Portrait by Sargent 
 
THE COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 JAME WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 IN WHICH THB POEMS. INCLUDING A NUMBER HERETOFORE UNPUBLISHED, 
 
 ARE ARRANGED IN THE ORDER IN WHICH THEY WERE WRITTEN, 
 
 TOGETHER WITH PHOTOGRAPHS, BIBLIOGRAPHIC NOTES 
 
 AND A LIFE SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR 
 
 COLLECTED AND EDITED BY 
 
 EDMUND HENRY EITEL 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION 
 
 VOLUME ONE 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
COPYRIGHT 
 
 1883, 1885, 1887/1888, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1893, 1894, 
 
 1896, 1897, 1898, 1899, 1900, 1901, 1902, 1903, 1904, 
 
 1905, 1906, 1907, 1908, 1909, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1913. 
 
 BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1913 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
 
 BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 
 
 BROOKLYN. N. Y. 
 
V, I 
 H/HA) 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FATHER AND MOTHER 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 For the hearty and generous assistance of Mr. 
 Riley s friends and kinsmen in the preparation of 
 this edition, the publishers wish to make grateful 
 acknowledgment. To Mrs. Charles Cox, Mrs. Benj. 
 S. Parker, Mr. George C. Hitt, to Mrs. Julia A. 
 Riley and to Mr. Henry Eitel especial thanks are 
 due for material furnished and time freely given ; to 
 Mr. D. S. Alexander and Mr. Charles Vergil Tevis 
 for permission to use excerpts from various inter 
 views ; to Miss Ora Williams, Mr. W. H. Cathcart 
 and Mr. Frank G. Darlington for information for 
 the bibliography; to Charles Scribner s Sons and 
 The Century Company for permission to include 
 poems originally published by them, and to Mr. 
 Will D. Howe for editorial counsel. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 1870 PAGE 
 
 A BACKWARD LOOK 1 
 
 PHILIPER FLASH 4 
 
 THE SAME OLD STORY 8 
 
 To A BOY WHISTLING 10 
 
 1871 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND 11 
 
 WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING ... 12 
 
 1872 
 
 A POET S WOOING 18 
 
 MAN S DEVOTION 20 
 
 A BALLAD 23 
 
 THE OLD TIMES WERE THE BEST .... 27 
 
 1873 
 
 A SUMMER AFTERNOON 28 
 
 1874 
 
 AT LAST 30 
 
 FARMER WHIPPLE BACHELOR 32 
 
 MY JOLLY FRIEND S SECRET 40 
 
 THE SPEEDING OF THE KING S SPITE .... 43 
 
 JOB WORK 49 
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 51 
 
 PLAIN SERMONS 53 
 
 "TRADIN JOE" . 54 
 
 DOT LEEDLE BOY ........ 59 
 
 1875 
 
 I SMOKE MY PIPE 64 
 
 RED RIDING HOOD 66 
 
 IF I KNEW WHAT POETS KNOW . 67 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 68 
 
 SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 73 
 
 A COUNTRY PATHWAY 85 
 
 1876 
 
 THE OLD GUITAR 90 
 
 "FRIDAY AFTERNOON" 92 
 
 "JOHNSON S BOY" 97 
 
 HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS 99 
 
 NATURAL PERVERSITIES 101 
 
 THE SILENT VICTORS 104 
 
 SCRAPS 110 
 
 AUGUST . 112 
 
 DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME 114 
 
 IN THE DARK 116 
 
 THE IRON HORSE 118 
 
 DEAD LEAVES 121 
 
 OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS 123 
 
 ONLY A DREAM 125 
 
 OUR LITTLE GIRL 127 
 
 THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW 128 
 
 1877 
 
 SONG OF THE NEW YEAR 131 
 
 A LETTER TO A FRIEND 133 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM 134 
 
 To ANNIE 135 
 
 FAME 136 
 
 AN EMPTY NEST 139 
 
 MY FATHER S HALLS . . 140 
 
 THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL 141 
 
 HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB .... 143 
 
 JOHN WALSH 144 
 
 ORLIE WILDE 146 
 
 THAT OTHER MAUD MULLER 154 
 
 A MAN OF MANY PARTS 156 
 
 THE FROG 158 
 
 DEAD SELVES 160 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A DREAM OF LONG AGO 163 
 
 CRAQUEODOOM 166 
 
 JUNE 168 
 
 WASH LOWRY S REMINISCENCE 169 
 
 THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN 173 
 
 PRIOR TO Miss BELLE S APPEARANCE .... 175 
 
 WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR .... 178 
 
 A WRANGDILLION 180 
 
 GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 182 
 
 "TIRED OUT" 191 
 
 HARLIE 192 
 
 SAY SOMETHING TO ME 193 
 
 LEONAINIE 194 
 
 A TEST OF LOVE 196 
 
 FATHER WILLIAM 198 
 
 WHAT THE WIND SAID 200 
 
 MORTON 207 
 
 AN AUTUMNAL EXTRAVAGANZA 209 
 
 THE ROSE 211 
 
 THE MERMAN 213 
 
 ""-THE RAINY MORNING 215 
 
 WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE . 216 
 
 A SUMMER SUNRISE 218 
 
 DAS KRIST KINDEL 220 
 
 1878 
 
 AN OLD YEAR S ADDRESS 225 
 
 A NEW YEAR S PLAINT 227 
 
 LUTHER BENSON ; 230 
 
 DREAM 232 
 
 WHEN EVENING SHADOWS FALL 234 
 
 YLLADMAR 236 
 
 A FANTASY 238 
 
 A DREAM 242 
 
 DREAMER, SAY 244 
 
 BRYANT 246 
 
 BABYHOOD .... 247 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LIBERTY 249 
 
 TOM VAN ARDEN 259 
 
 T. C. PHILIPS 263 
 
 A DREAM UNFINISHED .... . 264 
 A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 267 
 
 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT . . . .279 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY A SKETCH .... 367 
 NOTES 391 
 
THE COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 IN SIX VOLUMES 
 
A BACKWARD LOOK 
 
 A) I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, 
 And lazily leaning back in my chair, 
 Enjoying myself in a general way 
 Allowing my thoughts a holiday 
 
 From weariness, toil and care, 
 My fancies doubtless, for ventilation 
 
 Left ajar the gates of my mind, 
 And Memory, seeing the situation, 
 
 Slipped out in the street of "Auld Lang Syne"- 
 
 Wandering ever with tireless feet 
 
 Through scenes of silence, and jubilee 
 Of long-hushed voices ; and faces sweet 
 Were thronging the shadowy side of the street 
 
 As far as the eye could see; 
 Dreaming again, in anticipation, 
 
 The same old dreams of our boyhood s days 
 That never come true, from the vague sensation 
 
 Of walking asleep in the world s strange ways. 
 1 
 
2 A BACKWARD LOOK 
 
 Away to the house where I was born ! 
 
 And there was the selfsame clock that ticked 
 From the close of dusk to the burst of morn, 
 When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn 
 
 And helped when the apples were picked. 
 And the "chany dog" on the mantel-shelf, 
 
 With the gilded collar and yellow eyes, 
 Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself 
 
 Sound asleep with the dear surprise. 
 
 And down to the swing in the locust-tree, 
 
 Where the grass was worn from the trampled 
 ground, 
 
 And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three 
 
 Or four such other boys used to be 
 
 "Doin sky-scrapers," or "whirlin round": 
 
 And again Bob climbed for the bluebird s nest, 
 And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed 
 
 Of Guymon s barn, where still, unguessed, 
 The old ghosts romp through the best days dead ! 
 
 And again I gazed from the old schoolroom 
 
 With a wistful look, of a long June day, 
 When on my cheek was the hectic bloom 
 Caught of Mischief, as I presume 
 
 He had such a "partial" way, 
 It seemed, toward me. And again I thought 
 
 Of a probable likelihood to be 
 Kept in after school for a girl was caught 
 
 Catching a note from me. 
 
A BACKWARD LOOK 
 
 And down through the woods to the swimming- 
 hole 
 
 Where the big, white, hollow old sycamore 
 
 grows, 
 
 And we never cared when the water was cold, 
 And always "ducked" the boy that told 
 
 On the fellow that tied the clothes. 
 When life went so like a dreamy rhyme, 
 
 That it seems^to me now that then 
 The world was having a jollier time 
 
 Than it ever will have again. 
 
PHILIPER FLASH 
 
 X/ OUNG Philiper Flash was a promising lad, 
 i His intentions were good but oh, how sad 
 
 For a person to think 
 
 How the veriest pink 
 
 And bloom of perfection may turn out bad. 
 Old Flash himself was a moral man, 
 And prided himself on a moral plan, 
 
 Of a maxim as old 
 
 As the calf of gold, 
 Of making that boy do what he was told. 
 
 And such a good mother had Philiper Flash; 
 Her voice was as soft as the creamy plash 
 
 Of the milky wave 
 
 With its musical lave 
 
 That gushed through the holes of her patent churn- 
 dash ; 
 
 And the excellent woman loved Philiper so, 
 She could cry sometimes when he stumped his toe, 
 
 And she stroked his hair 
 
 With such motherly care 
 When the dear little angel learned to swear. 
 
 4 
 
PHILIPER FLASH 5 
 
 Old Flash himself would sometimes say 
 That his wife had "such a ridiculous way, 
 
 She d humor that child 
 
 Till he d soon be sp iled, 
 And then there d be the devil to pay !" 
 And the excellent wife, with a martyr s look, 
 Would tell old Flash himself "he took 
 
 No notice at all 
 
 Of the bright-eyed doll 
 Unless when he spanked him for getting a fall !" 
 
 Young Philiper Flash, as time passed by, 
 Grew into "a boy with a roguish eye" : 
 
 He could smoke a cigar, 
 
 And seemed by far 
 
 The most promising youth. "He s powerful sly," 
 Old Flash himself once told a friend, 
 "Every copper he gets he s sure to spend 
 
 And," said he, "don t you know 
 
 If he keeps on so 
 What a crop of wild oats the boy will grow !" 
 
 But his dear good mother knew Philiper s ways 
 So well, she managed the money to raise ; 
 
 And old Flash himself 
 
 Was "laid on the shelf," 
 
 (In the manner of speaking we have nowadays). 
 For "gracious knows, her darling child, 
 If he went without money he d soon grow wild." 
 
 So Philiper Flash 
 
6 PHILIPER FLASH 
 
 With a regular dash 
 
 "Swung on to the reins," and went "slingin the 
 cash." 
 
 As old Flash himself, in his office one day, 
 Was shaving notes in a barberous way, 
 
 At the hour of four 
 
 Death entered the door 
 And shaved the note on his life, they say. 
 And he had for his grave a magnificent tomb, 
 Though the venturous ringer that pointed Gone 
 Home," 
 
 Looked white and cold 
 
 From being so bold, 
 As it feared that a popular lie was told. 
 
 Young Philiper Flash was a man of style 
 When he first began unpacking the pile 
 
 Of the dollars and dimes 
 
 Whose jingling chimes 
 
 Had chinked to the tune of his father s smile ; 
 And he strewed his wealth with such lavish hand, 
 His rakish ways were the talk of the land, 
 
 And gossipers wise 
 
 Sat winking their eyes, 
 (A certain foreboding of fresh surprise). 
 
 A "fast young man" was Philiper Flash, 
 And wore "loud clothes" and a weak mustache, 
 And "done the Park," 
 
PHILIPER FLASH 7 
 
 For an "afternoon lark," 
 With a very fast horse of "remarkable dash." 
 And Philiper handled a billiard-cue 
 About as well as the best he knew, 
 
 And used to say 
 
 "He could make it pay 
 By playing two or three games a day." 
 
 And Philiper Flash was his mother s joy, 
 He seemed to her the magic alloy 
 
 That made her glad, 
 
 When her heart was sad, 
 With the thought that "she lived for her darling 
 
 boy." 
 
 His dear good mother wasn t aware 
 How her darling boy relished a "tare." 
 
 She said "one night 
 
 He gave her a fright 
 By coming home late and acting tight." 
 
 Young Philiper Flash, on a winterish day, 
 Was published a bankrupt, so they say 
 
 And as far as I know 
 
 I suppose it was so, 
 For matters went on in a singular way ; 
 His excellent mother, I think I was told, 
 Died from exposure and want and cold ; 
 
 And Philiper Flash, 
 
 With a horrible slash, 
 Whacked his jugular open and went to smash. 
 
THE SAME OLD STORY 
 
 THE same old story told again 
 The maiden droops her head, 
 The ripening glow of her crimson cheek 
 
 Is answering in her stead. 
 The pleading tone of a trembling voice 
 
 Is telling her the way 
 He loved her when his heart was young 
 
 In Youth s sunshiny day: 
 The trembling tongue, the longing tone, 
 
 Imploringly ask why 
 They can not be as happy now 
 
 As in the days gone by. 
 And two more hearts, tumultuous 
 
 With overflowing joy, 
 Are dancing to the music 
 
 Which that dear, provoking boy 
 Is twanging on his bowstring, 
 
 As, fluttering his wings, 
 He sends his love-charged arrows 
 
 While merrily he sings: 
 8 
 
THE SAME OLD STORY 
 
 "Ho ! ho ! my dainty maiden, 
 
 It surely can not be 
 You are thinking you are master 
 
 Of your heart, when it is me." 
 And another gleaming arrow 
 
 Does the little god s behest, 
 And the dainty little maiden 
 
 Falls upon her lover s breast. 
 "The same old story told again," 
 
 And listened o er and o er, 
 Will still be new, and pleasing, too, 
 
 Till "Time shall be no more." 
 
TO A BOY WHISTLING 
 
 THE smiling face of a happy boy 
 With its enchanted key 
 Is now unlocking in memory 
 My store of heartiest joy. 
 
 And my lost life again to-day, 
 
 In pleasant colors all aglow, 
 
 From rainbow tints, to pure white snow, 
 Is a panorama sliding away. 
 
 The whistled air of a simple tune 
 
 Eddies and whirls my thoughts around, 
 As fairy balloons of thistle-down 
 
 Sail through the air of June. 
 
 O happy boy with untaught grace ! 
 What is there in the world to give 
 That can buy one hour of the life you live 
 
 Or the trivial cause of your smiling face ! 
 
 10 
 
AN OLD FRIEND 
 
 HEY, Old Midsummer ! are you here again, 
 With all your harvest-store of olden joys, 
 Vast overhanging meadow-lands of rain, 
 And drowsy dawns, and noons when golden grain 
 
 Nods in the sun, and lazy truant boys 
 Drift ever listlessly adown the day, 
 Too full of joy to rest, and dreams to play. 
 
 The same old Summer, with the same old smile 
 Beaming upon us in the same old way 
 
 We knew in childhood ! Though a weary while 
 
 Since that far time, yet memories reconcile 
 The heart with odorous breaths of clover hay ; 
 
 And again I hear the doves, and the sun streams 
 through 
 
 The old barn door just as it used to do. 
 
 And so it seems like welcoming a friend 
 
 An old, old friend, upon his coming home 
 From some far country coming home to spend 
 Long, loitering days with me: And I extend 
 My hand in rapturous glee : And so you ve 
 
 come ! 
 
 Ho, I m so glad ! Come in and take a chair : 
 Well, this is just like old times, I declare! 
 
 n 
 
WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING 
 
 wasn t two purtier farms in the state 
 A Than the couple of which I m about to relate ; 
 Jinin each other belongin to Brown, 
 And jest at the edge of a flourishin town. 
 Brown was a man, as I understand, 
 That allus had handled a good eal o land, 
 And was sharp as a tack in drivin a trade 
 For that s the way most of his money was made. 
 And all the grounds and the orchards about 
 His two pet farms was all tricked out 
 With poppies and posies 
 And sweet-smellin rosies; 
 And hundreds o kinds 
 Of all sorts o vines, 
 To tickle the most horticultural minds; 
 And little dwarf trees not as thick as your wrist 
 With ripe apples on em as big as your fist : 
 And peaches, Siberian crabs and pears, 
 And quinces Well! any fruit any tree bears; 
 And the purtiest stream jest a-swimmin with fish, 
 And jest of most everything heart could wish! 
 The purtiest orch rds I wish you could see 
 How purty they was, for I know it ud be 
 A regular treat ! but I ll go ahead with 
 My story ! A man by the name o Smith 
 
 12 
 
WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING 13 
 
 (A bad name to rhyme, 
 
 But I reckon that I m 
 
 Not goin back on a Smith ! nary time !) 
 
 At hadn t a soul of kin nor kith, 
 
 And more money than he knowed what to do with, 
 
 So he comes a-ridin along one day, 
 
 And he says to Brown, in his offhand way 
 
 Who was trainin* some newfangled vines round a 
 
 bay- 
 Winder "Howdy-do look-a-here say: 
 What ll you take for this property here? 
 I m talkin o leavin the city this year, 
 And I want to be 
 Where the air is free, 
 
 And I ll buy this place, if it ain t too dear!" 
 Well they grumbled and jawed aroun 
 "I don t like to part with the place," says Brown; 
 "Well," says Smith, a-jerkin his head, 
 "That house yonder bricks painted red 
 Jest like this n a purtier view 
 Who is it owns iff" "That s mine too," 
 Says Brown, as he winked at a hole in his shoe, 
 "But I ll tell you right here jest what I kin do: 
 If you ll pay the figgers I ll sell it to you. * 
 Smith went over and looked at the place 
 Badgered with Brown, and argied the case 
 Thought that Brown s figgers was rather too tall, 
 But, findin that Brown wasn t goin to fall, 
 In final agreed, 
 So they drawed up the deed 
 
14 WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING 
 
 For the farm and the fixtures the live stock an all. 
 
