "This I never have done before. 
 I once was a dweller in Well-to-do Street, 
 
 But when I grew wabbly and old 
 They put me out back of the kitchen and then — 
 
 Ah, then I was bartered and sold." 
 
 "I thought I knew you/' the Baby's Chair said. 
 
 "You once were a neighbor of mine. 
 My babies grew up and — well, you understand — 
 
 What else could I do but resign?" 
 The Kitchen Stove laughed as old Pitcher and 
 Bowl 
 
 Exclaimed : "We're the victimg of Fate — 
 We, too, were discarded by neighbors of yours ; 
 
 Antiques that are called out of date !" 
 
 51 
 
NEIGHBORS 
 
 An old-fashioned Bedstead, with Bureau to 
 match, 
 
 Near fractured its last able slat 
 In telling how all their relations had gone 
 
 To live in a Pullmanized flat. 
 The discards were cheering each other with jest 
 
 When, like a joy-beam from the sky, 
 A happy old darky came shambling along 
 
 To barter a while and to buy. 
 
 "Ah's done'n got married ag'in," he explained. 
 
 "Ah needs all dis stuff heah yo' got." 
 And so, in a jiffy, the bargain was made — 
 
 The discards were bought in a lot. 
 "It's wonderful luck!" old Rocking-chair cried. 
 
 "It's wonderful luck we are in ; 
 We ought to be happy the rest of our days — 
 
 We're now more than neighbors — we're 
 kin!" 
 
 S2 
 
TANTALIZIN' DAYS 
 
 Heah come dem Tantalizin' Days, 
 Wif half-time sun an' half-time haze, 
 De kind dat wraps yo' in a maze 
 
 Ob Springtime dreams. 
 Yo' sit outside an' soak up sun 
 An' tell yo'se'f ole Wintah's done — • 
 Dog-gone! Yo' fool thoughts even run 
 
 To catfish streams. 
 
 Yo' go to bed at night an' pray 
 
 De sun to-mor' shine lak to-day, 
 
 But w'en yo' wake — out dah dey lay — 
 
 Ole snow an' sleet! 
 Folks, 'tain' no use to growl an' pout, 
 De good Lawd knows whut He's about — 
 Des grab whut sunshine He gibs out 
 
 An' call it sweet! 
 
 53 
 
THE PATIENT FRIEND 
 
 We speak of patience as a worthy trait, 
 So few of us have calm to watch and wait ; 
 Instead with restless eye we scan the street 
 For some belated friend we'd come to meet. 
 
 We wander up and down, declaring then 
 That never would we watch and wait again. 
 Impatience ! How it serves unhappy ends 
 To make tornado centers of our friends ! 
 
 I feel a pity for myself to see 
 A dog out watching, waiting — patiently ! 
 Sweet hope, and not rebuke, is in his eye 
 As closely he reviews each passer-by. 
 
 The hours that pass are but a simple crumb 
 Compared with that sweet morsel yet to come; 
 That stroke of head, that moment he'll extend 
 His paw to welcome you — his dearest friend ! 
 
 54 
 
THE PATIENT FRIEND 
 
 That wagging tail — increasing in its beat 
 As feet familiar echo to him from the street; 
 Those beaming eyes that, somehow, seem to say 
 The wait was long — but one smile is his pay ! 
 
 And how the ardor of the greeting grows 
 
 As through the door, up-stairs and down^ he 
 
 goes, 
 That shaggy head, caressing hand and knee 
 To show how glad a happy dog can be. 
 
 We speak of patience as a worthy trait, 
 So few of us have calm to watch and wait. 
 But I believe that on The Other Shore 
 Our dogs will be there — watching at the door! 
 
 55 
 
HAVE YOU BEEN TO SEE "OCTOBER"? 
 
 Have you been to see "October" ? 
 
 Autumn's hue-gigantic show. 
 With its carnival of color 
 
 And its galaxy of glow? 
 Not a stage in all creation 
 
 Has an arch with nobler spans; 
 Where is there a sweeter chorus? 
 
 Where such cute comedians? 
 
 You don't have to wait for ushers 
 
 To escort you down the aisle; 
 There's no war tax or admission — 
 
 All you have to do is smile ! 
 And the orchestra is waiting 
 
 For the audience to come; 
 In the woods the nuts are falling 
 
 Till they rattle like a drum. 
 
 56 
 
HAVE YOU BEEN TO SEE OCTOBER ? 
 
 Corn shocks make the stately chorus, 
 
 And they sing with all their might 
 When the wind goes whistling through them 
 
 Like a ballet dancer's flight. 
 As comedians the pumpkins 
 
 Are without a peer, you'll say. 
 For they loll there, fat and giggly, 
 
 Like a clown on circus day. 
 
 It's a great show, is "October," 
 
 One all humankind should see; 
 So, come on! Let's seek the country 1 
 
 Be a gallery god with me ! 
 On a friendly fence or gate post 
 
 We will revel in its glow. 
 And be glad God made "October" 
 
 Such a joy-abundant show! 
 
 57 
 
fTHE WAYFARER'S VALENTINE 
 
 The wayfarer longed for an old valentine, 
 One blessed with a sentiment memory-divine. 
 But where would he find it? Somewhere there 
 
 must be 
 A friend with a thought for such roamers as he. 
 
 He journeyed along and soon came to a stop 
 In front of the door of a florist's gay shop. 
 He looked in the window, the wayfarer's shrine, 
 l\nd there he beheld it — his dream valentine ! 
 
 A vase filled with flowers of varying hue 
 Made Memory pass in a fragrant review. 
 He saw in the roses and violets gay 
 A girl of the past — of St. Valentine's Day ! 
 
 58 
 
THE WAYFARER S VALENTINE 
 
 It brought him a vision of Youth's golden hours 
 When he had made Love tell its story with 
 
 flowers ; 
 When some simple posy had gone on its way 
 To tell her the things that his tongue couldn't say. 
 
 The Wayfarer wondered just where she had gone, 
 The years had been many since Love's happy 
 
 dawn. 
 So he said to himself, as he sauntered away. 
 He would send her a rose-thought on Valentine's 
 
 Day! 
 
 59 
 
THE DESERTED INN 
 
 To ME a graveyard seems a quiet Inn, 
 
 If name it bore 'twould be "The Travelers' 
 Rest"; 
 
 Each stone I liken to the register, 
 
 Each grave the room of some abiding guest. 
 
 To-day, v^here once an Inn of many beds 
 
 Gave sweet repose to all who entered there, 
 
 I found the register — but broken stones 
 
 In careless piles — the rooms deserted^ bare! 
 
 I walked among the stones and read the names, 
 All once familiar in the ways of life; 
 
 The Tapster, Tinker, Tanner, Poet, Judge — 
 Each with his suite for progeny and wife. 
 
 60 
 
THE DESERTED INN 
 
 But whither have these peaceful dwellers gone? 
 
 The registers no longer mark their rooms, 
 For here the stones, in ugly, shattered mass, 
 
 Lie far removed from once tear-hallowed 
 tombs. 
 
 Here Commerce, like some bold, intruding 
 knave. 
 Has wrecked the Inn and left the record 
 bare; 
 Its grassy carpets, once the keeper's pride, 
 Give heedless feet a daily thoroughfare. 
 
 Carved on the stones are sentiments of love, 
 
 One — ''Gone, but not forgotten" — seemed to 
 be 
 
 A cry as from some restless spirit host 
 To hold their Inn in sweeter sanctity. 
 
 And so I wonder what their fate will be 
 
 When this old world from its long labor 
 rests ; 
 How, when the hour of life's Glad Morning 
 comes. 
 Shall the Archangel find his sleeping guests ? 
 6j 
 
IN MEMORY'S GARDEN 
 
 When Mother walks among the trees 
 And in her garden, blossom-fair, 
 
 I fancy, somehow, that she sees 
 
 More than mere flowers blooming there. 
 
 Her dear old eyes take on a gloiv^ 
 
 And on her face a smile-beam plays 
 
 As through her heart there seems to flow 
 Fond memories of other days. 
 
 The Johnny-jump-ups are to her 
 
 Old friends she knew in girlhood years, 
 As half-forgotten things recur 
 
 In blended bursts of smiles and tears. 
 
 Each Johnny's face, somehow, recalls 
 Another face she used to know 
 
 In playground haunts, in schoolroom halls, 
 Or where the daisies used to grow. 
 62 
 
IN memory's garden 
 
 The tulips all are little tots 
 
 Parading 'round in Sunday dress ; 
 Far prouder than forget-me-nots, 
 
 Which boast unrivaled loveliness. 
 