 And so Smith moved from the city as soon 
 
 As he possibly could But "the man in the moon" 
 
 Knowed more n Smith o farmin pursuits, 
 
 And jest to convince you, and have no disputes, 
 
 How little he knowed, 
 
 I ll tell you his "mode," 
 
 As he called it, o raisin "the best that growed," 
 
 In the way o potatoes 
 
 Cucumbers tomatoes, 
 
 And squashes as lengthy as young alligators. 
 
 Twas allus a curious thing to me 
 
 How big a fool a feller kin be 
 
 When he gits on a farm after leavin a town ! 
 
 Expectin to raise himself up to renown, 
 
 And reap for himself agricultural fame, 
 
 By growin of squashes without any shame 
 
 As useless and long as a technical name. 
 
 To make the soil pure, 
 
 And certainly sure, 
 
 He plastered the ground with patent manure. 
 
 He had cultivators, and double-hoss plows, 
 
 And patent machines for milkin his cows ; 
 
 And patent hay-forks patent measures and 
 
 weights, 
 
 And new patent back-action hinges for gates, 
 And barn locks and latches, and such little dribs, 
 And patents to keep the rats out o the cribs- 
 Reapers and mowers, 
 And patent grain sowers ; 
 
WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING li 
 
 And drillers 
 
 And tillers 
 
 And cucumber hillers, 
 
 And harriers ; and had patent rollers and scrapers, 
 
 And took about ten agricultural papers. 
 
 So you can imagine how matters turned out : 
 
 But Brown didn t have not a shadder o doubt 
 
 That Smith didn t know what he was about 
 
 When he said that "the old way to farm was played 
 
 out." 
 
 But Smith worked ahead, 
 And when any one said 
 
 That the old way o workin was better instead 
 O his "modern idees," he allus turned red, 
 And wanted to know 
 What made people so 
 
 Infernally anxious to hear theirselves crow ? 
 And guessed that he d manage to hoe his own row. 
 Brown he come onc t and leant over the fence, 
 And told Smith that he couldn t see any sense 
 In goin to such a tremendous expense 
 For the sake o such no-account experiments : 
 "That ll never make corn ! 
 As shore s you re born 
 It ll come out the leetlest end of the horn 1" 
 Says Brown, as he pulled off a big roastin -ear 
 From a stalk of his own 
 That had tribble outgrown 
 Smith s poor yaller shoots, and says he, "Looky 
 
 here! 
 
16 WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING 
 
 This corn was raised in the old-fashioned way, 
 
 And I rather imagine that this corn ll pay 
 
 Expenses f er raisin it ! What do you say ?" 
 
 Brown got him then to look over his crop. 
 
 His luck that season had been tip-top ! 
 
 And you may surmise 
 
 Smith opened his eyes 
 
 And let out a look o the wildest surprise 
 
 When Brown showed him punkins as big as the lies 
 
 He was stuffin him with about offers he s had 
 
 For his farm: "I don t want to sell very bad," 
 
 He says, but says he, 
 
 "Mr. Smith, you kin see 
 
 For yourself how matters is standin with me, 
 
 I understand farmin and I d better stay, 
 
 You know, on my farm ; I m a-makin* it pay 
 
 I oughtn t to grumble! I reckon I ll clear 
 
 Away over four thousand dollars this year." 
 
 And that was the reason, he made it appear, 
 
 Why he didn t care about sellin his farm, 
 
 And hinted at his havin done himself harm 
 
 In sellin the other, and wanted to know 
 
 If Smith wouldn t sell back ag in to him. So 
 
 Smith took the bait, and says he, "Mr. Brown, 
 
 I wouldn t sell out but we might swap aroun 
 
 How ll you trade your place for mine?" 
 
 (Purty sharp way o comin the shine 
 
 Over Smith! Wasn t it?) Well, sir, this Brown 
 
 Played out his hand and brought Smithy down 
 
 Traded with him an , workin it cute, 
 
WHAT SMITH* KNEW ABOUT FARMING 17 
 
 Raked in two thousand dollars to boot 
 As slick as a whistle, an that wasn t all, 
 He managed to trade back again the next fall, 
 And the next and the next as long as Smith 
 
 stayed 
 
 He reaped with his harvests an annual trade. 
 Why, I reckon that Brown must V easily made 
 On an average nearly two thousand a year 
 Together he made over seven thousand clear. 
 Till Mr. Smith found he was losin his health 
 In as big a proportion, almost, as his wealth ; 
 So at last he concluded to move back to town, 
 And sold back his farm to this same Mr. Brown 
 At very low figgers, by gittin it down. 
 Further n this I have nothin to say 
 Than merely advisin the Smiths fer to stay 
 In their grocery stores in flourishin towns 
 And leave agriculture alone and the Browns. 
 
A POET S WOOING 
 
 / woo d a woman once, 
 But she was sharper than an eastern wind. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 " \ X 7HAT may I do to make you glad, 
 VV To make you glad and free, 
 Till your light smiles glance 
 And your bright eyes dance 
 Like sunbeams on the sea ? 
 
 Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay 
 Of a bright May morn and a marriage day ?" 
 And she sighed in a listless way she had, 
 "Do not read it will make me sad !" 
 
 "What shall I do to make you glad- 
 To make you glad and gay, 
 Till your eyes gleam bright 
 As the stars at night 
 When as light as the light of day? 
 Sing some song as I twang the strings 
 Of my sweet guitar through its wanderings?" 
 And she sighed in the weary way she had 
 "Do not sing it will make me sad !" 
 18 
 
A POETS WOOING 19 
 
 "What can I do to make you glad 
 As glad as glad can be, 
 Till your clear eyes seem 
 Like the rays that gleam 
 And glint through a dew-decked tree? 
 Will it please you, dear, that I now begin 
 A grand old air on my violin ?" 
 And she spoke again in the following way, 
 
 "Yes, oh yes, it would please me, sir ; 
 I would be so glad you d play 
 
 Some grand old march in character, 
 And then as you march away 
 I will no longer thus be sad, 
 But oh, so glad so glad so glad !" 
 
MAN S DEVOTION 
 
 A LOVER said, "O Maiden, love me well, 
 For I must go away : 
 And should another ever come to tell 
 Of love What will you say?" 
 
 And she let fall a royal robe of hair 
 
 That folded on his arm 
 And made a golden pillow for her there ; 
 
 Her face as bright a charm 
 
 As ever setting held in kingly crown 
 
 Made answer with a look, 
 And reading it, the lover bended down, 
 
 And, trusting, "kissed the book." 
 
 He took a fond farewell and went away. 
 
 And slow the time went by 
 So weary dreary was it, day by day 
 
 To love, and wait, and sigh. 
 20 
 
MAN S DEVOTION 21 
 
 She kissed his pictured face sometimes, and 
 said: 
 
 "Oh ! Lips, so cold and dumb, 
 I would that you would tell me, if not dead, 
 
 Why, why do you not come?" 
 
 The picture, smiling, stared her in the face 
 
 Unmoved e en with the touch 
 Of tear-drops hers-~-be jeweling the case 
 
 Twas plain she loved him much. 
 
 And, thus she grew to think of him as gay 
 
 And joyous all the while, 
 And she was sorrowing "Ah, welladay!" 
 
 But pictures always smile ! 
 
 And years dull years in dull monotony 
 
 As ever went and came, 
 Still weaving changes on unceasingly, 
 
 And changing, changed her name. 
 
 Was she untrue? She oftentimes was glad 
 
 And happy as a wife ; 
 But one remembrance oftentimes made sad 
 
 Her matrimonial life. 
 
 Though its few years were hardly noted, when 
 
 Again her path was strown 
 With thorns the roses swept away again, 
 
 And she again alone! 
 
22 MAN S DEVOTION 
 
 And then alas! ah then! her lover came: 
 
 "I come to claim you now 
 My Darling, for I know you are the same, 
 
 And I have kept my vow 
 
 Through these long, long, long years, and now 
 no more 
 
 Shall we asundered be !" 
 She staggered back and, sinking to the floor, 
 
 Cried in her agony : 
 
 "I have been false !" she moaned, "I am not 
 true 
 
 I am not worthy now, 
 Nor ever can I be a wife to you 
 
 For I have broke my vow !" 
 
 And as she kneeled there, sobbing at his feet, 
 
 He calmly spoke no sign 
 Betrayed his inward agony "I count you meet 
 
 To be a wife of mine !" 
 
 And raised her up forgiven, though untrue ; 
 
 As fond he gazed on her, 
 Sfie sighed, "So happy!" And she never 
 knew 
 
 He was a widower. 
 
A BALLAD 
 
 WITH A SERIOUS CONCLUSION 
 
 about me, little children 
 Come and cluster round my knee 
 While I tell a little story 
 That happened once with me. 
 
 My father he had gone away 
 
 A-sailing on the foam, 
 Leaving me the merest infant 
 
 And my mother dear at home ; 
 
 For my father was a sailor, 
 And he sailed the ocean o er 
 
 For full five years ere yet again 
 He reached his native shore. 
 
 And I had grown up rugged 
 
 And healthy day by day, 
 Though I was but a puny babe 
 
 When father went away. 
 
 Poor mother she would kiss me 
 
 And look at me and sigh 
 So strangely, oft I wondered 
 
 And would ask the reason why. 
 23 
 
24 A BALLAD 
 
 And she would answer sadly, 
 Between her sobs and tears, 
 
 "You look so like your father, 
 Far away so many years!" 
 
 And then she would caress me 
 And brush my hair away, 
 
 And tell me not to question, 
 But to run about my play. 
 
 Thus I went playing thoughtfully - 
 For that my mother said, 
 
 "You look so like your father!" 
 Kept ringing in my head. 
 
 So, ranging once the golden sands 
 That looked out on the sea, 
 
 I called aloud, "My father dear, 
 Come back to ma and me !" 
 
 Then I saw a glancing shadow 
 On the sand, and heard the shriek 
 
 Of a sea-gull flying seaward, 
 And I heard a gruff voice speak : 
 
 "Ay, ay, my little shipmate, 
 I thought I heard you hail ; 
 
 Were you trumpeting that sea-gull, 
 Or do you see a sail ?" 
 
A BALLAD 25 
 
 And as rough and gruff a sailor 
 
 As ever sailed the sea 
 Was standing near grotesquely 
 
 And leering dreadfully. 
 
 I replied, though I was frightened, 
 
 "It was my father dear 
 I was calling for across the sea 
 
 I think he didn t hear." 
 
 And then the sailor leered again 
 
 In such a frightful way, 
 And made so many faces 
 
 I was little loath to stay : 
 
 But he started fiercely toward me 
 
 Then made a sudden halt 
 And roared, "I think he heard you !" 
 
 And turned a somersault. 
 
 Then a wild fear overcame me, 
 And I flew off like the wind, 
 
 Shrieking "Mother!" and the sailor 
 Just a little way behind! 
 
 And then my mother heard me, 
 And I saw her shade her eyes, 
 
 Looking toward me from the doorway, 
 Transfixed with pale surprise 
 
26 A BALLAD 
 
 For a moment then her features 
 
 Glowed with all their wonted charms 
 
 As the sailor overtook me, 
 And I fainted in her arms. 
 
 When I awoke to reason 
 
 I shuddered with affright 
 Till I felt my mother s presence 
 
 With a thrill of wild delight- 
 Till, amid a shower of kisses 
 
 Falling glad as summer rain, 
 A muffled thunder rumbled, 
 
 "Is he coming round again?" 
 
 Then I shrieked and clung unto her, 
 While her features flushed and burned 
 
 As she told me it was father 
 From a foreign land returned. 
 
 I said when I was calm again, 
 And thoughtfully once more 
 
 Had dwelt upon my mother s words 
 Of just the day before, 
 
 "I don t look like my father, 
 As you told me yesterday 
 
 I know I don t or father 
 Would have run the other way." 
 
THE OLD TIMES WERE THE BEST 
 
 FRIENDS, my heart is half aweary 
 Of its happiness to-night : 
 Though your songs are gay and cheery, 
 
 And your spirits feather-light, 
 There s a ghostly music haunting 
 
 Still the heart of every guest 
 And a voiceless chorus -chanting 
 That the Old Times were the best. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 All about is bright and pleasant 
 With the sound of song and jest, 
 
 Yet a feeling s ever present 
 That the Old Times were the best. 
 
 27 
 
A SUMMER AFTERNOON 
 
 A LANGUID atmosphere, a lazy breeze, 
 I\. With labored respiration, moves the wheat 
 From distant reaches, till the golden seas 
 Break in crisp whispers at my feet. 
 
 My book, neglected of an idle mind, 
 
 Hides for a moment from the eyes of men; 
 
 Or, lightly opened by a critic wind, 
 Affrightedly reviews itself again. 
 
 Off through the haze that dances in the shine 
 The warm sun showers in the open glade, 
 
 The forest lies, a silhouette design 
 
 Dimmed through and through with shade 
 
 A dreamy day; and tranquilly I lie 
 
 At anchor from all storms of mental strain ; 
 
 With absent vision, gazing at the sky, 
 "Like one that hears it rain." 
 28 
 
A SUMMER AFTERNOON 29 
 
 The Katydid, so boisterous last night, 
 Clinging, inverted, in uneasy poise, 
 
 Beneath a wheat-blade, has forgotten quite 
 If "Katy did or didn t" make a noise. 
 
 The twitter, sometimes, of a wayward bird 
 That checks the song abruptly at the sound, 
 
 And mildly, chiding echoes that have stirred, 
 Sink into silence, all the more profound. 
 
 And drowsily I hear the plaintive strain 
 Of some poor dove . . . Why, I can 
 
 scarcely keep 
 My heavy eyelids there it is again 
 
 "Coo-coo !" I mustn t "Coo-coo !" f all 
 asleep ! 
 
AT LAST 
 
 A DARK, tempestuous night ; the stars shut in 
 With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-black blot 
 The firmament ; and where the moon has been 
 An hour agone seems like the darkest spot. 
 The weird wind furious at its demon game 
 Rattles one s fancy like a window-frame. 
 
 A care-worn face peers out into the dark, 
 
 And childish faces frightened at the gloom 
 
 Grow awed and vacant as they turn to mark 
 The father s as he passes through the room : 
 
 The gate latch clatters, and wee baby Bess 
 
 Whispers, The doctor s tummin now, I dess!" 
 
 The father turns ; a sharp, swift flash of pain 
 Flits o er his face : "Amanda, child ! I said 
 
 A moment since I see I must a gain 
 Go take your little sisters off to bed ! 
 
 There, Erne, Rose, and Clara mustn t cry!" 
 
 "I tan t he p it I m fyaid at mama ll die 1" 
 30 
 
Captain Reuben A. Riley the poet s father 
 
AT LAST 31 
 
 What are his feelings, when this man alone 
 Sits in the silence, glaring in the grate 
 
 That sobs and sighs on in an undertone 
 As stoical immovable as Fate, 
 
 While muffled voices from the sick one s room 
 
 Come in like heralds of a dreaded doom? 
 
 The door-latch jingles : in the doorway stands 
 The doctor, while the draft puffs in a breath 
 
 The dead coals leap to life, and clap their hands, 
 The flames flash up. A face as pale as death 
 
 Turns slowly teeth tight clenched, and with a look 
 
 The doctor, through his specs, reads like a book. 
 
 "Come, brace up, Major!" "Let me know the 
 
 worst !" 
 "W y you re the biggest fool I ever saw 
 
 Here, Major take a little brandy first- 
 There ! She s a boy I mean he is hurrah !" 
 
 "Wake up the other girls and shout for joy 
 
 Eureka is his name I ve found A BOY !" 
 
FARMER WHIPPLE BACHELOR 
 
 IT S a mystery to see me a man o fifty-four, 
 Who s lived a cross old bachelor f er thirty year 
 
 and more 
 A-lookin glad and smilin ! And they s none o you 
 
 can say 
 
 That you can guess the reason why I feel so good 
 to-day ! 
 
 I must tell you all about it ! But I ll have to deviate 
 A little in beginnin , so s to set the matter straight 
 As to how it comes to happen that I never took a 
 
 wife 
 
 Kindo "crawfish" from the Present to the Spring 
 time of my life ! 
 
 I was brought up in the country: Of a family of 
 
 five 
 Three brothers and a sister I m the only one 
 
 alive, 
 Per they all died little babies; and twas one o 
 
 Mother s ways, 
 You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl 
 
 to raise. 
 
 32 
 
FARMER WHIPPLE-BACHELOR 33 
 
 The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, 
 
 and fat 
 We was little chunks o shavers then about as high 
 
 as that ! 
 But someway we sort o suited-like ! and Mother 
 
 she d declare 
 She never laid her eyes on a more lovin pair 
 
 Than we was ! So we growed up side by side fer 
 
 thirteen year , 
 And every hour of it she growed to me more 
 
 dear ! 
 
 Wy, even Father s dyin , as he did, I do believe 
 Warn t more affectin to me than it was to see her 
 
 grieve ! 
 
 I was then a lad o twenty ; and I felt a flash o 
 
 pride 
 
 In thinkin all depended on me now to pervide 
 Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the 
 
 place 
 With sleeves rolled up and workin , with a mighty 
 
 smilin face. 
 
 Fer somepin else was workin ! but not a word I said 
 Of a certain sort o notion that was runnin through 
 
 my head, 
 <f Some day I d maybe marry, and a brother s love 
 
 was one 
 Thing a lover s was another !" was the way the 
 
 notion run! 
 
34 FARMER W HIPP LE BACHELOR 
 
 I remember onc t in harvest, when the "cradle-in " 
 
 was done, 
 (When the harvest of my summers mounted up to 
 
 twenty-one), 
 I was ridin home with Mary at the closin o the 
 
 day 
 A-chawin straws and thinking in a lover s lazy 
 
 way! 
 
 And Mary s cheeks was burnin like the sunset 
 
 down the lane : 
 I noticed she was thinkin , too, and ast her to 
 
 explain. 
 Well when she turned and kissed me, with her 
 
 arms around me law! 
 I d a bigger load o Heaven than I had a load o 
 
 straw ! 
 
 I don t p tend to learnin , but I ll tell you what s a 
 
 fac , 
 They s a mighty truthful sayin somers in a* 
 
 almanac 
 Er somers bout "puore happiness" perhaps 
 
 some folks ll laugh 
 At the idy "only lastin jest two seconds and a 
 
 half." 
 
 But it s jest as true as preachin ! fer that was a 
 
 sister s kiss, 
 
 And a sister s lovin confidence a-tellin to me 
 
 this : 
 
FARMER WHIFFLE BACHELOR 35 
 
 "She was happy, bein promised to the son o 
 
 Partner Brown." 
 And my feelin s struck a pardnership with sunset 
 
 and went down! 
 
 I don t know how I acted, and I don t know what 
 
 I said, 
 Per my heart seemed jest a-turnin to an ice-cold 
 
 lump o lead; 
 And the hosses kind o glimmered before me in the 
 
 road, 
 And the lines fell from my fingers And that was 
 
 all I knowed 
 
 Fer well, I don t know how long They s a dim 
 
 rememberence 
 Of a sound o snortin horses, and a stake-and- 
 
 ridered fence 
 A-whizzin past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin in the 
 
 air, 
 And Mary screamin "Murder!" and a-runnin up 
 
 to where 
 
 7 was layin by the roadside, and the wagon upside 
 
 down 
 A-leanin on the gate-post, with the wheels 
 
 a-whirlin roun ! 
 And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn t, 
 
 with a vague 
 Sort o notion comin to me that I had a broken leg. 
 
36 FARMER H HIPPIE-BACHELOR 
 
 Well, the women nussed me through it ; but many a 
 
 time I d sigh 
 
 \ d keep a-gittin better instid o goin to die, 
 And wonder what was left me worth livin fer 
 
 below, 
 
 When the girl I loved was married to another, 
 don t you know! 
 
 And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks 
 
 was good and kind 
 When Brown and Mary married Railly must V 
 
 been my mind 
 Was kind o out o kilter ! fer I hated Brown, you 
 
 see, 
 Worse n pizen and the feller whittled crutches out 
 
 fer me 
 
 And done a thousand little ac s o kindness and 
 respec 
 
 And me a-wishin all the time that I could break his 
 neck! 
 
 My relief was like a mourner s when the funeral is 
 done 
 
 When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o Forty- 
 one, 
 
 Then I went to work in airnest I had nothin much 
 
 in view 
 But to drown d out rickollections and it kep me 
 
 busy, tool 
 
FARMER IV HIPPLE BACHELOR 37 
 
 But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used 
 
 to say 
 She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day. 
 
 Then I d think how little money was, compared to 
 
 happiness 
 And who d be left to use it when I died I couldn t 
 
 guess! 
 But I ve still kep* speculatin and a-gainin year by 
 
 year, 
 Tel I m payin half the taxes in the county, mighty 
 
 near! 
 
 Well ! A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand 
 Astin how I d like to dicker fer some Illinois land 
 The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to 
 
 state, 
 "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin chance to 
 
 speculate," 
 
 And then it closed by savin that I d "better come 
 
 and see/ 
 I d never been West, anyhow a most too wild fer 
 
 I d allus had a notion ; but a lawyer here in town 
 Said I d find myself mistakend when I come to look 
 around. 
 
 So I bids good-by to Mother, and I jumps aboard 
 
 the train, 
 A-thinkin what I d bring her when I come back 
 
 home again 
 
38 FARMER WHIPPLE BACHELOR 
 
 And ef she d had an idy what the present was to be, 
 I think it s more n likely she d a went along with 
 me! 
 
 Cars is awful tejus ridin , fer all they go so fast ! 
 But finally they called out my stoppin -place at last : 
 And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp I was a 
 
 train 
 O cars, and skeered at somepin , runnin down a 
 
 country lane! 
 
 Well, in the morning airly after huntin up the 
 
 man 
 The lawyer who was wantin to swap the piece o 
 
 land 
 
 We started fer the country ; and I ast the history 
 Of the farm its former owner and so forth, 
 
 etcetery ! 
 
 And well it was interim I su prised him, I 
 suppose, 
 
 By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed 
 my nose ! 
 
 But his su prise was greater, and it made him won 
 der more, 
 
 When I kissed and hugged the widder when she 
 met us at the door ! 
 
FARMER WHIPPLE BACHELOR 39 
 
 It was Mary: . . . They s a feelin a-hidin down in 
 
 here 
 Of course I can t explain it, ner ever make it 
 
 clear. 
 It was with us in that meeting I don t want you to 
 
 f ergit ! 
 And it makes me kind o nervous when I think about 
 
 it yit ! 
 
 I bought that farm, and deeded it, afore I left the 
 
 town, 
 With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary 
 
 Brown ! 
 And fu thermore, I took her and the childern fer 
 
 you see, 
 They d never seed their Grandma and I fetched 
 
 em home with me. 
 
 So now you ve got an idy why a man o fifty-four, 
 Who s lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year and 
 
 more, 
 Is a-lookin* glad and smilin ! And I ve jest come 
 
 into town 
 To git a pair o license fer to marry Mary Brown. 
 
MY JOLLY FRIEND S SECRET 
 
 AH, friend of mine, how goes it 
 JLJL Since you ve taken you a mate ? 
 Your smile, though, plainly shows it 
 
 Is a very happy state ! 
 Dan Cupid s necromancy ! 
 
 You must sit you down and dine, 
 And lubricate your fancy 
 
 With a glass or two of wine. 
 
 And as you have "deserted," 
 
 As my other chums have done, 
 While I laugh alone diverted, 
 
 As you drop off one by one 
 And I ve remained unwedded, 
 
 Till you see look here that I m, 
 In a manner, "snatched bald-headed" 
 
 By the sportive hand of Time ! 
 
 I m an "old tin !" yes, but wrinkles 
 
 Are not so plenty, quite, 
 As to cover up the twinkles 
 
 Of the boy ain t I right? 
 40 
 
MY JOLLY FRIEND S SECRET 41 
 
 Yet, there are ghosts of kisses 
 
 Under this mustache of mine 
 My mem ry only misses 
 
 When I drowned em out with wine. 
 
 From acknowledgment so ample, 
 
 You would hardly take me for 
 What I am a perfect sample 
 
 Of a "jolly bachelor"; 
 Not a bachelor has being 
 
 When he laughs at married life 
 But his heart and soul s agreeing 
 
 That he ought to have a wife ] 
 
 Ah, ha ! old chum, this claret, 
 
 Like Fatima, holds the key 
 Of the old Blue-Beardish garret 
 
 Of my hidden mystery ! 
 Did you say you d like to listen? 
 
 Ah, my boy! the "Sad No More!" 
 And the tear-drops that will glisten 
 
 Turn the catch upon the door, 
 
 And sit you down beside me, 
 
 And put yourself at ease 
 I ll trouble you to slide me 
 
 That wine decanter, please; 
 The path is kind o mazy 
 
 Where my fancies have to go, 
 And my heart gets sort o lazy 
 
 On the journey don t you know? 
 
42 MY JOLLY FRIEND S SECRET 
 
 Let me see when I was twenty 
 
 It s a lordly age, my boy, 
 When a fellow s money s plenty, 
 
 And the leisure to enjoy 
 And a girl with hair as golden 
 
 As that; and lips well quite 
 As red as this I m holdin 
 
 Between you and the light. 
 
 And eyes and a complexion 
 
 Ah, heavens ! le -me-see 
 Well, just in this connection, 
 
 Did you lock that door for me? 
 Did I start in recitation 
 
 My past life to recall? 
 Well, that s an indication 
 
 I am purty tight that s all ! 
 
THE SPEEDING OF THE KING S SPITE 
 
 A KING estranged from his loving Queen 
 /~\ By a foolish royal whim 
 Tired and sick of the dull routine 
 
 Of matters surrounding him 
 Issued a mandate in this wise : 
 
 "The dower of my daughter s hand 
 I will give to him who holds this prize, 
 
 The strangest thing in the land." 
 
 But the King, sad sooth ! in this grim decree 
 
 Had a motive low and mean; 
 Twas a royal piece of chicanery 
 
 To harry and spite the Queen ; 
 For King though he was, and beyond compare, 
 
 He had ruled all things save one- 
 Then blamed the Queen that his only heir 
 
 Was a daughter not a son. 
 
 The girl had grown, in the mother s care, 
 Like a bud in the shine and shower 
 
 That drinks of the wine of the balmy air 
 Till it blooms into matchless flower; 
 
 43 
 
44 THE SPEEDING OF THE KING S SPITE 
 
 Her waist was the rose s sterrf that bore 
 The flower and the flower s perfume 
 
 That ripens on till it bulges o er 
 With its wealth of bud and bloom. 
 
 And she had a lover lowly sprung, 
 
 But a purer, nobler heart 
 Never spake in a courtlier tongue 
 
 Or wooed with a dearer art : 
 And the fair pair paled at the King s decree ; 
 
 But the smiling Fates contrived 
 To have them wed, in a secrecy 
 
 That the Queen herself connived 
 
 While the grim King s heralds scoured the land 
 
 And the countries roundabout, 
 Shouting aloud, at the King s command, 
 
 A challenge to knave or lout, 
 Prince or peasant, "The mighty King 
 
 Would have ye understand 
 That he who shows him the strangest thing 
 
 Shall have his daughter s hand!" 
 
 And thousands flocked to the royal throne, 
 
 Bringing a thousand things 
 Strange and curious; One, a bone 
 
 The hinge of a fairy s wings ; 
 And one, the glass of a mermaid queen, 
 
 Gemmed with a diamond dew, 
 Where, down in its reflex, dimly seen, 
 
 Her face smiled out at you. 
 
THE SPEEDING OF THE KING S SPITE 45 
 
 One brought a cluster of some strange date, 
 
 With a subtle and searching tang 
 That seemed, as you tasted, to penetrate 
 
 The heart like a serpent s fang; 
 And back you fell for a spell entranced, 
 
 As cold as a corpse of stone, 
 And heard your brains, as they laughed and 
 danced 
 
 And talked in an undertone. 
 
 One brought a bird that could whistle a tune 
 
 So piercingly pure and sweet, 
 That tears would fall from the eyes of the moon 
 
 In dewdrops at its feet; 
 And the winds would sigh at the sweet refrain, 
 
 Till they swooned in an ecstacy, 
 To waken again in a hurricane 
 
 Of riot and jubilee. 
 
 One brought a lute that was wrought of a shell 
 
 Luminous as the shine 
 Of a new-born star in a dewy dell, 
 
 And its strings were strands of wine 
 That sprayed at the Fancy s touch and fused, 
 
 As your listening spirit leant 
 Drunken through with the airs that oozed 
 
 From the o ersweet instrument. 
 
 One brought a tablet of ivory 
 
 Whereon no thing was writ, 
 But, at night and the dazzled eyes would see 
 
 Flickering lines o er it, 
 
46 THE SPEEDING OF THE KING S SPITE. 
 
 And each, as you read from the magic tome, 
 
 Lightened and died in flame, 
 And the memory held but a golden poem 
 
 Too beautiful to name. 
 
 Till it seemed all marvels that ever were known 
 
 Or dreamed of under the sun 
 Were brought and displayed at the royal throne, 
 
 And put by, one by one; 
 Till a graybeard monster came to the King 
 
 Haggard and wrinkled and old 
 And spread to his gaze this wondrous thing, 
 
 A gossamer veil of gold. 
 
 Strangely marvelous mocking the gaze 
 
 Like a tangle of bright sunshine, 
 Dipping a million glittering rays 
 
 In a baptism divine : 
 And a maiden, sheened in this gauze attire 
 
 Sifting a glance of her eye 
 Dazzled men s souls with a fierce desire 
 
 To kiss and caress her and die. 
 
 And the grim King swore by his royal beard 
 
 That the veil had won the prize, 
 While the gray old monster blinked and leered 
 
 With his lashless, red-rimmed eyes, 
 As the fainting form of the princess fell, 
 
 And the mother s heart went wild, 
 Throbbing and swelling a muffled knell 
 
 For the dead hopes of her child. 
 
THE SPEEDING OF THE KING S SPITE 47 
 
 But her clouded face with a faint smile shone, 
 
 As suddenly, through the throng, 
 Pushing his way to the royal throne, 
 
 A fair youth strode along, 
 While a strange smile hovered about his eyes, 
 
 As he said to the grim old King : 
 "The veil of gold must lose the prize ; 
 
 For / have a stranger thing." 
 
 He bent and whispered a sentence brief ; 
 
 But the monarch shook his head, 
 With a look expressive of unbelief 
 
 "It can t be so," he said ; 
 "Or give me proof ; and I, the King, 
 
 Give you my daughter s hand, 
 For certes THAT is a stranger thing 
 
 The strangest thing in the land I" 
 
 Then the fair youth, turning, caught the Queen 
 
 In a rapturous caress, 
 While his lithe form towered in lordly mien, 
 
 As he said in a brief address : 
 "My fair bride s mother is this ; and, lo, 
 
 As you stare in your royal awe, 
 By this pure kiss do I proudly show 
 
 A love for a mother-in-law!" 
 
 Then a thaw set in the old King s mood, 
 
 And a sweet Spring freshet came 
 Into his eyes, and his heart renewed 
 
 Its love for the favored dame: 
 
48 THE SPEEDING OF THE KING S SPITE 
 
 But often he has been heard to declare 
 That "he never could clearly see 
 
 How, in the deuce, such a strange affair 
 Could have ended so happily!" 
 
JOB WORK 
 
 "T T TRITE me a rhyme of the present time" 
 V V And the poet took his pen 
 
 And wrote such lines as the miser minds 
 Hide in the hearts of men. 
 
 He grew enthused, as the poets used 
 When their fingers kissed the strings 
 
 Of some sweet lyre, and caught the fire 
 True inspiration brings, 
 
 And sang the song of a nation s wrong 
 
 Of the patriot s galling chain, 
 And the glad release that the angel, Peace, 
 
 Has given him again. 
 
 He sang the lay of religion s sway, 
 Where a hundred creeds clasp hands 
 
 And shout in glee such a symphony 
 That the whole world understands. 
 49 
 
50 JOB WORK 
 
 He struck the key of monopoly, 
 And sang of her swift decay, 
 
 And traveled the track of the railway back 
 With a blithesome roundelay 
 
 Of the tranquil bliss of a true love kiss ; 
 
 And painted the picture, too, 
 Of the wedded life, and the patient wife, 
 
 And the husband fond and true ; 
 
 And sang the joy that a noble boy 
 
 Brings to a father s soul, 
 Who lets the wine as a mocker shine 
 
 Stagnated in the bowl. 
 
 And he stabbed his pen in the ink again, 
 And wrote, with a writhing frown, 
 
 "This is the end." "And now, my friend, 
 You may print it upside down!" 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 A QUITE convincing axiom 
 Is, "Lit e is like a play" ; 
 For, turning back its pages some 
 Few dog-eared years away, 
 I find where I 
 Committed my 
 Love-tale with brackets where to sigh. 
 
 I feel an idle interest 
 
 To read again the page; 
 I enter, as a lover dressed, 
 At twenty years of age, 
 And play the part 
 With throbbing heart, 
 And all an actor s glowing art. 
 
 And she who plays my Lady-love 
 
 Excels ! Her loving glance 
 Has power her audience to move 
 I am her audience 
 Her acting tact, 
 To tell the fact, 
 
 "Brings down the house" in every act. 
 51 
 
52 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 And often we defy the curse 
 
 Of storms and thunder-showers, 
 To meet together and rehearse 
 This little play of ours 
 I think, when she 
 "Makes love" to me, 
 She kisses very naturally ! 
 
 Yes; it s convincing rather 
 
 That "Life is like a play" : 
 I am playing "Heavy Father" 
 In a "Screaming Farce" to-day, 
 That so "brings down 
 The house," I frown, 
 And fain would "ring the curtain down." 
 