 The humble dandelion, too. 
 
 Is some towheaded neighbor boy; 
 The violets sweet girls in blue 
 
 Who made her play-days days of joy. 
 
 She touches each fair flower there. 
 Enshrines it as a holy thing; 
 
 She feels the warm breeze in her hair 
 And thanks God for another Spring I 
 
 63 
 
LITTLE GRAY CHURCH IN THE CIRCLE 
 
 An Easter Thought of Christ Church 
 
 Flanked by the walls that men have made 
 To meet the needs of men and trade, 
 You seem, in calm, sweet voice, to say : 
 "Come unto me! Come, rest and pray!" 
 
 Little Gray Church in the Circle. 
 For saint and sinner, churl and cad; 
 For young and old, the gay, the sad, 
 Your chiming bells, by day, by night, 
 Ring out the prayer, "Lead, Kindly Light!" 
 
 Little Gray Church in the Circle. 
 
 Though some may think all creeds are vain, 
 Doubt even God when racked with pain; 
 Your friendly portals breathe of peace 
 That makes all doubting quickly cease — 
 Little Gray Church in the Circle. 
 64 
 
LITTLE GRAY CHURCH IN THE CIRCLE 
 
 Your slender spire points to the sky 
 And thrills the vagrant passer-by. 
 It makes him feel a presence sweet 
 To cross your shadow in the street — 
 Little Gray Church in the Circle. 
 
 And now, when dawns the Eastertide, 
 Somehow you seem more glorified! 
 The green grass growing at your door 
 Proclaims the Springtime here once more- 
 Little Gray Church in the Circle. 
 The vines that trail your walls — reborn — 
 Are symbols of the Easter morn ; 
 For He who slept awakened, too, 
 That old things might be changed to new- 
 Little Gray Church m the Circle. 
 
 6s 
 
THE FUNNY CAKES THE BAKER MAKES 
 
 The funny Cakes the Baker Makes 
 
 Are queer as they can be; 
 There's Circus Days an' Hallowe'ens 
 
 An' Christmases all three! 
 
 There's cakes for every holiday, 
 
 The Easter rabbit's one; 
 A hatchet, too, has been all baked 
 
 For old George Washington. 
 
 The Baker he makes A B C's, 
 
 Which I don't like so well, 
 'Cause grown-up peoples give you words 
 
 They don't know how to spell. 
 
 My fav'rite cakes Is animals, 
 
 Like elephants an' bears, 
 Or cows an' sheeps an' guinea pigs 
 
 You see at county fairs. 
 66 
 
THE FUNNY CAKES THE BAKER MAKES 
 
 'Course animals is funniest 
 
 Of all the cakes 'at's made ; 
 
 You think it's truly Circus Day\ 
 When they go on parade. 
 
 Sometimes I play it's raining, too. 
 An' all the world is dark; 
 
 Nen put 'em in our chiffonier 
 Like it was Noah's Ark. 
 
 The Funny Cakes the Baker Makes 
 
 Git me to laughing so 
 My Mother says some day I'll bu'st 
 
 An' then turn into dougR 
 
 I wouldn't mind if I could be 
 A Baker's Cake — an' yet 
 
 Some bad kid might git hold o' me, 
 Nen — gosh! — I might git e'tl 
 
 67 
 
EMPTY JUG 
 
 Ever pack water fer thrashermen ? Say, 
 Don't pick that job fer no glad holiday ! 
 Thrashers could drink a whole ocean, I bet, 
 Then swear their whistles ain't even been wet. 
 
 You give a thrasher a full jug, an' then 
 All there's to do is go fill it again. 
 Once he can pucker his lips at th' hole. 
 He'll fill his pockets, his body an' soul. 
 
 Furder you git from th' well's coolin' brink 
 Seems like th' deeper them thrashermen drink. 
 Then they start hollerin' ; "Boy ! Water boy ! 
 Where you git water at? West Illinoy?" 
 
 Start in at daylight an' you never quit 
 Till it's clean dinner-time — then as you sit 
 Eatin' an' weary th' thrashermen say: 
 "Where has that water boy been at all day?" 
 
EMPTY JUG 
 
 Seems like th' afternoon never will end, 
 Back gits so tired that it hardly won't bend, 
 Still they keep hollerin': **Jumpin' gee whiz! 
 Where you suppose old man Empty Jug is ?'* 
 
 Say, ril bet Noah, with all of his flood. 
 Never could keep his feet out o' th' mud 
 If he was a water boy, tryin' in vain 
 To water a thrasher with forty days' rain! 
 
 69 
 
EVE ETERNAL! 
 
 Sweet eve eternal! Wondrous night! 
 Aglow with songs and candle-light; 
 Aglow with dreams and mystic spells 
 Of Santa Claus and Christmas bells! 
 
 Oh, let my dreams of Youth run free! 
 Glad Christmas Eves, come back to me! 
 Change me to child ! Let me once more 
 Go nightie-clad to Dreamland's door. 
 
 It can not be ! So, Yule-beguiled, 
 1*11 wish joy to some other child. 
 My thoughts will follow up the stairs, 
 Some baby, to its Christmas prayers. 
 
 Its prayers will be for everything — 
 Far more than Santa Claus could bring; 
 But what are prayers if they, must be 
 Of limit in gratuity? 
 
 TO 
 
EVE ETERNAL' 
 
 Make Santa*s Christmas pack so great 
 He'll fairly groan beneath the weight. 
 'Twill do no harm — so have no fear — 
 He only works one night a year! 
 
 May every prayer that's breathed to-night 
 Be answered ere the dawn of light. 
 May every heart, however sad, 
 Find stockings filled with Loads of Glad! 
 
 71 
 
THE FREE SHOW 
 
 They is folks that git enjoyment 
 
 Out of underground employment, 
 An' they's some that like explorin' in th' sky, 
 
 But th' fellers, I'm confessin', 
 
 I can't measure as a blessin' 
 Is th' window demonstrators for th' folks 
 a-passin' by. 
 
 Yes, I know I like to see 'em. 
 But I wouldn't like to be 'em, 
 Showin' how to sew on buttons, 'thout needle or 
 a thread. 
 They just stand there, meek as Moses, 
 Goin' through their silent poses 
 With some new electric door-knob or tonic for 
 your head. 
 
 72 
 
THE FREE SHOW 
 
 Folks, somehow, I keep on wishin', 
 For th' old free exhibition 
 Like they used to have on Saturdays around th* 
 public square. 
 What I want's th' old Professor, 
 Diamond-decked an' dandy dresser, 
 With his liniment an' music an' dancin', prancin' 
 pair. 
 
 I can smell his torch a-bumin', 
 I can see th' crowd a-churnin', 
 While he raked in easy dollars — a basketful or 
 more! 
 I can hear th' banjoes ringin', 
 I can hear his minstrels singin' 
 'Bout Nelly Gray departin' from th' old Kentucky 
 shore. 
 
 Yes, I know th' demonstrator 
 Gives a show that's up-to-dater. 
 But he sends no music waftin' across th' evenin* 
 air. 
 
 71 
 
THE FREE SHOW 
 
 What I want's th' old Professor, 
 Diamond-decked and dandy dresser, 
 With his liniment an* music an' dancing prancin* 
 pair. 
 
 X 
 
 74 
 
IF EVERYTHING WENT JUST SO 
 
 If everything went just so ! Ah, me, 
 What a wonder-world this world would be; 
 Nothing to do but grin and agree — 
 
 If everything went just so. 
 No use for lawyers or scrolls of law. 
 No court-house stairway to climb in awe; 
 No one would care what we heard or saw — 
 
 If everything went just so. 
 
 Taxes would never be hard to pay, 
 First-of-the-month would be just a day; 
 Debts would be luxuries laughed away — 
 
 If everything went just so. 
 Chickens would never scratch neighbors' yards, 
 Children of neighbors would all be pards ; 
 No one would lose at Life's game of cards — 
 
 If everything went just so. 
 75 
 
IF EVERYTHING WENT JUST SO 
 
 Have family dinners and all be there, 
 Each bring a smile and have smiles to spare ; 
 Start with a songf and close with a prayer — 
 
 If everything went just so. 
 Clothes-lines would never have falling props, 
 Windows would never be smashed by tops; 
 Nobody ever would call the cops — 
 
 If everything went just so. 
 
 Doctors and nurses we would' not need, 
 "Say it with flowers" would be our creed; 
 We'd step on the gas and all show speed — 
 
 If everything went just so. 
 Never a worry and never a sob, 
 Never an argument, never a mob; 
 But, oh, the folks who'd be out of a job — 
 
 If everything went just sol 
 
 76 
 
A WAYSIDE WORLD 
 
 I CAME upon a little world to-day, 
 A world wherein true happiness held sway; 
 Where Wind and Sun and Morning Dew, a-drip, 
 Bound all about in Summer comradeship. 
 
 A byroad to some Lower Forty led 
 Far from the pike, where mighty motors sped; 
 No sound came forth to break the morning's still, 
 Save one glad lark, rehearsing on a hill. 
 
 Oh, what a world it was, for here I saw 
 No hint of hate, no monitor of law ; 
 No preacher-voice was crying out: "Repent!" 
 It was a world rose-fragrant with content. 
 
 An old rail fence, half sunlit, half in shade. 
 Was mother-knee 'round which wild roses 
 
 played. 
 Ambitious vines, like children at a game, 
 Were rival climbers to the heights of fame. 
 
 77 
 
A <WAYSIDE WORLD 
 
 Toad winked at toad and Mister Lizard's sheen 
 Was hard to scan against the grasses' green. 
 Two rabbits scampered from their brush-abode 
 And played at derby-horse along the road. 
 
 A dog, still limping from the Winter's chase. 
 Jogged down the dust with slow, uncaring pace. 
 His presence gained no welcoming from me; 
 The charm was lost — so was my reverie! 
 
 I knew that now some man or boy must bring 
 My new world to an end — wreck everything! 
 For humankind, somehow, is out of scheme 
 With Nature's joy — an Idler's woodland dream! 
 
 **Nice day !" I heard a passing voice declare. 
 "Nice day !" my own half-muttered to the air. 
 "Nice day !" he piped, unmindful of my scorn. 
 "It's gold for me ! So mighty good for corn !" 
 
 78 
 
THE VANISHED FORUM 
 
 Somehow I can't git anchored 
 
 In th' sea of modern ways: 
 My memory keeps on driftin' 
 
 To'rd th' beach of other days. 
 Now there's th' old post-office — 
 
 Oh, I want it back ag'in 
 With that glad-to-see-ye spirit 
 
 Of th' neighbors droppin' in. 
 
 No one denies it's handy 
 
 Havin' mail right at yer door. 
 But that don't settle questions 
 
 Like we settled 'em before. 
 A mail box at th' crossroads 
 
 Is a blessin', 'thout a doubt, 
 But It can't stand an' argy 
 
 P'ints yer wantin' argied out. 
 
 79 
 
THE VANISHED FORUM 
 
 Th' old post-office lobby 
 
 Was a lively place to be, 
 When some one started somethin' 
 
 An' nobody could agree. 
 There was politics, religion: 
 
 Subjects, too, of world-wide note, 
 An' we'd stand 'bout fifty-fifty 
 
 If they'd put it to a vote. 
 
 Sometimes I git to thinkin', 
 
 With th' old post-office back, 
 Th' boys we send to Congress 
 
 Might git on a clearer track. 
 That old post-office lobby, 
 
 Though they'd put it on the shelf, 
 Struck me, in p'int of wisdom. 
 
 Like a Congress in itself I 
 
 So 
 
BREAKIN' IN 
 
 Of all th' griefs there is, I bet, 
 That fills a guy with sad regret, 
 It's when your folks pack up some day 
 An' take their things an' move away. 
 
 Big folks, somehow, don't seem to mind 
 A-leavin' good old pals behind, 
 'Cause if they did they wouldn't do 
 No movin' ever' week or two. 
 
 Gee, ain't it tough to go an' make 
 New gang friends just fer movin's sake? 
 I don't believe there's nothin' worse 
 Outside o' ridin' in a hearse. 
 
 You don't no more than git moved in 
 Till kids that live near by begin 
 A-snoopin' 'round to slip a bluff 
 An' make you think they're awful tough. 
 
 8i 
 
breakin' in 
 
 "Hello there, Willie!" they ixclaim, 
 But they don't know that ain't your name. 
 An' then they poke at you an' laugh 
 To see if you're a "cowardy calf." 
 
 Next thing they say : "Oh say, gee whiz. 
 That poor guy's got th' rheumatiz. 
 If he ain't dead he's purty near 
 An' we don't want no corpses here.'* 
 
 Well, gee, there's nothin' else to do 
 But haul right off an' bu'st a few, 
 Then you belong — you're tooken in 
 Until your blamed folks move ag'in. 
 
 82 
 
THE LOG OF THE LIMPY LOU 
 
 She^s a four-lung craft 
 
 Jammed for'ud an' aft 
 [With th' junk of a care-free crew, 
 
 An' th' sea she sails 
 
 Is th' far-flung trails 
 An' we calls her th' Limpy Lou. 
 
 Lou wuzn't designed 
 
 Per no folks refined, 
 An' she ain't got no racing fame ; 
 
 Her old tires go flat 
 
 An' she limps from that, 
 But she gits us there just th' same. 
 
 She's pal to us three — 
 
 Wife, Kiddie an' me — 
 An' she don't care how fur we roam; 
 
 Lou seems to surmise 
 
 We're vagabond guys 
 With nothin' but her fer a home. 
 
 83 
 
THE LOG OF THE LIMPY LOU 
 
 Through city an' town, 
 
 Up hill an' then down, 
 We jog on our gypsyin' way; 
 
 Just goin' No-where 
 
 An' when we git there 
 Perhaps we may like it an' stay. 
 
 An', oh, it's a treat 
 
 When time comes to eat, 
 Th' bacon's all crispy an' brown; 
 
 There's beans in th^ pot, 
 
 Th' coffee's all hot — 
 It ain't that sweet flavored in town. 
 
 We tumble, kerplunk. 
 
 In a tree-roofed bunk 
 An' sleep till th' break o' th' dawn, 
 
 Then old Limpy Lou 
 
 Takes on her glad crew. 
 Slips out to th* road — an' we're gone! 
 
 84 
 
LITTLE MISTER FIXER MAN 
 
 Little Mister Fixer Man 
 Fixes everything he can; 
 
 In his overalls of blue 
 
 He goes seeking things to do. 
 
 Hainmers, wrenches, planes and saws- 
 All the tools that are his Pa's^ — * 
 
 Have to put in mighty licks 
 
 When that boy has things to fix. 
 
 Little Mister Fixer Man 
 
 Fills the family frying pan 
 With a lot of screws and nails, 
 
 Then starts in to fill the pails! 
 Oh, it takes a lot of stuff 
 
 Ere The Fixer has enough 
 To repair the woodshed lock 
 
 Or the old Seth Thomas clock. 
 
 «5 
 
LITTLE MISTER FIXER MAN 
 
 Little Mister Fixer Man 
 
 Has his own wage-earning plan; 
 
 When the cookie jar won't pay- 
 He won't do a lick that day! 
 
 But, if it is full, then he 
 
 Labors on most zealously. | 
 
 His pay must be "in advance" — | 
 
 Fixer never takes a chance. 
 
 Little Mister Fixer Man 
 
 Fixes everything he can; 
 Fixes things quite frequently 
 
 Just the way they should not be. 
 Still, who cares to count the cost? 
 
 He's worth more than all that's lost. 
 It's worth all to hear him say : ^ 
 
 "Gee, I'm tired! I've worked to-day!" f. 
 
 86 j 
 
THE TREE NOBODY BOUGHT 
 
 When Christmas, crowned with happiness. 
 
 Goes down its ancient way 
 To anchor in the memory-mists 
 
 Of Sweet-forever Bay, 
 Just one dark thought it leaves behind, 
 
 To me with sadness fraught ; 
 It is that little, lonesome thing — 
 
 The Tree Nobody Bought! 
 
 I don't feel so about a toy, 
 
 A doll, a train or drum; 
 They live for other Christmases — 
 
 The happy ones to come. 
 Not so with this year's Christmas Tree, 
 
 But once it serves the cause 
 Of gladdening sweet babyhood 
 
 And good old Santa Claus. 
 8/ 
 
THE TREE NOBODY BOUGHT 
 
 How doubly tragic is the fate 
 
 Of trees that never know 
 The gladness of a Christmas mom 
 
 With candles all aglow. 
 I speak for those that lie unclaimed 
 
 Along the thoroughfare 
 When Santa Claus has come and gone 
 
 And still they linger there. 
 
 Poor little things! How desolate, 
 
 How friendless they appear; 
 They who had come from distant hills 
 
 To spread their gladness here. 
 Still, I believe that trees have souls 
 
 And in some other clime 
 They'll get to be what they most wished- 
 
 A Christmas Tree — some time! 
 