PLAIN SERMONS 
 
 I SAW a man and envied him beside 
 Because of this world s goods he had great 
 store ; 
 
 But even as I envied him, he died, 
 And left me envious of him no more. 
 
 I saw another man and envied still 
 Because he was content with frugal lot; 
 
 But as I envied him, the rich man s will 
 Bequeathed him all, and envy I forgot. 
 
 Yet still another man I saw, and he 
 I envied for a calm and tranquil mind 
 
 That nothing fretted in the least degree 
 Until, alas ! I found that he was blind. 
 
 What vanity is envy! for I find 
 
 I have been rich in dross of thought, and poor 
 In that I was a fool, and lastly blind 
 
 For never having seen myself before ! 
 53 
 
"TRADIN JOE" 
 
 I M one o these cur ous kind o chaps 
 You think you know when you don t, 
 
 perhaps ! 
 
 I hain t no fool ner I don t p tend 
 To be so smart I could rickommend 
 Myself f er a conger ssman, my friend ! 
 But I m kind o betwixt-and-between, you 
 
 know, 
 
 One o these fellers at folks call "slow." 
 And I ll say jest here I m kind o queer 
 Regardin things at I see and hear, 
 Fer I m thick o hearin sometimes, and 
 It s hard to git me to understand ; 
 But other times it hain t, you bet! 
 Fer I don t sleep with both eyes shet ! 
 
 I ve swapped a power in stock, and so 
 The neighbers calls me "Tradin Joe" 
 And I m goin to tell you bout a trade, 
 And one o the best I ever made : 
 
 Folks has gone so fur s to say 
 At I m well fixed, in a worldly way, 
 And bein so, and a widower, 
 It s not su prisin , as you ll infer, 
 I m purty handy among the sect 
 54 
 
"TRAD1N JOE" 55 
 
 Widders especially, rickollect! 
 
 And I won t deny that along o late 
 
 I ve hankered a heap f er the married state 
 
 But some way o nother the longer we wait 
 
 The harder it is to discover a mate. 
 
 Marshall Thomas, a friend o mine, 
 
 Doin some in the tradin line, 
 
 But a most too young to know it all 
 
 On y at picnics er some ball! 
 
 Says to me, in a banterin way, 
 
 As we was a-loaclin stock one day, 
 
 "You re a-huntin a wife, and I want you to see 
 
 My girl s mother, at Kankakee ! 
 
 She hain t over forty good-lookin and spry, 
 
 And jest the woman to fill your eye! 
 
 And I m a-goin there Sund y, and now," 
 
 says he, 
 
 "I want to take you along with me; 
 And you marry her, and," he says, "by shaw ! 
 You ll hev me fer yer son-in-law !" 
 I studied a while, and says I, "Well, I ll 
 First have to see ef she suits my style; 
 And ef she does, you kin bet your life 
 Your mother-in-law will be my wife !" 
 
 Well, Sund y come ; and I fixed up some 
 Putt on a collar I did, by gum ! 
 Got down my "plug," and my satin vest 
 (You wouldn t know me to see me dressed! 
 
56 "TRADIN JOE" 
 
 But any one knows ef you got the clothes 
 You kin go in the crowd wher the best of em 
 
 goes!) 
 
 And I greeced my boots, and combed my hair 
 Keerf ully over the bald place there ; 
 And Marshall Thomas and me that day 
 Eat our dinners with Widder Gray 
 And her girl Han ! * * * 
 
 Well, jest a glance 
 O the widder s smilin countenance, 
 A-cuttin up chicken and big pot-pies, 
 Would make a man hungry in Paradise! 
 And passin p serves and jelly and cake 
 At would make an angel s appetite ache! 
 Pourin out coffee as yaller as gold 
 Twic t as much as the cup could hold 
 La! it was rich! And then she d say, 
 "Take some o this!" in her coaxin way, 
 Tell ef I d been a hoss I d a foundered, shore, 
 And jest dropped dead on her white-oak floor! 
 
 Well, the way I talked would a* done you good, 
 Ef you d a been there to a understood ; 
 Tel I noticed Hanner and Marshall, they 
 Was a-noticin me in a cur ous way; 
 So I says to myse f, says I, "Now, Joe, 
 The best thing fer you is to jest go slow!" 
 And I simmered down, and let them do 
 The bulk o the talkin the evening through. 
 
"TRADIN JOE" 57 
 
 And Marshall was still in a talkative gait 
 When he left, that evening tolable late. 
 "How do you like her ?" he says to me ; 
 Says I, "She suits, to a t-y-7V*Y 
 And then I ast how matters stood 
 With him in the opposite neighberhood ? 
 "Bully !" he says ; "I ruther guess 
 I ll finally git her to say the yes. 
 I named it to her to-night, and she 
 Kind o smiled, and said she d see 
 And that s a purty good sign !" says he : 
 "Yes," says I, "you re ahead o me!" 
 And then he laughed, and said, "Go in!" 
 And patted me on the shoulder ag in. 
 
 Well, ever sense then I ve been ridin a good 
 Deal through the Kankakee neighberhood ; 
 And I make it convenient sometimes to stop 
 And hitch a few minutes, and kind o drop 
 In at the widder s, and talk o the crop 
 And one thing o nother. And week afore last 
 The notion struck me, as I drove past, 
 I d stop at the place and state my case 
 Might as well do it at first as last ! 
 
 I felt first-rate ; so I hitched at the gate, 
 And went up to the house; and, strange to 
 
 relate, 
 
 Marshall Thomas had dropped in, too. 
 "Glad to see you, sir, how do you do ?" 
 He says, says he! Well it sounded queer; 
 
58 "TRADIN JOE" 
 
 And when Han told me to take a cheer, 
 Marshall got up and putt out o the room 
 And motioned his hand fer the widder to come. 
 I didn t say nothin fer quite a spell, 
 But thinks I to myse f, "There s a dog in the 
 
 well I" 
 
 And Han she smiled so cur ous at me 
 Says I, "What s up?" And she says, says she, 
 "Marshall s been at me to marry ag in, 
 And I told him no/ jest as you come in." 
 Well, somepin o nother in that girl s voice 
 Says to me, "Joseph, here s your choice !" 
 And another minute her guileless breast 
 Was lovin ly throbbin ag in my vest! 
 And then I kissed her, and heerd a smack 
 Come like a echo a-flutterin back, 
 And we looked around, and in full view 
 Marshall was kissin the widder, too! 
 Well, we all of us laughed, in our glad surprise, 
 Tel the tears come a-streamin out of our eyes ! 
 And when Marsh said " Twas the squarest 
 
 trade 
 
 That ever me and him had made," 
 We both shuck hands, y jucks! and swore 
 We d stick together ferevermore. 
 And old Squire Chipman tuck us the trip : 
 And Marshall and me s in pardnership ! 
 
DOT LEEDLE BOY 
 
 OX S a leedle Gristmas story 
 Dot I told der leedle folks 
 Und I vant you stop dot laughin 
 
 Und grackin funny jokes ! 
 So help me Peter-Moses! 
 
 Ot s no time for monkey-shine, 
 Ober I vast told you somedings 
 Of dot leedle boy of mine ! 
 
 Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder, 
 
 Ven der snow vas all about 
 Dot you have to chop der hatchet 
 
 Eef you got der sauerkraut! 
 Und der cheekens on der hind leg 
 
 Vas standin in der shine 
 Der sun shmile out dot morning 
 
 On dot leedle boy of mine. 
 
 He vas yoost a leedle baby 
 
 Not bigger as a doll 
 Dot time I got acquaintet 
 
 Ach ! you ought to heard im squall !- 
 59 
 
60 DOT LEEDLE BOY 
 
 I grackys ! dot s der moosic 
 Ot make me feel so fine 
 
 Ven first I vas been marriet 
 Oh, dot leedle boy of mine ! 
 
 He look yoost like his fader ! 
 
 So, ven der vimmen said, 
 "Vot a purty leedle baby 1" 
 
 Katrina shake der head. . . . 
 I dink she must a notice 
 
 Dot der baby vas a-gryin , 
 Und she cover up der blankets 
 
 Of dot leedle boy of mine. 
 
 Vel, ven he vas got bigger, 
 
 Dot he grawl und bump his nose, 
 Und make der table over, 
 
 Und molasses on his glothes 
 Dot make im all der sveeter, 
 
 So I say to my Katrine, 
 "Better you vas quit a-shpankin 
 
 Dot leedle boy of mine !" 
 
 No more he vas older 
 
 As about a dozen months 
 He speak der English language 
 
 Und der German bote at vonce! 
 Und he dringk his glass of lager 
 
 Like a Londsman fon der Rhine 
 Und I klingk my glass togeder 
 
 Mit dot leedle boy of mine ! 
 
DOT LEEDLE BOY 61 
 
 I vish you could V seen id 
 
 Ven he glimb up on der chair 
 Und shmash der lookin -glasses 
 
 Ven he try to comb his hair 
 Mit a hammer ! Und Katrina 
 
 Say, "Dot s an ugly sign!" 
 But I laugh und vink my fingers 
 
 At dot leedle boy of mine. 
 
 But vonce, dot Vinter morning, 
 
 He shlip out in der snow 
 Mitout no stockin s on im. 
 
 He say he "vant to go 
 Und fly some mit der birdies !" 
 
 Und ve give im medi-cine 
 Ven he catch der "parrygoric" 
 
 Dot leedle boy of mine ! 
 
 Und so I set und nurse im, 
 
 Vile der Gristmas vas come roun , 
 Und I told im bout "Kriss Kringle," 
 
 How he come der chimbly down : 
 Und I ask im eef he love im 
 
 Eef he bring im someding fine ? 
 "Nicht besser as mein fader," 
 
 Say dot leedle boy of mine. 
 
 Und he put his arms aroun me 
 
 Und hug so close und tight, 
 I hear der gclock a-tickin 
 
 All der balance of der night ! . . . 
 
62 DOT LEEDLE BOY 
 
 Someding make me feel so funny 
 Veil I say to my Katrine, 
 
 "Let us go und fill der stockin s 
 Of dot leedle boy of mine." 
 
 Veil. Ve buyed a leedle horses 
 
 Dot you pull im mit a shtring, 
 Und a leedle fancy jay-bird 
 
 Eef you vant to hear im sing 
 You took im by der topknot 
 
 Und yoost blow in behine 
 Und dot make much spectakel 
 
 For dot leedle boy of mine ! 
 
 Und gandies, nuts und raizens 
 
 Und I buy a leedle drum 
 Dot I vant to hear im rattle 
 
 Ven der Gristmas morning come! 
 Und a leedle shmall tin rooster 
 
 Dot vould crow so loud und fine 
 Ven he sqveeze im in der morning, 
 
 Dot leedle boy of mine! 
 
 Und vile ve vas a-fixin 
 
 Dot leedle boy vake out! 
 I thought he been a-dreamin 
 
 "Kriss Kringle" vas about, 
 For he say "Dofs him! / see im 
 
 Mit der shtars dot make der shine!" 
 Und he yoost keep on a-gryin 
 
 Dot leedle boy of mine, 
 
DOT LEEDLE BOY 63 
 
 Und gottin vorse und vorser 
 
 Und tumble on der bed ! 
 So ven der doctor seen id, 
 
 He kindo shake his head, 
 Und feel his pulse und visper, 
 
 "Der boy is a-dyinY 
 You dink I could believe id? 
 
 Dot leedle boy of mine? 
 
 I told you, friends dot s someding, 
 
 Der last time dot he speak 
 Und say, "Goot-by , Kriss Kringle!" 
 
 Dot make me feel so veak 
 I yoost kneel down und drimble, 
 
 Und bur-sed out a-gryin , 
 "Mein Gott, mein Gott in Himniel! 
 
 Dot leedle boy of mine!" 
 
 Der sun don t shine dot Gristmas ! 
 
 . . . Eef dot leedle boy vould liff d 
 No deefer-en ! for Heaven vas 
 
 His leedle Gristmas gift! 
 Und der rooster, und der gandy, 
 
 Und me und my Katrine 
 Und der jay-bird is a-vaiting 
 
 For dot leedle boy of mine. 
 
I SMOKE MY PIPE 
 
 I CAN T extend to every friend 
 In need a helping hand 
 No matter though I wish it so, 
 Tis not as Fortune planned ; 
 But haply may I fancy they 
 
 Are men of different stripe 
 Than others think who hint and wink,- 
 And so I smoke my pipe ! 
 
 A golden coal to crown the bowl 
 
 My pipe and I alone, 
 I sit and muse with idler views 
 
 Perchance than I should own : 
 It might be worse to own the purse 
 
 Whose glutted bowels gripe 
 In little qualms of stinted alms ; 
 
 And so I smoke my pipe. 
 
 And if inclined to moor my mind 
 And cast the anchor Hope, 
 
 A puff of breath will put to death 
 The morbid misanthrope 
 64 
 
I SMOKE MY PIPE 65 
 
 That lurks inside as errors hide 
 
 In standing forms of type 
 To mar at birth some line of worth ; 
 
 And so I smoke my pipe. 
 
 The subtle stings misfortune flings 
 
 Can give me little pain 
 When my narcotic spell has wrought 
 
 This quiet in my brain: 
 When I can waste the past in taste 
 
 So luscious and so ripe 
 That like an elf I hug myself ; 
 
 And so I smoke my pipe. 
 
 And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds 
 
 I watch the phantom s flight, 
 Till alien eyes from Paradise 
 
 Smile on me as I write : 
 And I forgive the wrongs that live, 
 
 As lightly as I wipe 
 Away the tear that rises here ; 
 
 And so I smoke my pipe. 
 
RED RIDING-HOOD 
 
 SWEET little myth of the nursery story- 
 Earliest love of mine infantile breast, 
 Be something tangible, bloom in thy glory 
 
 Into existence, as thou art addressed ! 
 Hasten ! appear to me, guileless and good 
 Thou are so dear to me, Red Riding-Hood! 
 
 Azure-blue eyes, in a marvel of wonder, 
 Over the dawn of a blush breaking out ; 
 
 Sensitive nose, with a little smile under 
 Trying to hide in a blossoming pout 
 
 Couldn t be serious, try as you would, 
 
 Little mysterious Red Riding-Hood! 
 
 Hah! little girl, it is desolate, lonely, 
 Out in this gloomy old forest of Life ! 
 
 Here are not pansies and buttercups only 
 Brambles and briers as keen as a knife ; 
 
 And a Heart, ravenous, trails in the wood 
 
 For the meal have he must, Red Riding- 
 Hood! 
 
 66 
 
he 
 
 AV OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 69 
 
 So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till, in shadowy de 
 sign, 
 
 I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of 
 mine. 
 
 The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of 
 
 surprise, 
 As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my 
 
 eyes, 
 And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems 
 
 to yoke 
 Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the 
 
 smoke. 
 
 Tis a fragrant retrospection, for the loving 
 thoughts that start 
 
 Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the 
 heart ; 
 
 And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury di 
 vine 
 
 When my truant fancies wander with that old 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 Thougn I hear beneath my study, like a fluttering of 
 
 wings, 
 The voices of my children and the mother as she 
 
 sings 
 I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any 
 
 theme 
 When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a 
 
 dream 
 
70 AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 
 
 In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a 
 charm 
 
 To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of 
 harm, 
 
 For I find an extra flavor in Memory s mellow 
 wine 
 
 That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweet 
 heart of mine. 
 
 O Childhood-days enchanted! O the magic of the 
 
 Spring ! 
 With all green boughs to blossom white, and all 
 
 bluebirds to sing ! 
 When all the air, to toss and quaff, made life a 
 
 jubilee 
 And changed the children s song and laugh to 
 
 shrieks of ecstasy. 
 
 With eyes half closed in clouds that ooze from lips 
 that taste, as well, 
 
 The peppermint and cinnamon, I hear the old 
 School bell, 
 
 And from "Recess" romp in again from "Black- 
 man s" broken line, 
 
 To smile, behind my "lesson," at that old sweet 
 heart of mine. 
 
 A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, 
 Floats out of my tobacco as the Genii from the vase ; 
 
AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE /I 
 
 And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure 
 
 eyes 
 As glowing as the summer and as tender as the 
 
 skies. 
 
 I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered 
 
 dress 
 She wore when first I kissed her and she answered 
 
 the caress 
 With the written declaration that, "as surely as the 
 
 vine 
 Grew round the stump," she loved me that old 
 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 Again I made her presents, in a really helpless 
 way, 
 
 The big "Rhode Island Greening" I was hungry, 
 too, that day ! 
 
 But I follow her from Spelling, with her hand be 
 hind her so 
 
 And I slip the apple in it and the Teacher doesn t 
 know! 
 
 I give my treasures to her all, my pencil blue- 
 and-red ; 
 
 And, if little girls played marbles, mine should all 
 be hers, instead! 
 
 But she gave me her photograph, and printed "Ever 
 Thine" 
 
 Across the back in blue-and-red that old sweet 
 heart of mine ! 
 
70 AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 
 
 In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a 
 charm 
 
 To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of 
 harm, 
 
 For I find an extra flavor in Memory s mellow 
 wine 
 
 That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweet 
 heart of mine. 
 