 88 
 
SAID THE TRAFFIC COP, SMILINGLY 
 
 Yes^ of course, it's all a nuisance, 
 
 Traffic rules are pests, I know; 
 I'd be glad, if I were Captain, 
 
 Just to wink and let you go. 
 But I'm not — I'm just a hireling 
 
 With my weary rounds to trudge. 
 It's all right with me — but, brother — 
 
 Better go and see the Judge. 
 
 How's that, madam? Ain't it awful? 
 
 You just drove your car down-town. 
 Then dropped in to buy a bonnet 
 
 And a simple little gown? 
 In the store just twenty minutes? 
 
 Ain't time awful in its flight? 
 See the Judge to-morrow morning; 
 
 Nice young fellow — he's all right. 
 
 89 
 
SAID THE TRAFFIC COP, SMILINGLY 
 
 Oh, your watch stopped? Ain't that madd'ning ? 
 
 Mine stopped, too, the other day, 
 Nearly made me late to roll call ; 
 
 Guess I'll give the thing away. 
 Tell the Judge just how it happened ; 
 
 Judge is nice — he'll understand. 
 Tell him you were three hours over — 
 
 Blame it on the minute hand. 
 
 Wife forgot to telephone you 
 
 Where she'd parked the car? — well, say, 
 Ain't that like forgetful women? 
 
 Don't they do things just that way? 
 Well, let's see, how can we fix it ? 
 
 Say, I'll tell you what to do — 
 See the Judge to-morrow morning; 
 
 He won't do a thing to you. 
 
 9Q 
 
THE LITTLE THING CALLED "GOOD 
 MORNING" 
 
 It lives in a cheer-niche somewhere in The Soul, 
 Just give it a start, then away it will roll, 
 And all it will take is a smile for its toll — 
 
 The little thing called "Good Morning!" 
 There's something about it of magical skill, 
 It goes to the mine pit and up to the mill ; 
 Gives dimples to Mary and chuckles to Bill — 
 
 The little thing called "Good Morning!" 
 
 Of course there are places, I'm sorry to say. 
 Where that merry minstrel has never held sway; 
 The whistle just blows, then they start on the day 
 
 And nobody says : "Good Morning !" 
 Like slaves in the galleys they take up the grind, 
 Pass elbow to elbow as though they were blind ; 
 Leave love in the lockers and call life unkind — • 
 
 Where nobody says: "Good Morning!" 
 
 or 
 
THE LITTLE THING CALLED '"''gOOD MORNING'' 
 
 But oh, there are places I joy to go in ! 
 
 Where little "Good Morning!'* arrives with a 
 
 grin 
 And makes all the toilers of workaday kin — 
 
 The shop where they say : "Good Morning !" 
 Fve known it to win the most arrogant boss. 
 Bring joy to a job long condemned as a cross; 
 Oil all the machinery, make profit of loss — 
 
 That little soul-song: "Good Morning!" 
 
 92 
 
THE KITCHEN PUMP 
 
 'Course city fellers gits to have a lot o' things 
 
 to eat, 
 Like lickrish drops an' sody pops an' mutton 
 
 chops fer meat. 
 But I've got somethin' here at home — out where 
 
 th' country is — 
 That beats their 'ristocratic stuff an' ornamental 
 
 fizz. 
 It's water — just pure water — but it's mighty 
 
 plain to see 
 There ain't no better pardners than th' kitchen 
 
 pump an' me. 
 We love each other dearer than a lot of kinfolks 
 
 do, 
 Which you can't grasp or understand — our pump 
 
 ain't kin to you! 
 
 93 
 
THE KITCHEN PUMP 
 
 It stands 'long side th' kitchen where th' shadows 
 
 loll around 
 To keep th' old pump company an' cool th' 
 
 fevered ground. 
 An' when I've been a-playin' hard an' want to stop 
 
 an* rest, 
 Then's when I love th' water from th' kitchen 
 
 pump th' best. 
 It seems to feel in duty bound, when I'm all tired 
 
 an' hot. 
 To reach clear to th' bottom fer th' coolest drink 
 
 it's got. 
 An' that's what I call pardnership — th' old pump 
 
 seems to grin 
 Each time I empty out th' cup an' fill it up ag'in. 
 
 An' lots o' times when we're alone — if no one's 
 
 here that day — 
 Th* kitchen pump an' me has games we both two 
 
 like to play. 
 We *tend th' pump's a fountain where they's sody 
 
 water at. 
 With mead an' sassfarilla an' a lot of things like 
 
 that 
 
 94 
 
THE KITCHEN PUMP 
 
 Then I make 'maginations like I'm rich as rich 
 
 can be 
 An' order drinks till I can't hold no more inside 
 
 of me. 
 'Course I can make the old pump give just what 
 
 I want it to, 
 But 1 say: ''Gimme shoc'late!" — just like city 
 
 tellers do! 
 
 95 
 
A MIGRANT MELODY 
 
 There came from an alley and into the street 
 The haunting" refrain of a melody sweet; 
 
 A whistling street-urchin had carried it down 
 
 From his gallery throne to a turbulent town. 
 The song had a thrill in its every note ; 
 It sweetened the lips and it gladdened the throat ; 
 
 It danced on its way from the happy boy's 
 heart 
 
 To Sicily Joe of the strawberry-cart. 
 Joe gathered it up with a welcoming zeal 
 And shared it with Tim at the taxicab's wheel ; 
 
 Tim carried it on till he came to a stop, 
 
 Then whistled the tune for a boulevard cop. 
 The boulevard cop found the turnkey alone 
 And sang him the melody over the phone ; 
 
 The turnkey, good fellow, in whose heart 
 yet dwells 
 
 God's pity, soon sent it down into the cells. 
 
 96 
 
A MIGRANT MELODY 
 
 The prisoners took cheer in the melody sweet 
 And out through the bars it went back to the 
 street ; 
 The boy who had first sent the song on its 
 
 way 
 Said : "Funny, that's twice I have heard that 
 to-day I" 
 And so, while the song again played on his lips, 
 He met some seafaring men bound for their 
 ships; 
 He gave it to them, and they carried it on — > 
 Well, nobody knows just how far it has 
 gone! 
 Which all goes to prove that when God would 
 
 spread joy, 
 He finds He can always depend on a boy! 
 
 97 
 
THE GLORIOUS FIRST 
 
 I HEARD a new voice in the street to-day, 
 One I never had heard before; 
 
 It came to me, shrill as a piper's note, 
 Then died in the traffic's roar. 
 
 'Twas the voice of a boy — a voice new-bom 
 To the rush and din of the world ; 
 
 He was taking his place, with shrinking heart. 
 Where the banner of Gain's unfurled. 
 
 He snugged up close to the alley wall. 
 
 As a child to its mother clings; 
 He made me think of a bird gone forth 
 
 On the first free test of its wings. 
 
 I saw him enter the crowded street, 
 
 Then halt — and I know that I smiled 
 
 As he opened his mouth and out of it came 
 A cry, terrorizingly wild. 
 
 98 
 
THE GLORIOUS FIRST 
 
 It Startled him more than any who heard, 
 
 I paused to encourage the tot. 
 "That's right — go to it, old boy!" I said. 
 
 "Give them all of the yell youVe got !" 
 
 His boy face gladdened as pennies I held 
 Were garnered with uttermost glee. 
 
 He shouted again — and again! — and again! 
 He had sold his first paper, you see. 
 
 And oh, what a moment that is to a boy ! 
 
 It ends all his fears and regrets ; 
 Though ten million papers were sold — in his heart 
 
 That first one he never forgets! 
 
 99 
 
SECOND-HAND HOSSES 
 
 You merchants with your motors. 
 Your swell, upholstered toters 
 
 Of human bein's lookin' for a thrill ; 
 Don't laugh at us, you fellers, 
 You second-hand car sellers — 
 
 Old Traders' Alley's doin' business still. 
 While you're bewailin' losses 
 We're still a-swappin' bosses — 
 
 Yes, call 'em second-handed if you will. 
 
 Our nags don't never tarnish, 
 
 Fall down an' scratch their varnish — . 
 
 They may fall down, but they git up ag'inL 
 We don't stand 'round an' twaddle 
 Of wheel-base, tires or model — 
 
 Th' way you fellers thrill 'em is a sin. 
 We just look at their molars, 
 See if they're easy strollers — 
 
 If they can walk — then may th' best man win ! 
 
 lOO 
 
SECOND-HAND HOSSES 
 
 Bill says: *'How much you gimme?'* 
 
 I say, "Now don't you trim me!'* 
 We laugh an' swap an' swear each other's stung. 
 