 O Childhood-days enchanted! O the magic of the 
 
 Spring ! 
 With all green boughs to blossom white, and all 
 
 bluebirds to sing ! 
 When all the air, to toss and quaff, made life a 
 
 jubilee 
 And changed the children s song and laugh to 
 
 shrieks of ecstasy. 
 
 With eyes half closed in clouds that ooze from lips 
 that taste, as well, 
 
 The peppermint and cinnamon, I hear the old 
 School bell, 
 
 And from "Recess" romp in again from "Black- 
 man s" broken line, 
 
 To smile, behind my "lesson," at that old sweet 
 heart of mine. 
 
 A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, 
 Floats out of my tobacco as the Genii from the vase ; 
 
AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 71 
 
 And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure 
 
 eyes 
 As glowing as the summer and as tender as the 
 
 skies. 
 
 I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered 
 
 dress 
 She wore when first I kissed her and she answered 
 
 the caress 
 With the written declaration that, "as surely as the 
 
 vine 
 Grew round the stump," she loved me that old 
 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 Again I made her presents, in a really helpless 
 way, 
 
 The big "Rhode Island Greening" I was hungry, 
 too, that day ! 
 
 But I follow her from Spelling, with her hand be 
 hind her so 
 
 And I slip the apple in it and the Teacher doesn t 
 know! 
 
 I give my treasures to her all, my pencil blue- 
 and-red ; 
 
 And, if little girls played marbles, mine should all 
 be hers, instead! 
 
 But she gave me her photograph, and printed "Ever 
 Thine" 
 
 Across the back in blue-and-red that old sweet 
 heart of mine ! 
 
72 AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 
 
 And again I feel the pressure of her slender little 
 
 hand, 
 As we used to talk together of the future we had 
 
 planned, 
 When I should be a poet, and with nothing else 
 
 to do 
 But write the tender verses that she set the music 
 
 to ... 
 
 When we should live together in a cozy little cot 
 Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, 
 Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather 
 
 ever fine, 
 
 And the birds were ever singing for that old sweet 
 heart of mine. 
 
 When I should be her lover forever and a day, 
 And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair 
 
 was gray ; 
 And we should be so happy that when cither s lips 
 
 were dumb 
 They would not smile in Heaven till the other s kiss 
 
 had come. 
 
 But, ah ! my dream is broken by a step upon the 
 
 stair, 
 And the door is softly opened, and my wife is 
 
 standing there : 
 Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I 
 
 resign, 
 To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart 
 
 of mine. 
 

 SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 
 
 I HAIN T no hand at tellin tales, 
 Er spinnin yarns, as the sailors say ; 
 Someway o nether, language fails 
 To slide fer me in the oily way 
 That lawyers has; and I wisht it would, 
 Fer I ve got somepin that I call good; 
 But bein only a country squire, 
 I ve learned to listen and admire, 
 Ruther preferrin to be addressed 
 Than talk myse f but I ll do my best : 
 
 Old Jeff Thompson well, I ll say, 
 Was the clos test man I ever saw! 
 Rich as cream, but the porest pay, 
 And the meanest man to work fer La! 
 I ve knowed that man to work one "hand"- 
 Fer little er nothin , you understand 
 From four o clock in the morning light 
 Tel eight and nine o clock at night, 
 And then find fault with his appetite ! 
 He d drive all over the neighberhood 
 73 
 
74 SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 
 
 To miss the place where a toll-gate stood, 
 And slip in town, by some old road 
 That no two men in the county knowed, 
 With a jag o wood, and a sack o wheat, 
 That wouldn t burn and you couldn t eat ! 
 And the trades he d make, 11 I jest de-clare, 
 Was enough to make a preacher swear ! 
 And then he d hitch, and hang about 
 Tel the lights in the toll-gate was blowed out, 
 And then the turnpike he d turn in 
 And sneak his way back home ag in ! 
 
 Some folks hint, and I make no doubt, 
 That that s what wore his old wife out 
 Toilin away from day to day 
 And year to year, through heat and cold, 
 Uncomplainin the same old way 
 The martyrs died in the days of old ; 
 And a-clingin , too, as the martyrs done, 
 To one fixed faith, and her only one, 
 Little Patience, the sweetest child 
 That ever wept unrickonciled, 
 Er felt the pain and the ache and sting 
 That only a mother s death can bring. 
 
 Patience Thompson! I think that name 
 Must a come from a power above, 
 Fer it seemed to fit her jest the same 
 As a gaiter would, er a fine kid glove! 
 And to see that girl, with all the care 
 
SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 75 
 
 Of the household on her I de-clare 
 It was audacious, the work she d do, 
 And the thousand plans that she d putt 
 
 through ; 
 
 And sing like a medder-lark all day long, 
 And drowned her cares in the joys o song; 
 And laugh sometimes tel the farmer s "hand," 
 Away fur off in the fields, would stand 
 A-listenin , with the plow half drawn, 
 Tel the coaxin echoes called him on; 
 And the furries seemed, in his dreamy eyes, 
 Like foot-paths a-leadin to Paradise, 
 As off through the hazy atmosphere 
 The call fer dinner reached his ear. 
 
 Now love s as cunnin a little thing 
 
 As a hummin -bird upon the wing, 
 
 And as liable to poke his nose 
 
 Jest where folks would least suppose, 
 
 And more n likely build his nest 
 
 Right in the heart you d leave unguessed, 
 
 And Jive and thrive at your expense 
 
 At least, that s my experience. 
 
 And old Jeff Thompson often thought, 
 
 In his se fish way, that the quiet John 
 
 Was a stiddy chap, as a farm-hand ought 
 
 To always be, fer the airliest dawn 
 
 Found John busy and "easy," too, 
 
 Whenever his wages would fall due! 
 
 To sum him up with a final touch, 
 
76 SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 
 
 He eat so little and worked so much, 
 That old Jeff laughed to hisse f and said, 
 "He makes me money and aims his bread !" 
 
 But John, fer all of his quietude, 
 Would sometimes drap a word er so 
 That none but Patience understood, 
 And none but her was meant to know! 
 Maybe at meal-times John would say, 
 As the sugar-bowl come down his way, 
 "Thanky, no ; my coffee s sweet 
 Enough fer me!" with sich conceit, 
 She d know at once, without no doubt, 
 He meant because she poured it out; 
 And smile and blush, and all sich stuff, 
 And ast ef it was "strong enough?" 
 And git the answer, neat and trim, 
 "It couldn t be too strong fer him!" 
 
 And so things went fer bout a year, 
 
 Tel John, at last, found pluck to go 
 
 And pour his tale in the old man s ear 
 
 And ef it had been hot lead, I know 
 
 It couldn t a raised a louder fuss, 
 
 Ner a riled the old man s temper wuss ! 
 
 He jest lit in, and cussed and swore, 
 
 And lunged and rared, and ripped and tore, 
 
 And told John jest to leave his door, 
 
 And not to darken it no more ! 
 
 But Patience cried, with eyes all wet, 
 
 "Remember, John, and don t ferget, 
 
SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 77 
 
 Whatever comes, I love you yet!" 
 
 But the old man thought, in his se fish way, 
 
 "I ll see her married rich some day ; 
 
 And that," thinks he, "is money fer me 
 
 And my will s law, as it ought to be !" 
 
 So when, in the course of a month er so, 
 
 A widower, with a farm er two, 
 
 Comes to Jeff s, w y, the folks, you know, 
 
 Had to talk as the folks ll do : 
 
 It was the talk of the neighberhood 
 
 Patience and John, and their affairs; 
 
 And this old chap with a few gray hairs 
 
 Had "cut John out," it was understood. 
 
 And some folks reckoned "Patience, too, 
 
 Knowed what she was a-goin to do 
 
 It was like her la ! indeed ! 
 
 All she loved was dollars and cents 
 
 Like old Jeff and they saw no need 
 
 Fer John to pine at her negligence !" 
 
 But others said, in a kinder way, 
 
 They missed the songs she used to sing 
 
 They missed the smiles that used to play 
 
 Over her face, and the laughin ring 
 
 Of her glad voice that everything 
 
 Of her old se f seemed dead and gone, 
 
 And this was the ghost that they gazed on! 
 
 Tel finally it was noised about 
 There was a weddin* soon to be 
 
78 SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 
 
 Down at Jeff s ; and the "cat was out" 
 Shore enough! LI the Jee-mun-nee! 
 It riled me when John told me so, 
 Fer I was a friend o John s, you know ; 
 And his trimblin voice jest broke in two 
 As a feller s voice ll sometimes do. 
 And I says, says I, "Ef I know my biz 
 And I think I know what jestice is, 
 I ve read some law and I d advise 
 A man like you to wipe his eyes 
 And square his jaws and start agin, 
 Fer jestice is a-goin to win!" 
 And it wasn t long tel his eyes had cleared 
 As blue as the skies, and the sun appeared 
 In the shape of a good old-fashioned smile 
 That I hadn t seen fer a long, long while. 
 
 So we talked on fer a hour er more, 
 And sunned ourselves in the open door, 
 Tel a hoss-and-buggy down the road 
 Come a-drivin up, that I guess John knowed, 
 Fer he winked and says, "I ll dessappear 
 They d smell a mice ef they saw me here !" 
 And he thumbed his nose at the old gray mare, 
 And hid hisse f in the house somewhere. 
 
 Well. The rig drove up : and I raised my head 
 
 As old Jeff hollered to me and said 
 
 That "him and his old friend there had come 
 
 To see ef the squire was at home." 
 
 ... I told em "I was ; and I aimed to be 
 
SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 79 
 
 At every chance of a weddin -f ee !" 
 And then I laughed and they laughed, too, 
 Fer that was the object they had in view. 
 "Would I be on hands at eight that night?" 
 They ast ; and VI, "You re mighty right, 
 Til be on hand !" And then I bu st 
 Out a-laughin my very wu st, 
 And so did they, as they wheeled away 
 And drove to rds town in a cloud o dust. 
 Then I shet the door, and me and John 
 Laughed and laughed, and jest laughed on, 
 Tel Mother drapped her specs, and by 
 Jeewhillikers! I thought she d die! 
 And she couldn t V told, I ll bet my hat, 
 What on earth she was laughin at! 
 
 But all o the fun o the tale hain t done ! 
 
 Fer a drizzlin rain had jest begun, 
 
 And a-havin bout four mile to ride, 
 
 I jest concluded I d better light 
 
 Out fer Jeff s and save my hide, 
 
 Fer it was a-goin to storm, that night! 
 
 So we went down to the barn, and John 
 
 Saddled my beast, and I got on ; 
 
 And he told me somepin to not ferget, 
 
 And when I left, he was laughin yet. 
 
 And, proachin on to my journey s end, 
 The great big draps o the rain come down, 
 And the thunder growled in a way to lend 
 
80 SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 
 
 An awful look to the lowerin frown 
 The dull sky wore ; and the lightnin glanced 
 Tel my old mare jest more n pranced, 
 And tossed her head, and bugged her eyes 
 To about four times their natchurl size, 
 As the big black lips of the clouds ud drap 
 Out some oath of a thunderclap, 
 And threaten on in an undertone 
 That chilled a feller clean to the bone! 
 
 But I struck shelter soon enough 
 
 To save myse f. And the house was jammed 
 
 With the women-folks, and the weddin - 
 
 stuff: 
 
 A great, long table, fairly crammed 
 With big pound-cakes and chops and steaks 
 And roasts and stews and stumick-aches 
 Of every fashion, form, and size, 
 From twisters up to punkin-pies! 
 And candies, oranges, and figs, 
 And reezins, all the "whilligigs" 
 And "jim-cracks" that the law allows 
 On sich occasions ! Bobs and bows 
 Of gigglin girls, with corkscrew curls, 
 And fancy ribbons, reds and blues, 
 And "beau-ketchers" and "curliques" 
 To beat the world! And seven o clock 
 Brought old Jeff ; and brought the groom, 
 With a sideboard-collar on, and stock 
 That choked him so, he hadn t room 
 To swaller in, er even sneeze, 
 
SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 81 
 
 Er clear his th oat with any ease 
 
 Er comfort and a good square cough 
 
 Would saw his Adam s apple off ! 
 
 But as fer Patience My! Oomh-oomh! 
 
 I never saw her look so sweet! 
 
 Her face was cream and roses, too ; 
 
 And then them eyes o heavenly blue 
 
 Jest made an angel all complete ! 
 
 And when she split em up in smiles 
 
 And splintered em around the room, 
 
 And danced acrost and met the groom, 
 
 And laughed out loud It kind o spiles 
 
 My language when I come to that 
 
 Fer, as she laid away his hat, 
 
 Thinks I, "The papers hid inside 
 
 Of that said hat must make a bride 
 
 A happy one fer all her life, 
 
 Er else a wrecked and wretched wife!" 
 
 And, someway, then, I thought of John, 
 
 Then looked towards Patience. . . . She was 
 
 gone! 
 
 The door stood open, and the rain 
 Was dashin in ; and sharp and plain 
 Above the storm we heerd a cry 
 A ringin , laughin , loud "Good-by !" 
 That died away, as fleet and fast 
 A hoss s hoofs went splashin past! 
 And that was all. Twas done that quick ! . . . 
 You ve heerd o fellers "lookin sick"? 
 I wisht you d seen the groom jest then 
 
82 SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 
 
 I wisht you d seen them two old men, 
 
 With starin eyes that fairly glared 
 
 At one another, and the scared 
 
 And empty faces of the crowd, 
 
 I wisht you could a been allowed 
 
 To jest look on and see it all, 
 
 And heerd the girls and women bawl 
 
 And wring their hands ; and heerd old Jeff 
 
 A-cussin as he swung hisse f 
 
 Upon his hoss, who champed his bit 
 
 As though old Nick had holt of it : 
 
 And cheek by jowl the two old wrecks 
 
 Rode off as though they d break their necks. 
 
 And as we all stood starin out 
 
 Into the night, I felt the brush 
 
 Of some one s hand, and turned about, 
 
 And heerd a voice that whispered, "Hush! 
 
 They re waitin in the kitchen, and 
 
 You re wanted. Don t you understand?" 
 
 Well, ef my memory serves me now, 
 
 I think I winked. Well, anyhow, 
 
 I left the crowd a-gawkin there, 
 
 And jest slipped off around to where 
 
 The back door opened, and went in, 
 
 And turned and shet the door ag in, 
 
 And maybe locked it couldn t swear, 
 
 A woman s arms around me makes 
 
 Me liable to make mistakes. 
 
 I read a marriage license nex , 
 
 But as I didn t have my specs 
 
SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 83 
 
 I jest inferred it was all right, 
 And tied the knot so mortal-tight 
 That Patience and my old friend John 
 Was safe enough from that time on! 
 
 Well, now, I might go on and tell 
 How all the joke at last leaked out, 
 And how the youngsters raised the yell 
 And rode the happy groom about 
 Upon their shoulders ; how the bride 
 Was kissed a hunderd times beside 
 The one / give her, tel she cried 
 And laughed untel she like to died! 
 I might go on and tell you all 
 About the supper and the ball. 
 You d ought to see me twist my heel 
 Through jest one old Furginny reel 
 Afore you die ! er tromp the strings 
 Of some old riddle tel she sings 
 Some old cowtillion, don t you know, 
 That putts the devil in yer toe ! 
 
 We kep the dancin up tel four 
 O clock, I reckon maybe more. 
 We hardly heerd the thunders roar, 
 Er thought about the storm that blowed 
 And them tivo fellers on the road! 
 Tel all at onc t we heerd the door 
 Bu st open, and a voice that swore, 
 And old Jeff Thompson tuck the floor. 
 He shuck hisse f and looked around 
 
SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 
 
 Like some old dog about half-drowned 
 His hat, I reckon, weighed ten pound 
 To say the least, and I ll say, shore, 
 His overcoat weighed fifty more 
 The wettest man you ever saw, 
 To have so dry a son-in-law! 
 
 He sized it all ; and Patience laid 
 
 Her hand in John s, and looked afraid, 
 
 And waited. And a stiller set 
 
 O folks, I know, you never met 
 
 In any court room, where with dread 
 
 They wait to hear a verdick read. 
 
 The old man turned his eyes on me : 
 
 "And have you married em ?" says he. 
 
 I nodded "Yes." "Well, that ll do," 
 
 He says, "and now we re th ough with you,- 
 
 You jest clear out, and I decide 
 
 And promise to be satisfied !" 
 
 He hadn t nothin more to say. 
 
 I saw, of course, how matters lay, 
 
 And left. But as I rode away 
 
 I heerd the roosters crow fer day. 
 
A COUNTRY PATHWAY 
 
 T COME upon it suddenly, alone 
 A A little pathway winding in the weeds 
 That fringe the roadside ; and with dreams my own, 
 I wander as it leads. 
 
 Full wistfully along the slender way, 
 
 Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, 
 I take the path that leads me as it may 
 
 Its every choice is mine. 
 
 A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, 
 
 Is startled by my step as on I fare 
 A garter-snake across the dusty trail 
 
 Glances and is not there. 
 
 Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos 
 And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, 
 
 Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose 
 When autumn winds arise. 
 
 The trail dips dwindles broadens then, and lifts 
 
 Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, 
 And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts 
 
 Still onward, beckoning me. 
 85 
 
86 A COUNTRY PATHWAY 
 
 And though it needs must lure me mile on mile 
 Out of the public highway, still I go, 
 
 My thoughts, far in advance in Indian file, 
 Allure me even so. 
 
 Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went 
 At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, 
 
 And was not found again, though Heaven lent 
 His mother all the stars 
 
 With which to seek him through that awful nigh 
 
 years of nights as vain ! Stars never rise 
 But well might miss their glitter in the light 
 
 Of tears in mother-eyes ! 
 
 So on, with quickened breaths, I follow still 
 
 My avant-courier must be obeyed ! 
 Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, 
 
 Invites me to invade 
 
 A meadow s precincts, where my daring guide 
 Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, 
 
 And stumbles down again, the other side, 
 To gambol there a while. 
 
 In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead 
 
 1 see it running, while the clover-stalks 
 Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said 
 
 "You dog our country walks 
 
A COUNTRY PATHWAY 87 
 
 "And mutilate us with your walking-stick! 
 We will not suffer tamely what you do, 
 
 And warn you at your peril, for we ll sick 
 Our bumblebees on you !" 
 
 But I smile back, in airy nonchalance, 
 
 The more determined on my wayward quest, 
 
 As some bright memory a moment dawns 
 A morning in my breast 
 
 Sending a thrill that hurries me along 
 
 In faulty similes of childish skips, 
 Enthused with lithe contortions of a song 
 
 Performing on my lips. 
 
 In wild meanderings o er pasture wealth 
 Erratic wanderings through dead ning lands, 
 
 Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, 
 Put berries in my hands : 
 
 Or the path climbs a boulder wades a slough 
 Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, 
 
 Goes gaily dancing o er a deep bayou 
 On old tree-trunks and snags : 
 
 Or, at the creek, leads o er a limpid pool 
 Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, 
 
 With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool 
 That its foundation laid. 
 
88 A COUNTRY PATHWAY 
 
 I pause a moment here to bend and muse, 
 With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where 
 
 A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, 
 Or wildly oars the air, 
 
 As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook 
 The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed 
 
 Swings pivoting about, with wary look 
 Of low and cunning greed. 
 
 Till, filled with other thought, I turn again 
 To where the pathway enters in a realm 
 
 Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign 
 Of towering oak and elm. 
 
 A puritanic quiet here reviles 
 
 The almost whispered warble from the hedge, 
 And takes a locust s rasping voice and files 
 
 The silence to an edge. 
 
 In such a solitude my somber way 
 
 Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom 
 
 Of his own shadows till the perfect day 
 Bursts into sudden bloom, 
 
 And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, 
 Where King Corn s armies lie with flags unfurled, 
 
 And where the valley s dint in Nature s face 
 Dimples a smiling world. 
 
A COUNTRY PATHWAY 89 
 
 And lo ! through mists that may not be dispelled, 
 I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, 
 
 Where, like a gem in costly setting held, 
 The old log cabin gleams. 
 
 O darling Pathway ! lead me bravely on 
 Adown your valley-way, and run before 
 
 Among the roses crowding up the lawn 
 And thronging at the door, 
 
 And carry up the echo there that shall 
 Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay 
 
 The household out to greet the prodigal 
 That wanders home to-day. 
 
THE OLD GUITAR 
 
 XTEGLECTED now is the old guitar 
 1 >l And moldering into decay; 
 Fretted with many a rift and scar 
 
 That the dull dust hides away, 
 While the spider spins a silver star 
 
 In its silent lips to-day. 
 
 The keys hold only nerveless strings 
 
 The sinews of brave old airs 
 Are pulseless now ; and the scarf that clings 
 
 So closely here declares 
 A sad regret in its ravelings 
 
 And the faded hue it wears. 
 
 But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, 
 
 Has cherished a smile for me ; 
 And its features hint of a fairer face 
 
 That comes with a memory 
 Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place 
 
 And a moonlit balcony. 
 90 
 
THE OLD GUITAR 91 
 
 Music sweeter than words confess, 
 
 Or the minstrel s powers invent, 
 Thrilled here once at the light caress 
 
 Of the fairy hands that lent 
 This excuse for the kiss I press 
 
 On the dear old instrument. 
 
 The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem 
 
 Still blooms ; and the tiny sets 
 In the circle all are here ; the gem 
 
 In the keys, and the silver frets ; 
 But the dainty fingers that danced o er them- 
 
 Alas for the heart s regrets ! 
 
 Alas for the loosened strings to-day, 
 And the wounds of rift and scar 
 
 On a worn old heart, with its roundelay 
 Enthralled with a stronger bar 
 
 That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay 
 Like that of the old guitar ! 
 
"FRIDAY AFTERNOON" 
 
 TO WILLIAM MORRIS PIERSON 
 [1868-1870] 
 
 OF the wealth of facts and fancies 
 That our memories may recall, 
 The old school-day romances 
 
 Are the dearest, after all ! 
 When some sweet thought revises 
 
 The half-forgotten tune 
 That opened "Exercises" 
 On "Friday Afternoon." 
 
 We seem to hear the clicking 
 
 Of the pencil and the pen, 
 And the solemn, ceaseless ticking 
 
 Of the timepiece ticking then ; 
 And we note the watchful master, 
 
 As he waves the warning rod, 
 With our own heart beating faster 
 
 Than the boy s who threw the wad. 
 92 
 
"FRIDAY AFTERNOON" 93 
 
 Some little hand uplifted, 
 
 And the creaking of a shoe : 
 A problem left unsifted 
 
 For the teacher s hand to do: 
 The murmured hum of learning 
 
 And the flutter of a book ; 
 The smell of something burning, 
 
 And the school s inquiring look. 
 
 The opening song, page 20. 
 
 And the girl, with glancing eyes, 
 Who hides her smiles, and hushes 
 
 The laugh about to rise, 
 Then, with a quick invention, 
 
 Assumes a serious face, 
 To meet the words, "Attention ! 
 
 Every scholar in his place !" 
 
 The opening song, page 20. 
 
 Ah ! dear old "Golden Wreath," 
 You willed your sweets in plenty; 
 
 And some who look beneath 
 The leaves of Time will linger, 
 
 And loving tears will start, 
 As Fancy trails her finger 
 
 O er the index of the heart. 
 
 "Good News from Home" We hear it 
 
 Welling tremulous, yet clear 
 And holy as the spirit 
 
 Of the song we used to hear 
 
94 "FRIDAY AFTERNOON" 
 
 "Good news for me" (A throbbing 
 
 And an aching melody) 
 "Has come across the" (sobbing, 
 
 Yea, and salty) "dark blue sea!" 
 
 Or the psean "Scotland s burning !" 
 
 With its mighty surge and swell 
 Of chorus, still returning 
 
 To its universal yell 
 Till we re almost glad to drop to 
 
 Something sad and full of pain 
 And "Skip verse three," and stop, too, 
 
 Ere our hearts are broke again. 
 
 Then "the big girls " compositions, 
 With their doubt, and hope, and glow 
 
 Of heart and face, conditions 
 Of "the big boys" even so, 
 
 When themes of "Spring," and "Summer" 
 And of "Fall," and "Winter-time" 
 
 Droop our heads and hold us dumber 
 
 Than the sleigh-bell s fancied chime. 
 
 Elocutionary science 
 
 (Still in changeless infancy!) 
 With its "Cataline s Defiance," 
 
 And "The Banner of the Free": 
 Or, lured from Grandma s attic, 
 
 A ramshackle "rocker" there, 
 Adds a skreek of the dramatic 
 
 To the poet s "Old Arm-Chair." 
 
"FRIDAY AFTERNOON" 95 
 
 Or the "Speech of Logan" shifts us 
 
 From the pathos, to the fire ; 
 And Tell (with Gessler) lifts us 
 
 Many noble notches higher. 
 Till a youngster, far from sunny, 
 
 With sad eyes of watery blue, 
 Winds up with something "funny," 
 
 Like "Cock-a-doodle-do!" 
 
 Then a dialogue selected 
 
 For its realistic worth : 
 The Cruel Boy detected 
 
 With a turtle turned to earth 
 Back downward ; and, in pleading, 
 
 The Good Boy strangely gay 
 At such a sad proceeding 
 
 Says, "Turn him over, pray !" 
 
 So the exercises taper 
 
 Through gradations of delight 
 To the reading of "The Paper," 
 
 Which is entertaining quite! 
 For it goes ahead and mentions 
 
 "If a certain Mr. O. 
 Has serious intentions 
 
 That he ought to tell her so." 
 
 It also "Asks permission 
 
 To intimate to John 
 The dubious condition 
 
 Of the ground he s standing on" ; 
 
96 "FRIDAY AFTERNOON" 
 
 And, dropping the suggestion 
 To "mind what he s about," 
 
 It stuns him with the question: 
 "Does his mother know he s out?" 
 
 And among the contributions 
 
 To this "Academic Press" 
 Are "Versified Effusions" 
 
 By "Our lady editress" 
 Which fact is proudly stated 
 
 By the Chief of the concern, 
 "Though the verse communicated 
 
 Bears the pen-name Fanny Fern/ 
 
 When all has been recited, 
 
 And the teacher s bell is heard, 
 And visitors, invited, 
 
 Have dropped a kindly word, 
 A hush of holy feeling 
 
 Falls down upon us there, 
 As though the day were kneeling, 
 
 With the twilight for the prayer. 
 
 Midst the wealth of facts and fancies 
 
 That our memories may recall, 
 Thus the old school-day romances 
 
 Are the dearest, after all ! 
 When some sweet thought revises 
 
 The half-forgotten tune 
 That opened "Exercises," 
 
 On "Friday Afternoon." 
 
"JOHNSON S BOY" 
 
 THE world is turned ag in me, 
 And people says, They guess 
 That nothin else is in me 
 
 But pure maliciousness!" 
 I git the blame for doin 
 
 What other chaps destroy, 
 And I m a-goin to ruin 
 
 Because I m "Johnson s boy." 
 
 That ain t my name I d ruther 
 
 They d call me Ike or Pat 
 But they ve forgot the other 
 
 And so have /, for that ! 
 I reckon it s as handy, 
 
 When Nibsy breaks his toy, 
 Or some one steals his candy, 
 
 To say twas "Johnson s boy! }} 
 
 You can t git any water 
 
 At the pump, and find the spout 
 So durn chuck-full o mortar 
 
 That you have to bore it out ; 
 97 
 
"JOHNSON S BOY" 
 
 You tackle any scholar 
 In Wisdom s wise employ, 
 
 And I ll bet you half a dollar 
 He ll say it s "Johnson s boy !" 
 
 Folks don t know how I suffer 
 
 In my uncomplainin way 
 They think I m gittin tougher 
 
 And tougher every day. 
 Last Sunday night, when Flinder 
 
 Was a-shoutin out for joy, 
 And some one shook the winder, 
 
 He prayed for "Johnson s boy." 
 
 I m tired of bein follered 
 
 By farmers every day, 
 And then o bein collared 
 
 For coaxin hounds away ; 
 Hounds always plays me double 
 
 It s a trick they all enjoy 
 To git me into trouble, 
 
 Because I m "Johnson s boy." 
 
 But if I git to Heaven, 
 
 I hope the Lord ll see 
 Some boy has been perfect, 
 
 And lay it on to me ; 
 I ll swell the song sonorous, 
 
 And clap my wings for joy, 
 And sail off on the chorus 
 
 "Hurrah for Johnson s boy! " 
 
HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS 
 
 OYOUR hands they are strangely fair ! 
 Fair for the jewels that sparkle there, 
 Fair for the witchery of the spell 
 That ivory keys alone can tell ; 
 But when their delicate touches rest 
 Here in my own do I love them best, 
 As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans 
 My glorious treasure of beautiful hands ! 
 
 Marvelous wonderful beautiful hands ! 
 They can coax roses to bloom in the strands 
 Of your brown tresses ; and ribbons will twine, 
 Under mysterious touches of thine, 
 Into such knots as entangle the soul 
 And fetter the heart under such a control 
 As only the strength of my love understands 
 My passionate love for your beautiful hands. 
 
 As I remember the first fair touch 
 Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, 
 I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, 
 Kissing the glove that I found unfilled 
 When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow, 
 99 
 
100 HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS 
 
 As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it 
 
 now!" . . . 
 
 And dazed and alone in a dream I stand, 
 Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand. 
 
 When first I loved, in the long ago, 
 And held your hand as I told you so 
 Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss 
 And said "I could die for a hand like this !" 
 Little I dreamed love s fullness yet 
 Had to ripen when eyes were wet 
 And prayers were vain in their wild demands 
 For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. 
 
 Beautiful Hands! O Beautiful Hands! 
 
 Could you reach out of the alien lands 
 
 Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, 
 
 Only a touch were it ever so light 
 
 My heart were soothed, and my weary brain 
 
 Would lull itself into rest again ; 
 
 For there is no solace the world commands 
 
 Like the caress of your beautiful hands. 
 
Elizabeth Marine Riley the poet s mother 
 
NATURAL PERVERSITIES 
 
 I AM not prone to moralize 
 In scientific doubt 
 On certain facts that Nature tries 
 
 To puzzle us about, 
 For I am no philosopher 
 
 Of wise elucidation, 
 But speak of things as they occur, 
 From simple observation. 
 
 I notice little things to wit: 
 
 I never missed a train 
 Because I didn t run for it; 
 
 I never knew it rain 
 That my umbrella wasn t lent, 
 
 Or, when in my possession, 
 The sun but wore, to all intent, 
 
 A jocular expression. 
 
 I never knew a creditor 
 
 To dun me for a debt 
 But I was "cramped" or "bu sted" ; or 
 
 I never knew one yet, 
 101 
 
102 NATURAL PERVERSITIES 
 
 When I had plenty in my purse, 
 To make the least invasion, 
 
 As I, accordingly perverse, 
 Have courted no occasion. 
 
 Nor do I claim to comprehend 
 
 What Nature has in view 
 In giving us the very friend 
 
 To trust we oughtn t to. 
 But so it is : The trusty gun 
 
 Disastrously exploded 
 Is always sure to be the one 
 
 We didn t think was loaded. 
 
 Our moaning is another s mirth, 
 
 And what is worse by half, 
 We say the funniest thing on earth 
 
 And never raise a laugh : 
 Mid friends that love us over well, 
 
 And sparkling jests and liquor, 
 Our hearts somehow are liable 
 
 To melt in tears the quicker. 
 
 We reach the wrong when most we seek 
 
 The right; in like effect, 
 We stay the strong and not the weak 
 
 Do most when we neglect. 
 Neglected genius truth be said 
 
 As wild and quick as tinder, 
 The more you seek to help ahead 
 
 The more you seem to hinder. 
 
NATURAL PERVERSITIES 103 
 
 I ve known the least the greatest, too 
 
 And, on the selfsame plan, 
 The biggest fool I ever knew 
 
 Was quite a little man: 
 We find we ought, and then we won t 
 
 We prove a thing, then doubt it, 
 Know everything but when we don t 
 
 Know anything about it. 
 
THE SILENT VICTORS 
 MAY 30, 1878 
 
 Dying for victory, cheer on cheer 
 Thundered on his eager ear. 
 
 CHARLES L. HOLSTEIN. 
 
 DEEP, tender, firm and true, the Nation s heart 
 Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away, 
 Who in grim Battle s drama played their part, 
 And slumber here to-day. 
 
 Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine 
 Of Freedom, while our country held its breath 
 
 As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line 
 And marched upon their death : 
 
 When Freedom s Flag, its natal wounds scarce 
 healed, 
 
 Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again 
 To shudder in the storm of battle-field 
 
 The elements of men, 
 
 When every star that glittered was a mark 
 For Treason s ball, and every rippling bar 
 
 Of red and white was sullied with the dark 
 And purple stain of war: 
 104 
 
THE SILENT VICTORS 105 
 
 When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey, 
 Were howling o er their gory feast of lives, 
 
 And sending dismal echoes far away 
 To mothers, maids, and wives: 
 
 The mother, kneeling in the empty night, 
 With pleading hands uplifted for the son 
 
 Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight 
 The victory had won : 
 
 The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say 
 The babe was waiting for the sire s caress 
 
 The letter meeting that upon the way, 
 The babe was fatherless : 
 
 The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed 
 Against the brow once dewy with her breath, 
 
 Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed 
 Save by the dews of death. 
 
 ii 
 
 What meed of tribute can the poet pay 
 The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine 
 
 Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day 
 In epitaph design? 
 
 Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows 
 That ache no longer with a dream of fame, 
 
 But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house, 
 Renowned beyond the name. 
 
106 THE SILENT VICTORS 
 
 The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall, 
 And tender morning with her shining hand 
 
 May brush them from the grasses green and tall 
 That undulate the land. 
 
 Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift, 
 Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap, 
 
 Can yield us hope the Hero s head to lift 
 Out of its dreamless sleep: 
 
 The dear old Flag, whose faintest flutter flies 
 A stirring echo through each patriot breast, 
 
 Can never coax to life the folded eyes 
 That saw its wrongs redressed 
 
 That watched it waver when the fight was hot, 
 And blazed with newer courage to its aid, 
 
 Regardless of the shower of shell and shot 
 Through which the charge was made; 
 
 And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings, 
 Like some proud bird in stormy element, 
 
 And soar untrammeled on its wanderings, 
 They closed in death, content. 
 
 in 
 
 O Mother, you who miss the smiling face 
 
 Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight, 
 
 And left you weeping o er the vacant place 
 He used to fill at night, 
 
THE SILENT VICTORS 107 
 
 Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day 
 That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns 
 
 That drowned the farewell words you tried to say 
 To incoherent ones; 
 
 Be glad and proud you had the life to give- 
 Be comforted through all the years to come, 
 
 Your country has a longer life to live, 
 Your son a better home. 
 