 Th' nag may be a blower, 
 
 A kicker or a thrower, 
 Have half of one per cent, of one good lung. 
 
 Still, class can't be demanded 
 
 Of bosses second-handed — 
 A ringer ain't a ringer till it's rung! 
 
 A little oats or clover 
 
 May make a boss all over — 
 No motor-car gits fat on gasoline. 
 
 It's then you make your killin', 
 
 Swap off your Patch or Dillon — 
 Th' guys all wonder where you got th' queen. 
 
 Git two good bosses for her. 
 
 An' then — Oh, holy horror! 
 For boot you git a second-hand machine! 
 
 lOI 
 
THE OLD MAN'S CHRISTMAS SHOP 
 
 Yes, I hear you, Miss Jolly-go-romp, 
 
 Calling to me to come : 
 "Look at the wonderful Jack-in-box 
 
 And oh, what a dandy drum! 
 See all the beautiful Chinese dolls. 
 
 And yonder's a dancing bear! 
 There's nothing like it in all the world; 
 
 There couldn't be — anywhere !" 
 
 Your eyes are bright, Miss Jolly-go-romp ; 
 
 It's thrilling, I can't deny, 
 But you should have seen the Christmas shop 
 
 I knew in the days gone by. 
 'Twas not so large. Miss Jolly-go-romp, 
 
 As the toyshops are to-day, 
 But oh, it was more mys-ter-i-ous. 
 
 The colors were far more gay! 
 
 102 
 
THE OLD MAN S CHRISTMAS SHOP 
 
 And the Toyship Man, Miss Jolly-go-romp, 
 
 What a quizzical way he had; 
 He knew all the children for miles around, 
 
 Could tell all the good from bad. 
 But what was the queerest of all to me 
 
 Was how he could tell, some way. 
 The things you wanted old Santa to bring 
 
 To your house Christmas Day. 
 
 Let's you and I, Miss Jolly-go-romp, 
 
 Play I am the Toyshop Man, 
 While you — well, you're Miss Jolly-go-romp 
 
 With many a secret plan. 
 And the secrets — oh, they mustn't get out!— 
 
 They're sacred as troth could be, 
 But, being the Toyshop Man, of course. 
 
 You whis-s-s-per them all to me! 
 
 103 
 
HYMN-SINGIN' JIM 
 
 Co'sE Ah ain' des ezzackly whut yo'd call de 
 
 shoutin* kin' 
 Dat gits so dog-gone 'ligious Ah completely lose 
 
 ma min'. 
 Huh-iih! Not me I But, folks, Ah know ma 
 
 soul ain' gwine to be 
 In whut de high-tone' preachahs call de clutch ob 
 
 jeopahdy. 
 Ah's got ma own 'uligion an' it's full ob lub fo' 
 
 Him 
 Dat gibs dis worl' sech 'vangelists as ole Hymn- 
 
 slngin' Jim. 
 
 No, Jim ain' ole in age — ^he's young! — but it do 
 
 seem to me 
 De songs he sings hab trabeled down from all 
 
 eternity. 
 
 104 
 
HYMN-SINGIN' JIM 
 
 He des strums up dat ole guitah an', Sunday 
 
 aftahnoon, 
 Gits out dah on de ole back poxh an' ripples up 
 
 a tune. 
 It ain' no giddy ragtime stuff — dey's no sech 
 
 thing in Jim — 
 But dah, in tones as sof as prayer, he croons a 
 
 gospel hymn. 
 
 Fus' come ole "Rock ob Ages" an' Ah see de 
 
 stohm waves toss 
 Dat po' white angel clingin' to de ransom ob de 
 
 Cross. 
 Oh, Ah listen, listen, listen, wif ma haid bowed 
 
 lak to pray. 
 Till ma crowdin' woes an' worries gits afraid an' 
 
 goes away. 
 Den Ah ketch mase'f a-smilin' when ole Jim strak 
 
 up de song : 
 "If Yo's Gwine to Glory, Brothahs, Come an' 
 
 Take Ma Soul Along."' 
 
 105 
 
HYMN-SINGIN' JIM 
 
 Den de good ole "J^sus Lovah" comes a-waftin' 
 
 sof an' low 
 Till Ah *magine Gabr'ers trumpet gittin* ready 
 
 fo' to blow. 
 Let it blow — Ah's ready, brothahs ! — but de trufe 
 
 Ah doan' deny — 
 Dey's got to be good music if dey keep me glad 
 
 on High. 
 Dey*s got to be some singin' by de angel 
 
 seraphim 
 If dey crowd me full o' *ligion same as ole Hymn- 
 
 singin' Jim. 
 
 io6 
 
WHEN TH' FIREMENS COME 
 
 Ain''t nobody ever wuz 
 
 Gits me mad as firemens does; 
 
 When your house is burnin' they 
 
 Act Hke it's a holiday, 
 
 But when some one else's burns, 
 
 'Fore a person hardly turns 
 
 The alarm in — why, they're there 
 
 Squirtin' worter everywhere! 
 
 I know what I'm talkin' 'bout — 
 They once put my own house out! 
 Say, them firemens, seemed to me, 
 Played a game of cards to see 
 If they'd come or if they'd not — 
 When they did 'twuz in a trot! 
 Still, my neighbors — every one — 
 Said they made a purty run. 
 107 
 
WHEN TH' FIREMENS COME 
 
 What got me th^ worst wuz when 
 One went up th' ladder, then 
 Turned around an' said he s'pose 
 He would have to have some hose. 
 Never seemed to care a dern 
 If th' dog-gone house did bum, 
 Still, he got some hose, I guess — 
 Loss wuz small, I must confess. 
 
 On th' other hand I've been 
 Where a fire alarm wuz in 
 An' I wondered, as it were, 
 If 'twould be spectaculer. 
 Then they got there — seemed to me- 
 'Fore a cat could climb a tree. 
 Makes a difference, I've no doubt, 
 Just whose house they're puttin' out 
 
 io8 
 
PUPS AND A BOY 
 
 Some folks likes to go an' see 
 Circus shows — but as fer me 
 Git some pups, then find a boy 
 An' I'll git my share of joy! 
 
 Pups theirselves, when they're alone,- 
 Makes a circus all their own; 
 Then just add a boy — an' gee! 
 They're a whole menagerie I 
 
 Boy he'll kind o' make p'tend 
 He's their only livin' friend; 
 Then, first thing you know, he'll ist 
 Give their tails a little twist. 
 
 Holler! Gosh, but they'll git sore, 
 Then come back to git some more. 
 I've seen pups put up a bluff 
 Like they'd never had enough. 
 109 
 
PUPS AND A BOY 
 
 Boy he'll chase 'em all about 
 Till their tongues is hangin' out ; 
 Ketch 'em where their necks is slack, 
 Then — kerflop ! — they're on their back ! 
 
 Oh, they'll snarl an' fume an' fuss 
 Till you'd swear you heard 'em cuss; 
 Then they'll sneak away an' quit 
 Like they'd got th' worst of it. 
 
 Boy, all tired, thinks he has won. 
 But them pups ain't never done; 
 They just wait to ketch his grin. 
 Then hop up an' start ag'in! 
 
 no 
 
THE GIGGLEBUG 
 
 When Patricia giggles! Goodness, what a mess 
 She can make of discontent and unhappiness! 
 Once we see her baby grin broaden to a smile, 
 Then we know the Gigglebug's coming after 
 while. 
 
 There's no calculating when Gigglebug will 
 
 come — 
 He may lurk behind a crook in her little thumb. 
 But we fancy his abode is the looking-glass 
 Where he lingers every day hoping she will pass. 
 
 All at once the mirror glows with a baby face, 
 One she, somehow, can't recall seeing 'round the 
 
 place. 
 So she ponders anxiously on the face unknown, 
 Till at last it stands revealed as her very own! 
 
 Ill 
 
THE GIGGLEBUG 
 
 Then the giggles start to come! Gone is every 
 
 frown 
 As she perches on a chair, playing circus clown. 
 Then the little minx pretends she's a one-eyed elf 
 Hiding in the looking-glass winking at herself! 
 
 Next she twists her baby face into funny forms, 
 Till the giggles fairly grow into giggle-storms. 
 There's no pausing after that — everything she 
 
 sees 
 Tickles her until she falls, giggling, to her knees. 
 
 Now she rolls upon the floor, kicking heels in air, 
 
 Laughing at the funny things 'round her every- 
 where. 
 