 Widow, weeping o er the orphaned child, 
 Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send 
 
 A keener pang to grief unreconciled, 
 Teach him to comprehend 
 
 He had a father brave enough to stand 
 Before the fire of Treason s blazing gun, 
 
 That, dying, he might will the rich old land 
 Of Freedom to his son. 
 
 And, Maiden, living on through lonely years 
 
 In fealty to love s enduring ties, 
 With strong faith gleaming through the tender 
 tears 
 
 That gather in your eyes, 
 
 Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, 
 Submission to the will of Heaven s High Host : 
 
 1 see your Angel-soldier pacing there, 
 Expectant at his post. 
 
108 THE SILENT VICTORS 
 
 I see the rank and file of armies vast, 
 That muster under one supreme control; 
 
 I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast 
 The calling of the roll 
 
 The grand divisions falling into line 
 And forming, under voice of One alone 
 
 Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine 
 The hymn that shakes the Throne. 
 
 IV 
 
 And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest 
 
 In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom 
 
 And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best, 
 In silence o er the tomb. 
 
 With reverent hands we twine the Hero s wreath 
 And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone 
 
 That stands the sentinel for each beneath 
 Whose glory is our own. 
 
 While in the violet that greets the sun, 
 We see the azure eye of some lost boy; 
 
 And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one 
 We kissed in childish joy, 
 
 Recalling, haply, when he marched away, 
 He laughed his loudest though his eyes were 
 wet. 
 
 The kiss he gave his mother s brow that day 
 Is there and burning yet : 
 
THE SILENT VICTORS 109 
 
 And through the storm of grief around her tossed, 
 One ray of saddest comfort she may see, 
 
 Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost 
 To weeping Liberty. 
 
 But draw aside the drapery of gloom, 
 And let the sunshine chase the clouds away 
 
 And gild with brighter glory every tomb 
 We decorate to-day : 
 
 And in the holy silence reigning round, 
 
 While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere, 
 
 Where loyal souls of love and faith are found, 
 Thank God that Peace is here ! 
 
 And let each angry impulse that may start, 
 Be smothered out of every loyal breast ; 
 
 And, rocked within the cradle of the heart, 
 Let every sorrow rest. 
 
SCRAPS 
 
 npHERE S a habit I have nurtured, 
 
 A From the sentimental time 
 When my life was like a story, 
 
 And my heart a happy rhyme, 
 Of clipping from the paper, 
 
 Or magazine, perhaps, 
 The idle songs of dreamers, 
 
 Which I treasure as rny scraps. 
 
 They hide among my letters, 
 
 And they find a cozy nest 
 In the bosom of my wrapper, 
 
 And the pockets of my vest; 
 They clamber in my fingers 
 
 Till my dreams of wealth relapse 
 In fairer dreams than Fortune s 
 
 Though I find them only scraps. 
 
 Sometimes I find, in tatters 
 
 Like a beggar, form as fair 
 As ever gave to Heaven 
 
 The treasure of a prayer; 
 And words all dim and faded, 
 
 And obliterate in part, 
 Grow into fadeless meanings 
 
 That are printed on the heart. 
 110 
 
SCRAPS HI 
 
 Sometimes a childish jingle 
 
 Flings an echo, sweet and clear, 
 And thrills me as I listen 
 
 To the laughs I used to hear ; 
 And I catch the gleam of faces, 
 
 And the glimmer of glad eyes 
 That peep at me expectant 
 
 O er the walls of Paradise. 
 
 O syllables of measure! 
 
 Though you wheel yourselves in line, 
 And await the further order 
 
 Of this eager voice of mine ; 
 You are powerless to follow 
 
 O er the field my fancy maps, 
 So I lead you back to silence 
 
 Feeling you are only scraps. 
 
AUGUST 
 
 A DAY of torpor in the sullen heat 
 Of Summer s passion : In the sluggish 
 
 stream 
 
 The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, 
 With drowsy eyes, and dream. 
 
 Long since the winds have died, and in the sky 
 There lives no cloud to hint of Nature s 
 grief ; 
 
 The sun glares ever like an evil eye, 
 And withers flower and leaf. 
 
 Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote 
 The thresher lies deserted, like some old 
 
 Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat 
 Upon a sea of gold. 
 
 The yearning cry of some bewildered bird 
 Above an empty nest, and truant boys 
 
 Along the river s shady margin heard 
 A harmony of noise 
 112 
 
AUGUST 113 
 
 A melody of wrangling voices blent 
 
 With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls 
 
 Of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent 
 To mimic waterfalls. 
 
 And through the hazy veil the atmosphere 
 Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, 
 
 The sifted glances of the sun appear 
 In splinterings of spray. 
 
 The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, 
 Trails o er the hillside, and the passer-by, 
 
 A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on 
 His journey to the sky. 
 
 And down across the valley s drooping sweep, 
 Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, 
 
 The forest stands in silence, drinking deep 
 Its purple wine of shade. 
 
 The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; 
 
 The sailor-vision voyages the skies 
 And carries into chaos everything 
 
 That freights the weary eyes : 
 
 Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat 
 Increases reaches passes fever s height, 
 
 And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, 
 Within the arms of Night. 
 
DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME 
 
 DIED Early morning of September 5, 1876, and 
 in the gleaming dawn of "name and fame," Hamil 
 ton J. Dunbar. 
 
 DEAD! Dead! Dead! 
 We thought him ours alone; 
 And none so proud to see him tread 
 The rounds of fame, and lift his head 
 
 Where sunlight ever shone; 
 But now our aching eyes are dim, 
 And look through tears in vain for him. 
 
 Name ! Name ! Name ! 
 
 It was his diadem; 
 Nor ever tarnish-taint of shame 
 Could dim its luster like a flame 
 
 Reflected in a gem, 
 He wears it blazing on his brow 
 Within trie courts of Heaven now. 
 114 
 
DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME 115 
 
 Tears ! Tears ! Tears ! 
 
 Like dews upon the leaf 
 That bursts at last from out the years 
 The blossom of a trust appears 
 
 That blooms above the grief ; 
 And mother, brother, wife and child 
 Will see it and be reconciled. 
 
IN THE DARK 
 
 OIN the depths of midnight 
 What fancies haunt the brain ! 
 When even the sigh of the sleeper 
 Sounds like a sob of pain. 
 
 A sense of awe and of wonder 
 
 I may never well define, 
 For the thoughts that come in the shadows 
 
 Never come in the shine. 
 
 The old clock down in the parlor 
 Like a sleepless mourner grieves, 
 
 And the seconds drip in the silence 
 As the rain drips from the eaves. 
 
 And I think of the hands that signal 
 The hours there in the gloom, 
 
 And wonder what angel watchers 
 
 Wait in the darkened room. 
 
 116 
 
IN THE DARK 
 
 And I think of the smiling faces 
 That used to watch and wait, 
 
 Till the click of the clock was answered 
 By the click of the opening gate. 
 
 They are not there now in the evening- 
 Morning or noon not there ; 
 
 Yet I know that they keep their vigil, 
 And wait for me Somewhere. 
 
THE IRON HORSE 
 
 NO song is mine of Arab steed 
 My courser is of nobler blood, 
 And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, 
 
 And greater strength and hardihood 
 Than ever cantered wild and free 
 Across the plains of Araby. 
 
 Go search the level desert land 
 From Sana on to Samarcand 
 Wherever Persian prince has been, 
 Or Dervish, Sheik, or Bedouin, 
 And I defy you there to point 
 
 Me out a steed the half so fine 
 From tip of ear to pastern- joint 
 
 As this old iron horse of mine. 
 
 You do not know what beauty is 
 You do not know what gentleness 
 His answer is to my caress ! 
 Why, look upon this gait of his, 
 A touch upon his iron rein 
 He moves with such a stately grace 
 118 
 
THE IRON HORSE 119 
 
 The sunlight on his burnished mane 
 
 Is barely shaken in its place; 
 
 And at a touch he changes pace, 
 And, gliding backward, stops again. 
 
 And talk of mettle Ah ! my friend, 
 
 Such passion smolders in his breast 
 That when awakened it will send 
 
 A thrill of rapture wilder than 
 
 E er palpitated heart of man 
 
 When flaming at its mightiest. 
 And there s a fierceness in his ire 
 
 A maddened majesty that leaps 
 Along his veins in blood of fire, 
 
 Until the path his vision sweeps 
 Spins out behind him like a thread 
 
 Unraveled from the reel of time, 
 
 As, wheeling on his course sublime, 
 The earth revolves beneath his tread. 
 
 Then stretch away, my gallant steed ! 
 
 Thy mission is a noble one: 
 
 Thou bear st the father to the son, 
 And sweet relief to bitter need ; 
 Thou bear st the stranger to his friends; 
 
 Thou bear st the pilgrim to the shrine, 
 And back again the prayer he sends 
 
 That God will prosper me and mine, 
 The star that on thy forehead gleams 
 Has blossomed in our brightest dreams. 
 
120 THE IRON HORSE 
 
 Then speed thee on thy glorious race! 
 The mother waits thy ringing pace ; 
 The father leans an anxious ear 
 The thunder of thy hooves to hear; 
 The lover listens, far away, 
 To catch thy keen exultant neigh ; 
 And, where thy breathings roll and rise, 
 The husband strains his eager eyes, 
 And laugh of wife and baby-glee 
 Ring out to greet and welcome thee. 
 Then stretch away ! and when at last 
 
 The master s hand shall gently check 
 Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, 
 
 The world will pat thee on the neck. 
 
DEAD LEAVES 
 
 DAWN 
 
 AS though a gipsy maiden with dim look, 
 x\ Sat crooning by the roadside of the year, 
 
 So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, thou art here 
 To read dark fortunes for us from the book 
 Of fate ; thou flingest in the crinkled brook 
 
 The trembling maple s gold, and frosty-clear 
 
 Thy mocking laughter thrills the atmosphere, 
 And drifting on its current calls the rook 
 To other lands. As one who wades, alone, 
 
 Deep in the dusk, and hears the minor talk 
 Of distant melody, and finds the tone, 
 
 In some wierd way compelling him to stalk 
 The paths of childhood o er, so I moan, 
 
 And like a troubled sleeper, groping, walk. 
 
 DUSK 
 
 THE frightened herds of clouds across the sky 
 Trample the sunshine down, and chase the 
 day 
 
 Into the dusky forest-lands of gray 
 And somber twilight. Far, and faint, and high 
 121 
 
122 DEAD LEAVES 
 
 The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry 
 Sad as the wail of some poor castaway 
 Who sees a vessel drifting far astray 
 
 Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. 
 
 The children, riotous from school, grow bold 
 And quarrel with the wind, whose angry gust 
 
 Plucks off the summer hat, and flaps the fold 
 Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust 
 
 In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold 
 Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust. 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 T^UNERAL Darkness, drear and desolate, 
 
 Muffles the world. The moaning of the wind 
 
 Is piteous with sobs of saddest kind; 
 And laughter is a phantom at the gate 
 Of memory. The long-neglected grate 
 
 Within sprouts into flame and lights the mind 
 
 With hopes and wishes long ago refined 
 To ashes, long departed friends await 
 
 Our words of welcome: and our lips are dumb 
 And powerless to greet the ones that press 
 
 Old kisses there. The baby beats its drum, 
 And fancy marches to the dear caress 
 
 Of mother-arms, and all the gleeful hum 
 Of home intrudes upon our loneliness. 
 
OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS 
 
 The voice of one hath spoken, 
 And the bended reed is bruised 
 
 The golden bowl is broken, 
 And the silver cord is loosed. 
 
 OVER the eyes of gladness 
 The lids of sorrow fall, 
 And the light of mirth is darkened 
 Under the funeral pall. 
 
 The hearts that throbbed with rapture 
 In dreams of the future years, 
 
 Are wakened from their slumbers, 
 And their visions drowned in tears. 
 
 Two buds on the bough in the morning- 
 Twin buds in the smiling sun, 
 
 But the frost of death has fallen 
 And blighted the bloom of one. 
 123 
 
124 OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS 
 
 One leaf of life still folded, 
 
 Has fallen from the stem, 
 Leaving the symbol teaching 
 
 There still are two of them, 
 
 For though through Time s gradations, 
 The living bud may burst, 
 
 The withered one is gathered, 
 And blooms in Heaven first. 
 
ONLY A DREAM 
 
 ONLY a dream ! 
 Her head is bent 
 Over the keys of the instrument, 
 While her trembling fingers go astray 
 In the foolish tune she tries to play. 
 He smiles in his heart, though his deep, sad 
 
 eyes 
 
 Never change to a glad surprise 
 As he finds the answer he seeks confessed 
 In glowing features, and heaving breast. 
 
 Only a dream ! 
 
 Though the fete is grand, 
 And a hundred hearts at her command, 
 She takes no part, for her soul is sick 
 Of the Coquette s art and the Serpent s 
 
 trick, 
 
 She someway feels she would like to fling 
 Her sins away as a robe, and spring 
 Up like a lily pure and white, 
 And bloom alone for him to-night. 
 125 
 
126 ONLY A DREAM 
 
 Only a dream 
 
 That the fancy weaves. 
 The lids unfold like the rose s leaves, 
 And the upraised eyes are moist and mild 
 As the prayerful eyes of a drowsy child. 
 Does she remember the spell they once 
 Wrought in the past a few short months? 
 Haply not yet her lover s eyes 
 Never change to the glad surprise. 
 
 Only a dream ! 
 
 He winds her form 
 - Close in the coil of his curving arm, 
 And whirls her away in a gust of sound 
 As wild and sweet as the poets found 
 In the paradise where the silken tent 
 Of the Persian blooms in the Orient, 
 While ever the chords of the music seem 
 Whispering sadly, "Only a dream!" 
 
OUR LITTLE GIRL 
 
 HER heart knew naught of sorrow, 
 Nor the vaguest taint of sin 
 Twas an ever-blooming blossom 
 
 Of the purity within : 
 And her hands knew only touches 
 
 Of the mother s gentle care, 
 And the kisses and caresses 
 
 Through the interludes of prayer. 
 
 Her baby-feet had journeyed 
 
 Such a little distance here, 
 They could have found no briers 
 
 In the path to interfere ; 
 The little cross she carried 
 
 Could not weary her, we know, 
 For it lay as lightly on her 
 
 As a shadow on the snow. 
 
 And yet the way before us 
 
 O how empty now and drear ! 
 How ev n the dews of roses 
 
 Seem as dripping tears for her! 
 And the song-birds all seem crying, 
 
 As the winds cry and the rain, 
 All sobbingly, "We want we want 
 
 Our little girl again!" 
 127 
 
THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW 
 
 TWAS a Funny Little Fellow 
 Of the very purest type, 
 For he had a heart as mellow 
 
 As an apple over ripe; 
 And the brightest little twinkle 
 
 When a funny thing occurred, 
 And the lightest little tinkle 
 Of a laugh you ever heard ! 
 
 His smile was like the glitter 
 
 Of the sun in tropic lands, 
 And his talk a sweeter twitter 
 
 Than the swallow understands ; 
 Hear him sing and tell a story 
 
 Snap a joke ignite a pun, 
 Twas a capture rapture glory, 
 
 An explosion all in one! 
 128 
 
THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW 129 
 
 Though he hadn t any money 
 
 That condiment which tends 
 To make a fellow "honey" 
 
 For the palate of his friends ; 
 Sweet simples he compounded 
 
 Sovereign antidotes for sin 
 Or taint, a faith unbounded 
 
 That his friends were genuine. 
 
 He wasn t honored, maybe 
 
 For his songs of praise were slim, 
 Yet I never knew a baby 
 
 That wouldn t crow for him; 
 I never knew a mother 
 
 But urged a kindly claim 
 Upon him as a brother, 
 
 At the mention of his name. 
 
 The sick have ceased their sighing, 
 
 And have even found the grace 
 Of a smile when they were dying 
 
 As they looked upon his face; 
 And I ve seen his eyes of laughter 
 
 Melt in tears that only ran 
 As though, swift-dancing after, 
 
 Came the Funny Little Man. 
 
 He laughed away the sorrow 
 
 And he laughed away the gloom 
 
 We are all so prone to borrow 
 From the darkness of the tomb; 
 
130 THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW. 
 
 And he laughed across the ocean 
 Of a happy life, and passed, 
 
 With a laugh of glad emotion, 
 Into Paradise at last. 
 
 And I think the Angels knew him, 
 
 And had gathered to await 
 His coming, and run to him 
 
 Through the widely opened Gate, 
 With their faces gleaming sunny 
 
 For his laughter-loving sake, 
 And thinking, "What a funny 
 
 Little Angel he will make!" 
 