 There's a black spot on her nose — funny as can 
 be!— 
 
 There's a funny bird outside in a funny tree I 
 
 Oh, you funny Gigglebug! What a joy you are, 
 Lurking even in the depths of the cookie jar! 
 Yet, we say, most comical of all the things you do, 
 Is, when Patricia giggles — we get the giggles too I 
 
 112 
 
THE MOODS OF WINTER 
 
 Of all the seasons, Winter seems to me 
 More temperamental than the other three. 
 Fve seen him strike the old a chilling blow, 
 Then turn and paint a heart-alluring glow- 
 On maiden faces — make them seem to be 
 The happy heralds of his artistry. 
 
 But Winter's mood is never half as sweet 
 As when he brings Boy- Worship to his feet. 
 Ah, then it is he lets the grumblers groan, 
 The churls lament, the cynics chill and moan. 
 Old Winter laughs and from the sky o'erhead 
 Brings down white pathways for a waiting sled. 
 
 113 
 
THE MOODS OF WINTER 
 
 I've witnessed Winter spread his snowy sheet 
 Alike in country lane and city street ; 
 I've heard him roar his far-resounding call 
 To Youth to come and glory in it all. 
 Glad Youth ! What joy indeed it is to be 
 Play-comrade to a comrade such as he! 
 
 Sometimes, in fancy, I hear Winter say 
 
 A smiling boy is more than double pay 
 
 For all the adult wailings he must bear 
 
 When pleas for snow rule Boyhood's nightly 
 
 prayer. 
 So, Winter, laugh and from the sky overhead 
 Bring down white pathways for a waiting sled. 
 
 114 
 
DOCTOR GRIN 
 
 Dah he is! Ole Doctoh Grin, 
 Dosin' me wif smiles ag'in! 
 Blamedest thing yo' evah see, 
 Way dat young'un doses me. 
 
 Seem lak he lays traps to ketch 
 Me a-feelin' lak a wretch, 
 Den — black magic! — dah he is, 
 Showin' me dem teeth o' his! 
 
 Ah doan' min', yo' imdahstan'. 
 Alius feelin* good an' gran*, 
 Still, same time, dey's days dat come 
 WHien yo' joys in feelin' glum. 
 
 Yes suh, days of languid mood 
 When yo' craves des solitude; 
 Days yo' wants to hab de blues 
 Till yo's glum clean to yo' shoes. 
 
 115 
 
DOCTOR GRIN 
 
 But, it happens evah time, 
 When Ah's lollin' in de grime, 
 'Long comes Doctoh Grin — an' law 
 Yo' mus' laugh er bus' yo' jaw! 
 
 No, it ain' what ole Doc say 
 Drives de pollywogs away, 
 It's de — dah he is ag'in! 
 Gimme room — Ah's got t' grinl 
 
 ii6 
 
THE PASSING OF THE COMIC 
 
 Times keep changing, changing, changing as the 
 years go rolHng by, 
 
 Some one's always disarranging things we 
 cherished — you and I. 
 
 There's the valentine, for instance — yes, the 
 comic ones of old — 
 
 In the shops they'll smile and tell you : "Com- 
 ics aren't being sold!" 
 
 Yes, they're banished from the counter of the 
 little corner store 
 
 Since they don't have old-maid teachers at the 
 schoolhouse any more. 
 
 You remember, Vay back yonder, in our days of 
 
 Youth and Song, 
 How we waited for Saint Valentine to help us 
 
 right a wrong. 
 117 
 
THE PASSING OF THE COMIC 
 
 Teachers then were old and crusty, tired of hfe 
 
 and all its joy; 
 Two events alone gave pleasure — pay-day and 
 
 an erring boy ! 
 Valentines? Of course they got them! Love 
 
 now settles every score, 
 Since they don't have old-maid teachers at the 
 
 schoolhouse any more. 
 
 You remember, I remember, how the teacher 
 
 looked at us; 
 How each thought he heard her saying: 
 
 ''There's the guilty little cuss!" 
 And you knew, down deep within you, that you 
 
 really, truly were 
 The one who sent the valentine marked "Teacher 
 
 Dear" to her. 
 Pal, to-day you'd send the sender sprawling 
 
 through the open door. 
 Since they don't have old-maid teachers at the 
 
 schoolhouse any more. 
 
 ii8 
 
THE PASSING OF THE COMIC 
 
 Yes, the market's closed to comics — dainty ones 
 
 are all you'll get — 
 It's a sweet distinction, Buddy, to be called the 
 
 teacher's pet. 
 Love abides where once was hatred, smiles long 
 
 since have banished tears. 
 Proving well my declaration that we live in 
 
 changing years. 
 Valentines to-day are bonbons — *roses — violets, 
 
 galore — 
 Since they don't have old-maid teachers at the 
 
 schoolhouse any more. 
 
 119 
 
BLUE SMOKE 
 
 When I am all town-tired and weary. 
 
 All tired hearing people complain, 
 All tired of the rush and the hurry 
 
 That goes with the battle for gain; 
 When I need scenes quiet and restful. 
 
 And Autumn has come with its chill, 
 I pack myself up for consignment 
 
 To Blue Smoke, down under the hill. 
 
 Blue Smoke, let me say, is a cabin 
 
 Where humble folk happily dwell; 
 They haven't great harvests to gather, 
 
 They haven't great harvests to sell. 
 And yet they are blessed with God's plenty — 
 
 Enough! — and a fullness of love 
 That seems to burst forth when the chimney 
 
 Sends blue smoke parading above! 
 
 120 
 
BLUE SMOKE 
 
 I joy just to sit on the hillside 
 
 And banish all city-born woe, 
 As smoke clouds go swirling and curling 
 
 From that little cabin below. 
 I picture a great backlog burning, 
 
 I fancy the sparks, in their joy. 
 Are dancing a jig that is whistled 
 
 Or sung by some glad girl and boy. 
 
 So, when Fm all town-tired and weary, 
 
 All tired hearing people complain; 
 All tired of the rush and the hurry 
 
 That goes with the battle for gain; 
 When I need scenes quiet and restful, 
 
 And Autumn has come with its chill, 
 I pack myself up for consignment 
 
 To Blue Smoke, down under the hill ! 
 
 T2r 
 
AT MONTICELLO DAM 
 
 I'm not th' kind of feller that persistently pursues 
 His friends an* neighbors with a flood of creeds 
 
 an' cults an' views. 
 My scheme of livin's broad enough to let us all 
 
 git in 
 With talk about th' things we've done an' places 
 
 we have been. 
 Of course my range of travel ain't as fur as old 
 
 Siam 
 But, say — I have been fishin' up at Monticello 
 
 dam! 
 
 It's on th' good old Tippecanoe an' let me here 
 
 declare 
 Earth boasts no stream ner ocean any sweeter 
 
 anywhere. 
 
 I2« 
 
AT MONTICELLO DAM 
 
 Seems like it just comes laughin' down from up 
 
 'bove Winamac, 
 Then hits old Monticello dam, jumps up an' 
 
 bounces back. 
 Next thing you know it's rompin* 'round th' edge 
 
 er oozin' through 
 Th' planks so's it can demonstrate its very love 
 
 fer you. 
 
 They's lots of folks, of course, with yachts an' 
 mansions by the sea, 
 
 But they don't know my river an' they've never 
 fished with me. 
 
 They've never had that feelin' of devotion fer a 
 joy 
 
 That kind o' merges manhood with th' day- 
 dreams of a boy. 
 
 It's here at Monticello dam I know th' pure 
 delight 
 
 Of bein' crazy-happy — but th' fish have got to 
 bite. 
 
 123 
 
THE PIPE OF PEACE 
 
 They's times at comes to every kid when he ain*t 
 
 crowned with joy; 
 When he don't care if he's his Ma's or some one 
 
 else's boy. 
 He wouldn't mind if he was dead an' buried 'way 
 
 down deep, 
 Fer then his pain would all be g*one an' he could 
 
 git some sleep. 
 
 Still, there's one time when havin' pain don't 
 
 seem so hard to bear; 
 Like me, when I've got earache an' old Uncle Jim 
 
 is there. 
 Say, he beats all th' doctors you could mention, 
 
 purty near, 
 When he sits down with his old pipe an' blows 
 
 smoke in my ear. 
 124 
 
THE PIPE OF PEACE 
 
 It's all SO mild an' soothin' that your ear will soon 
 
 fergit 
 Th' . sweet oil an' the cotton that your Mother 
 
 stuffed in it. 
 Th' smoke clouds kind o' linger with a breath so 
 
 coolin' hot 
 They seem to ooze right through your ear an' 
 
 — well, just hit th' spot! 
 
 A drowsy feelin' gits you as th' hurt all disap- 
 pears, 
 
 An' somethin' happy — not th' smoke — fills both 
 your eyes with tears. 
 
 Why, if the angels Up Above should git th' ear- 
 ache, too, 
 
 They ought to send fer Uncle Jim — that's what 
 they ought to do! 
 
 125 
 
WHAT THE TOYMAKER THINKS 
 
 I WONDER just what the Toymaker thinks, 
 As he sits by his fire and nods and bHnks 
 At the close of day, when his toil is done 
 And he dreams and rests till another sun. 
 
 I wonder if he, as he sits and rocks, 
 Gives ever a thought to Jack-in-the-box; 
 To drums or horns, or the simplest toy 
 That gave him a thrill when he was a boy. 
 
 All day, in his shop, he has rushed about 
 To get his orders from Santa Claus out. 
 And how well he knew he must get them done 
 Or there would be tears where there should be 
 fun. 
 
 126 
 
WHAT THE TOYMAKER THINKS 
 
 So I always wonder just what he thinks 
 As he sits by his fire and nods and bhnks. 
 Does ever the wish find way to his heart 
 That children would tire of his magic art? 
 
 Just think what a gloomy old w^orld 'twould be 
 If Santa's toymakers should ever agree 
 To leave off their work and scurry away. 
 Or go on a strike for an eight-hour day! 
 
 It just couldn't happen ! It never has yet, 
 So why need we worry and fear and fret? 
 For centuries past each toymaker born 
 Has had a glad part in some Christmas Morn. 
 
 I've even been told they take a great pride 
 In helping old Santa get ready to ride. 
 And what I like best — they tell me they hear 
 The children are all growing *'gooder" each year! 
 
 127 
 
THE "MAKIN'S" 
 
 There's lots o' sly nudgin' an' noddin' 
 
 Broke loose in Our Town, let me say, 
 Since Prohis have made a Sahara 
 
 Of "Kelly's Place— Bar and Cafe." 
 Th' Prohis stand 'round, kind o' grinnin', 
 
 A-boastin' th' good they have done, 
 But they don't know all that's a-happ'nin' — 
 
 They're not havin' all o' th' fun ! 
 
 You see — keep this dark — it's a secret — 
 
 Most ev'ry good feller you meet 
 Knows some one who knows of a feller 
 
 Who has a good "makin's" receipt. 
 For instance. Bun Grubbs told Bill Birdlow 
 
 A drummer he'd met out in Nome 
 Had sent him a formula — whisper! — 
 
 For makin' it right in your home. 
 128 
 
THE '"''maKInV^ 
 
 Yes, sir, he told Bunny th' secret, 
 
 An' Bunny told Bill, don't you see? 
 An' Bill — not one bone in him's selfish — 
 
 Snuck 'round here an' told it to me. 
 There's somethin' you buy at th' drug store 
 
 An' mix it all up in a jar, 
 Then slip in some yeast an' — they tell me 
 
 It's good as you'd buy at a bar. 
 
 No, I ain't done none o' th' brewin'. 
 
 There's nobody tried it as yet; 
 We just have th' word that it's soothin' 
 
 An' makes you forgive an' forget. 
 An' then there's Red Coogan's concoction; 
 
 Red says there's a feller he knows 
 Puts raisins in somethin' an' — Red says — 
 
 It tickles clear down to your toes. 
 
 An' Snipe Turby knows of a method 
 That's easy as watchin' it rain — 
 
 A mixture of com an' sweet cider 
 
 That looks like it might be champagne. 
 
 129 
 
THE '^MAKIN's'^ 
 
 It all sounds seductive — allurin' — 
 
 But deep in my bosom there lurks 
 
 Th' Shadow of Doubt — so I'm vvaitin' 
 Till somebody proves that it works! 
 
 130 
 
THE BELOVED FAT MAN 
 
 That "Nobody loves a fat man" conveys quite 
 a wrong impression ; 
 
 There's one that I know whose jovial glow makes 
 him a world possession. 
 
 He's loved in Alaska, in France, Athabasca; in 
 Panama, Cuba and Rome; 
 
 He has friends in Dakota, New York, Min- 
 nesota — and, oh, what a throng here 
 at home! 
 
 His lovable smile has warmed multiplied hearts 
 in tropical habitations; 
 
 He has tickled papooses in circus cabooses and 
 off in remote reservations. 
 
 He has gone over mountains, through deserts, by 
 fountains and into the deepest dells; 
 
 This most wonderful wizard has battled a bliz- 
 zard to find where one baby dwells. 
 
THE BELOVED FAT MAN 
 
 His musical name is as tunefully sweet as any- 
 thing operatic; 
 
 The chime of his bells in their rhythmical swells 
 is truly a joy ecstatic. 
 
 He goes singing his way from dark until day — 
 perhaps that is why he is fat ! 
 
 For a man with a song stays sturdy and strong — 
 have you ever yet pondered that ? 
 
 Old Santa Claus — bless his jovial heart — is 
 
 flooded with world-devotion; 
 He is loved in the hills and down by the mills 
 
 and over the widespread ocean. 
 But what mystifies me is the skill with which he 
 
 goes down every chimney he knows ; 
 Goes down with his pack and then scurries back 
 
 without any soot on his nose! 
 
 133 
 
THE INDISPENSABLE DOBBIN 
 
 Laugh if you will, oh, Motor Clan, 
 
 Then halt your laugh where it began ; 
 
 Old Dobbin still has one smile left 
 
 Of which he has not been bereft. 
 
 One horse remains to mock your greed; 
 
 The children's friend — the milkman's steed! 
 
 You've motorized the fireman's job. 
 You've gassed the cemetery's sob; 
 You've spread salvation's call afar — 
 They're preaching to us from a car! 
 Still there's one job you can not get — 
 The milkman's horse is with us yet ! 
 
 ^33 
 
THE INDISPENSABLB DOBBIJJ 
 
 The milkman's horse goes on his way 
 Unmindful of the motor's sway; 
 What motor-car could ever tell 
 Where all the milkman's patrons dwell? 
 A car its steel-born soul would give 
 To know where all the children live. 
 
 What motor-car in all the land 
 
 Gets sugar from a baby's hand? 
 
 No purring engine ever stops 
 
 For clover blooms or loUypops. 
 
 So may we have, till Time shall end, 
 
 The milkman's horse — the children's friend! 
 
 134 
 
THE OLD YEAR 
 
 The old year, swept by tides of all-regretful 
 
 tears, 
 Now bows its head to bear the somber Pall of 
 
 Years ; 
 Now bows its heart to do the penance of a slave,^ 
 Hard bent upon his journey toward a Stygian 
 
 grave. 
 Yet, what are years but sun-kissed pebbles cast, 
 With full care-freedom in that filmy sea, The 
 
 Past? 
 The Past? That is To-morrow taken from its 
 
 play, 
 Knd sent to find an unreturning Yesterday. 
 
 135 
 
OLD MAN 
 
 Old man he's th' queerest one 
 Ever wuz since time begun; 
 He ist knows more things 'at you 
 Hardly can't beHeve they're true. 
 
 Ist, fer instance, Old Man swears 
 He has e't th' meat from bears 
 He went out an' killed one day 
 When he'd tired of other play. 
 
 Old Man likes to brag about 
 How he drove th' Injuns out — 
 Him an' his big brother, who 
 Killed 'cm ever' day er two! 
 
 'Course I ist can't say 'at he 
 Tells things what ain't so to me. 
 Still it's funny how he knows 
 All he does 'bout circus shows. 
 136 
 
OLD MAN 
 
 Old Man says when he wuz small 
 Circus ain't no show at all 
 'Less two hundred clowns er more 
 Met you at th' circus door. 
 
 Old Man says he can't be wrong — 
 He's seen show trains ten miles long. 
 Yes, an' camels so immense 
 Their big humps held up th' tents. 
 
 Maybe it's all true — an' yet 
 They's one thing ain't so I bet — • 
 'At's th' one he tells how he 
 Ever' time would git in free I 
 
 nt 
 
A ROOF-TOP REVERIE 
 
 Away up here on the roof-top 
 
 Where the cooHng breezes blow, 
 I joy in my noon hour's leisure 
 
 To muse of the crowds below. 
 Though humble my own vocation, 
 
 I look to the streets to see 
 If one of those pilgrims legion 
 
 Leaves envy of soul in me. 
 
 I gaze far out to the country. 
 
 Then fancy I see a frown 
 That tells of a farm boy's longing 
 
 For life in the crowded town. 
 And down in the streets below me 
 
 Are folk I know would be glad 
 Had they the sweet range of vision 
 
 That comes to a farmer lad, 
 138 
 
A ROOF-TOP REVERIE 
 
 He pines for the thrills and frenzies 
 
 Found only where throngs abide; 
 They long for the restful quiet 
 
 The woods and the streams provide. 
 The boy craves music and laughter, 
 
 A place in the gay parade; 
 But, oh, how the throng would cherish 
 
 Just one glad hour in the shade! 
 
 It must be Life's plan of balance; 
 
 It never would do, I guess, — 
 If all took the self-same pathway 
 
 We'd know only toil and stress. 
 So, 'way up here on the roof-top, 
 
 Where soul-cheering breezes blow, 
 I'll joy in my noon hour's leisure 
 
 And pity the crowds below. 
 
 139 
 
WHEN MOTHER RUBS IT IN 
 
 IVk never seen my Mother wearin' such a tickled 
 
 look, 
 She smiles just like th' angels in a fairy story 
 
 book. 
 She goes around a-singin', with her voice all 
 
 keyed up high, 
 Like some one seekin' vengeance fer a wrong of 
 
 days gone by. 
 
 I don't know what's th' matter, but she seems to 
 
 like to hear 
 Me come from school a-sneezin' an' a-coughin' in 
 
 her ear. 
 Then she rushes to th' kitchen, chucklin' sweetly 
 
 to herself, 
 An' down th' dog-gone goose grease comes from 
 
 pff th' pantry shelf. 
 140 
 
WHEN MOTHER RUBS IT IN 
 
 "Come here!" says she, dramatic! "Come here, 
 
 my suf frill' son; 
 My mother did this same to me — an' she had lots 
 
 o' fun!" 
 Then she starts in a-rubbin' my neck, my back an' 
 
 chest. 
 An' 'fore she's through I'm needin' 'bout twenty 
 
 nights of rest. 
 
 She stands off lookin' at me — we're both clear 
 
 out o' breath — 
 Then shakes her head an' shudders, till I'm 'bout 
 
 scared to death. 
 She throws a shawl around her head, an' soon I 
 
 hear her feet 
 A-trippin' — oh, so gaily! — to th' drug store up 
 
 th' street. 
 
 I see her through th' window as she comes across 
 
 th' yard ; 
 Oh, I know what she's boughten — it's turkentine 
 
 an' lard I 
 
 141 
 
WHEN MOTHER RUBS IT IN ,. 
 
 Th' kitchen stove starts boomin', th' lard melts 
 
 in a pan, 
 Then I hear Mother say in' : *'Come to Mother, 
 
 little man!" 
 
 Oh, gee ! Oh, gosh ! Oh, pshaw ! Oh, my ! That 
 
 dog-gone turkentine 
 She splashes all around my chest an' up an' down 
 
 my spine. 
 But she don't seem to think of me — she chuckles 
 
 with delight, 
 Then says : "When I was young my Ma did this 
 
 way ever' night!" 
 
 Next thing she's in th' bathroom, where medicine 
 
 is at, 
 A-talkin' to herself! Says she: "I'd better give 
 
 him that !" 
 An' then it happens! I can feel my soul begin 
 
 to boil; 
 She's gone an' got — she's got it! — she's got th' 
 
 castor oil! 
 
 142 
 
AIN'T BOYS FUNNY? 
 
 Ain't boys funny? Ain't boys queer? 
 They don't change much, year on year. 
 Pals g-row up and then there comes 
 In their wake new boyhood chums. 
 Do and say things they enjoy 
 Just as you did when a boy; 
 Same old views of good and harm 
 Since old Adam lost his farm. 
 
 Ain't boys funny? Ain't boys queer? 
 Now that Spring is almost here 
 You can see them wand'ring far 
 Out where creeks and rivers are. 
 Just the minute Winter shows 
 Signs of turning up its toes, 
 Mister Boy and all his clan 
 Form a creek-bound caravan. 
 143 
 
AIN^T BOYS FUNNY? 
 
 Ain't boys funny? Ain't boys queer? 
 Once the ice floes disappear 
 Each boy dares each pal of his 
 Feel how cold the water is ! 
 Each boy knows when that begins 
 They'll go home wet to their skins. 
 Qothes all muddy — soggy feet — 
 Oh, but ain't foot-music sweet? 
 
 Ain't boys funny? Ain't boys queer? 
 Each boy knows the talk he 11 hear 
 When his mother turns to see 
 Her disheveled progeny. 
 Yes, of course, he'd show his wrath 
 If she made him take a bath 
 In a tub of ice and sand — 
 Mothers never understand! 
 
 144 
 
A GARDEN PATRIOT 
 
 The Sun, the Dew and a Snowball Bush 
 Met back of our neighbor's door; 
 
 Good friends they were who had often met 
 In that same place before. 
 
 The Sun and Dew were in boastful mood 
 And talked of the silver sheen 
 
 They cast each mom on the Snowball Bush 
 And over the grasses green. 
 
 At last the Sun and Dew, grown tired 
 
 Of vain, self-meted praise, 
 Made bold to ask the Snowball Bush 
 
 What joy had crowned its days. 
 
 With smiles the Bush impelled each bloom 
 
 To Hft its snow-white head, 
 Then, swayed by calm and friendly winds. 
 
 The topmost blossom said: 
 
 145 
 
A GARDEN PATRIOT 
 
 "We are the garden's White Zouaves 
 That march the paths of May 
 
 To bivouac where the soldier sleeps 
 On Decoration day. 
 
 "Though buds of other hues may fail. 
 Our humblest blossoms rise 
 
 To vie with flags that wave above 
 The grave wherein he lies. 
 
 "And ah, 'tis good and fitting, too, 
 That God has made us so, 
 
 For those who bear our blossoms there. 
 Like us — are crowned with snow!" 
 
 146 
 
THE TREE DOCTOR 
 
 I find but small excitement in this antiquated 
 
 lore, 
 The digging up of Babylon or finding Canaan's 
 
 shore ; 
 My heart yearns not for treasure nor collegiate 
 
 degrees, 
 But, lordy, how I'd glory to be Doctor of the 
 
 Trees I 
 
 I met one just this morning, as I idled up the 
 
 street, 
 A man whose sentiments of life make living 
 
 doubly sweet. 
 He said he had a gospel, which, embodied as a 
 
 whole, 
 Is: "God makes human every tree, ennobling it 
 
 with soul." 
 
THE TREE DOCTOR 
 
 He was then on mercy's errand to a locust, half- 
 decayed, 
 
 Its body almost lifeless and the limbs fast losing 
 shade. 
 
 It was good to see the Doctor as he diagnosed the 
 case, 
 
 His pity for the patient sadly pictured on his 
 face. 
 
 He pondered for a moment, then with earnest zeal 
 
 began 
 To be physician to a tree as others are to man. 
 He sought each little ailment that infested it to 
 
 see 
 What antidotes might be applied, what forms of 
 
 surgery. 
 
 He found dire complications — there were leprosies 
 
 of scale — 
 Yet he possessed the remedies he knew would 
 
 never fail. 
 
 148 
 
THE TREE DOCTOR 
 
 I liked his buoyant confidence when, from the 
 
 parts decayed, 
 He tore the bhght until, behold I — clean apertures 
 
 were made I 
 
 Then bringing all his skill to bear, the surgeon of 
 
 the trees 
 As deftly mixed a healing mass and filled the 
 
 cavities ! 
 "Now it will live," I heard him say, when he had 
 
 found each ill, 
 And I, impressed and confident, said: "Yes, I 
 
 think it will." 
 
 For who could have but honest faith in surgeons 
 such as he? 
 
 A man whose simple title is Physician to a Tree. 
 
 And who will say trees have no souls ? — or cour- 
 age to insist 
 
 God does not bless the labor of this leaf-evange- 
 list? 
 
 THE ENU 
 
.'. o 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 >V « I. . '^ A V 
 
 o » » 
 
 .0* '^o 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ,V « • - *^-- 
 
 •< -^^o^ « 
 
 
 
 bV 
 
 ^^^. « 
 
 ^AO^ 
 
 
 • %f. AT ♦ -J 
 
 

 
 . -n, 
 
 .'^^•^-^. 
 
 N 
 
 >°-^*. 
 
 
 • »■•• 
 
 4' ^-^^ 0^