SONG OF THE NEW YEAR 
 
 I HEARD the bells at midnight 
 Ring in the dawning year ; 
 And above the clanging chorus 
 Of the song, I seemed to hear 
 A choir of mystic voices 
 
 Flinging echoes, ringing clear, 
 From a band of angels winging 
 Through the haunted atmosphere: 
 
 "Ring out the shame and sorrow, 
 
 And the misery and sin, 
 That the dawning of the morrow 
 May in peace be ushered in." 
 
 And I thought of all the trials 
 The departed years had cost, 
 And the blooming hopes and pleasures 
 
 That are withered now and lost ; 
 And with joy I drank the music 
 Stealing o er the feeling there 
 As the spirit song came pealing 
 On the silence everywhere : 
 
 "Ring out the shame and sorrow, 
 
 And the misery and sin, 
 That the dawning of the morrow 
 May in peace be ushered in." 
 131 
 
132 SONG OF THE NEW YEAR 
 
 And I listened as a lover 
 
 To an utterance that flows 
 In syllables like dewdrops 
 
 From the red lips of a rose, 
 Till the anthem, fainter growing, 
 
 Climbing higher, chiming on 
 Up the rounds of happy rhyming, 
 Slowly vanished in the dawn : 
 
 "Ring out the shame and sorrow, 
 
 And the misery and sin, 
 That the dawning of the morrow 
 May in peace be ushered in." 
 
 Then I raised my eyes to Heaven, 
 
 And with trembling lips I pled 
 For a blessing for the living 
 
 And a pardon for the dead ; 
 And like a ghost of music 
 
 Slowly whispered lowly sung 
 Came the echo pure and holy 
 In the happy angel tongue : 
 
 "Ring out the shame and sorrow, 
 
 And the misery and sin, 
 And the dawn of every morrow 
 Will in peace be ushered in." 
 
A LETTER TO A FRIEND 
 
 THE past is like a story 
 I have listened to in dreams 
 That vanished in the glory 
 
 Of the Morning s early gleams; 
 And at my shadow glancing 
 
 I feel a loss of strength, 
 As the Day of Life advancing 
 Leaves it shorn of half its length. 
 
 But it s all in vain to worry 
 
 At the rapid race of Time 
 And he flies in such a flurry 
 
 When I trip him with a rhyme, 
 I ll bother him no longer 
 
 Than to thank you for the thought 
 That "my fame is growing stronger 
 
 As you really think it ought." 
 
 And though I fall below it, 
 
 I might know as much of mirth 
 To live and die a poet 
 
 Of unacknowledged worth ; 
 For Fame is but a vagrant 
 
 Though a loyal one and brave, 
 And his laurels ne er so fragrant 
 
 As when scattered o er the grave. 
 133 
 
LINES FOR AN ALBUM 
 
 I WOULD not trace the hackneyed phrase 
 Of shallow words and empty praise, 
 And prate of "peace" till one might think 
 My foolish pen was drunk with ink. 
 Nor will I here the wish express 
 Of "lasting love and happiness," 
 And "cloudless skies" for after all 
 "Into each life some rain must fall." 
 No. Keep the empty page below, 
 In my remembrance, white as snow 
 Nor sigh to know the secret prayer 
 My spirit hand has written there. 
 
 134 
 
TO ANNIE 
 
 WHEN the lids of dusk are falling 
 O er the dreamy eyes of day, 
 And the whippoorwills are calling, 
 
 And the lesson laid away, 
 May Mem ry soft and tender 
 
 As the prelude of the night, 
 Bend over you and render 
 As tranquil a delight. 
 
 135 
 
FAME 
 
 ONCE, in a dream, I saw a man 
 With haggard face and tangled hair, 
 And eyes that nursed as wild a care 
 
 As gaunt Starvation ever can ; 
 
 And in his hand he held a wand 
 
 Whose magic touch gave life and thought 
 Unto a form his fancy wrought 
 
 And robed with coloring so grand, 
 It seemed the reflex of some child 
 Of Heaven, fair and undefiled 
 A face of purity and love 
 To woo him into worlds above : 
 
 And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, 
 A gleaming smile lit up his lips 
 As his bright soul from its eclipse 
 
 Went flashing into Paradise. 
 
 Then tardy Fame came through the door 
 
 And found a picture nothing more. 
 
 II 
 
 And once I saw a man, alone, 
 In abject poverty, with hand 
 
 Uplifted o er a block of stone 
 
 That took a shape at his command 
 
 And smiled upon him, fair and good 
 
 A perfect work of womanhood, 
 136 
 
FAME 137 
 
 Save that the eyes might never weep, 
 Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, 
 Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, 
 Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. 
 And as in awe I gazed on her, 
 I saw the sculptor s chisel fall 
 I saw him sink, without a moan, 
 Sink lifeless at the feet of stone, 
 And lie there like a worshiper. 
 Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, 
 And found a statue that was all. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And once I saw a man who drew 
 A gloom about him like a cloak, 
 
 And wandered aimlessly. The few 
 Who spoke of him at all, but spoke 
 
 Disparagingly of a mind 
 
 The Fates had faultily designed: 
 
 Too indolent for modern times 
 Too fanciful, and full of whims 
 
 For, talking to himself in rhymes, 
 And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, 
 
 The idle life to which he clung 
 
 Was worthless as the songs he sung ! 
 
 I saw him, in my vision, filled 
 With rapture o er a spray of bloom 
 The wind threw in his lonely room; 
 
 And of the sweet perfume it spilled 
 
 He drank to drunkenness, and flung 
 
138 FAME 
 
 His long hair back, and laughed and sung 
 
 And clapped his hands as children do 
 
 At fairy tales they listen to, 
 
 While from his flying quill there dripped 
 
 Such music on his manuscript 
 
 That he who listens to the words 
 
 May close his eyes and dream the birds 
 
 Are twittering on every hand 
 
 A language he can understand. 
 
 He journeyed on through life, unknown, 
 
 Without one friend to call his own; 
 
 He tired. No kindly hand to press 
 
 The cooling touch of tenderness 
 
 Upon his burning brow, nor lift 
 
 To his parched lips God s freest gift 
 
 No sympathetic sob or sigh 
 
 Of trembling lips no sorrowing eye 
 
 Looked out through tears to see him die. 
 
 And Fame her greenest laurels brought 
 
 To crown a head that heeded not. 
 
 And this is Fame! A thing, indeed, 
 That only comes when least the need : 
 The wisest minds of every age 
 The book of life from page to page 
 Have searched in vain ; each lesson conned 
 Will promise it the page beyond 
 Until the last, when dusk of night 
 Falls over it, and reason s light 
 Is smothered by that unknown friend 
 Who signs his now, de plume, The End. 
 
(1) 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS JOU HNAL. 
 
U) 
 
 THK INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL. 
 
 >. C. NEW * 
 
 <A~* 
 
 
 tt^ujU^ Vt 
 
 - 
 
 , v J - .. _ r VJ 
 
 r 
 
(3) 
 
 THK INDIANAPOLIS JOUKNAL. 
 
 JNO. C. NEW * SON, P*O! 
 
THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNA 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS, IND 
 
 JfL*jLCt *jt_*<t 
 
 ^7777. 
 
 C 
 
 s^e/^ *y ^i^**^ 
 
 *^^vLuu4E Vjt^W^ 
 
 / 
 
 
THK INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL. 
 
 >4O. C. NEW .4 V 
 
 a. 
 
 
 
 r\A (KJ 
 
AN EMPTY NEST 
 
 I FIND an old deserted nest, 
 Half-hidden in the underbrush: 
 A withered leaf, in phantom jest, 
 
 Has nestled in it like a thrush 
 With weary, palpitating breast. 
 
 I muse as one in sad surprise 
 
 Who seeks his childhood s home once more, 
 And finds it in a strange disguise 
 
 Of vacant rooms and naked floor, 
 With sudden tear-drops in his eyes. 
 
 An empty nest ! It used to bear 
 A happy burden, when the breeze 
 
 Of summer rocked it, and a pair 
 Of merry tattlers told the trees 
 
 What treasures they had hidden there. 
 
 But Fancy, flitting through the gleams 
 Of youth s sunshiny atmosphere, 
 
 Has fallen in the past, and seems, 
 Like this poor leaflet nestled here, 
 
 A phantom guest of empty dreams. 
 139 
 
MY FATHER S HALLS 
 
 MY father s halls, so rich and rare, 
 Are desolate and bleak and bare ; 
 My father s heart and halls are one, 
 Since I, their life and light, am gone. 
 
 O, valiant knight, with hand of steel 
 And heart of gold, hear my appeal: 
 Release me from the spoiler s charms, 
 And bear me to my father s arms. 
 
 140 
 
THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL 
 
 THE harp of the minstrel has never a tone 
 As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, 
 For the magical touch of his fingers alone 
 
 Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright ; 
 But oh ! as the smile of the moon may impart 
 
 A sorrow to one in an alien clime, 
 Let the light of the melody fall on the heart, 
 And cadence his grief into musical rhyme. 
 
 The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim 
 
 That once were his passionate love and his pride ; 
 And alas ! all the smiles that once blossomed for him 
 
 Have fallen away as the flowers have died. 
 The hands that entwined him the laureate s wreath 
 
 And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago, 
 Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath 
 
 The grass and the stubble the frost and the 
 snow. 
 
 Then sigK, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings 
 Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear, 
 
 And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings, 
 And jewel the song with the gem of a tear. 
 141 
 
142 THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL 
 
 For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone 
 As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, 
 
 And the magical touch of his fingers alone 
 
 Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright. 
 
HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB 
 
 HOW slight a thing may set one s fancy 
 drifting 
 
 Upon the dead sea of the Past ! A view 
 Sometimes an odor or a rooster lifting 
 A far-off <( 0oh! ooh-ooh!" 
 
 And suddenly we find ourselves astray 
 
 In some wood s-pasture of the Long Ago 
 Or idly dream again upon a day 
 Of rest we used to know. 
 
 I bit an apple but a moment since 
 
 A wilted apple that the worm had spurned, 
 Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints 
 Of good old days returned. 
 
 And so my heart, like some enraptured lute, 
 
 Tinkles a tune so tender and complete, 
 God s blessing must be resting on the fruit 
 So bitter, yet so sweet! 
 143 
 
JOHN WALSH 
 
 A STRANGE life strangely passed ! 
 /JL We may not read the soul 
 When God has folded up the scroll 
 
 In death at last. 
 
 We may not dare not say of one 
 Whose task of life as well was done 
 As he could do it, "This is lost, 
 And prayers may never pay the cost." 
 
 Who listens to the song 
 
 That sings within the breast, 
 
 Should ever hear the good expressed 
 
 Above the wrong. 
 And he who leans an eager ear 
 To catch the discord, he will hear 
 The echoes of his own weak heart 
 Beat out the most discordant part. 
 
 Whose tender heart could build 
 Affection s bower above 
 A heart where baby nests of love 
 Were ever filled, 
 144 
 
JOHN WALSH 145 
 
 With upward growth may reach and twine 
 About the children, grown divine, 
 That once were his a time so brief 
 His very joy was more than grief. 
 
 O Sorrow "Peace, be still !" 
 
 God reads the riddle right ; 
 
 And we who grope in constant night 
 
 But serve His will ; 
 
 And when sometime the doubt is gone, 
 And darkness blossoms into dawn, 
 "God keeps the good," we then will say : 
 " Tis but the dross He throws away." 
 
ORLIE WILDE 
 
 A GODDESS, with a siren s grace,- 
 \ A sun-haired girl on a craggy place 
 Above a bay where fish-boats lay 
 Drifting about like birds of prey. 
 
 Wrought was she of a painter s dream, 
 
 Wise only as are artists wise, 
 
 My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem, 
 
 With deep sad eyes of oversize, 
 
 And face of melancholy guise. 
 
 I pressed him that he tell to me 
 
 This masterpiece s history. 
 
 He turned returned and thus beguiled 
 
 Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde : 
 
 "We artists live ideally : 
 We breed our firmest facts of air ; 
 We make our own reality 
 We dream a thing and it is so. 
 The fairest scenes we ever see 
 Are mirages of memory ; 
 146 
 
ORLIE WILDE 147 
 
 The sweetest thoughts we ever know 
 We plagiarize from Long Ago : 
 And as the girl on canvas there 
 Is marvelously rare and fair, 
 Tis only inasmuch as she 
 Is dumb and may not speak to me !" 
 He tapped me with his mahlstick then 
 The picture, and went on again : 
 
 "Orlie Wilde, the fisher s child 
 I see her yet, as fair and mild 
 As ever nursling summer day 
 Dreamed on the bosom of the bay : 
 For I was twenty then, and went 
 Alone and long-haired all content 
 With promises of sounding name 
 And fantasies of future fame, 
 And thoughts that now my mind discards 
 As editor a fledgling bard s. 
 
 "At evening once I chanced to go, 
 With pencil and portfolio, 
 Adown the street of silver sand 
 That winds beneath this craggy land, 
 To make a sketch of some old scurf 
 Of driftage, nosing through the surf 
 A splintered mast, with knarl and strand 
 Of rigging-rope and tattered threads 
 Of flag and streamer and of sail 
 That fluttered idly in the gale 
 
148 ORLIE WILDE 
 
 Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds. 
 
 The while I wrought, half listlessly, 
 
 On my dismantled subject, came 
 
 A sea-bird, settling on the same 
 
 With plaintive moan, as though that he 
 
 Had lost his mate upon the sea ; 
 
 And with my melancholy trend 
 
 It brought dim dreams half understood 
 
 It wrought upon my morbid mood, 
 
 I thought of my own voyagings 
 
 That had no end that have no end. 
 
 And, like the sea-bird, I made moan 
 
 That I was loveless and alone. 
 
 And when at last with weary wings 
 
 It went upon its wanderings, 
 
 With upturned face I watched its flight 
 
 Until this picture met my sight: 
 
 A goddess, with a siren s grace, 
 
 A sun-haired girl on a craggy place 
 
 Above a bay where fish-boats lay 
 
 Drifting about like birds of prey. 
 
 "In airy poise she, gazing, stood 
 A matchless form of womanhood, 
 That brought a thought that if for me 
 Such eyes had sought across the sea, 
 I could have swum the widest tide 
 That ever mariner defied, 
 And, at the shore, could on have gone 
 To that high crag she stood upon, 
 
ORLIE WILDE 149 
 
 To there entreat and say, My Sweet, 
 Behold thy servant at thy feet. 
 And to my soul I said : Above, 
 There stands the idol of thy love ! 
 
 "In this rapt, awed, ecstatic state 
 I gazed till lo! I was aware 
 A fisherman had joined her there 
 A weary man, with halting gait, 
 Who toiled beneath a basket s weight: 
 Her father, as I guessed, for she 
 Had run to meet him gleefully 
 And ta en his burden to herself, 
 That perched upon her shoulder s shelf 
 So lightly that she, tripping, neared 
 A jutting crag and disappeared ; 
 But she left the echo of a song 
 That thrills me yet, and will as long 
 As I have being ! . . . 
 
 . . . "Evenings came 
 
 And went, but each the same the same : 
 She watched above, and even so 
 I stood there watching from below ; 
 Till, grown so bold at last, I sung, 
 (What matter now the theme thereof!) 
 It brought an answer from her tongue 
 Faint as the murmur of a dove, 
 Yet all the more the song of love. . . . 
 
ISO ORLIE WILDE 
 
 tl l turned and looked upon the bay, 
 With palm to forehead eyes a-blur 
 In the sea s smile meant but for her ! 
 I saw the fish-boats far away 
 In misty distance, lightly drawn 
 In chalk-dots on the horizon 
 Looked back at her, long, wistfully, 
 And, pushing off an empty skiff, 
 I beckoned her to quit the cliff 
 And yield me her rare company 
 Upon a little pleasure-cruise. 
 She stood, as loathful to refuse, 
 To muse for full a moment s time, 
 Then answered back in pantomime 
 She feared some danger from the sea 
 Were she discovered thus with me/ 
 I motioned then to ask her if 
 I might not join her on the cliff; 
 And back again, with graceful wave 
 Of lifted arm, she anwer gave 
 "She feared some danger from the sea/ 
 
 "Impatient, piqued, impetuous, I 
 Sprang in the boat, and flung Good-by* 
 From pouted mouth with angry hand, 
 And madly pulled away from land 
 With lusty stroke, despite that she 
 Held out her hands entreatingly : 
 And when far out, with covert eye 
 
ORLIE WILDE 151 
 
 I shoreward glanced, I saw her fly 
 
 In reckless haste adown the crag, 
 
 Her hair a-flutter like a flag 
 
 Of gold that danced across the strand 
 
 In little mists of silver sand. 
 
 All curious I, pausing, tried 
 
 To fancy what it all implied, 
 
 When suddenly I found my feet 
 
 Were wet ; and, underneath the seat 
 
 On which I sat, I heard the sound 
 
 Of gurgling waters, and I found 
 
 The boat aleak alarmingly. . . . 
 
 I turned and looked upon the sea, 
 
 Whose every wave seemed mocking me ; 
 
 I saw the fishers sails once more 
 
 In dimmer distance than before ; 
 
 I saw the sea-bird wheeling by, 
 
 With foolish wish that / could fly : 
 
 I thought of firm earth, home and friends 
 
 I thought of everything that tends 
 
 To drive a man to frenzy and 
 
 To wholly lose his own command ; 
 
 I thought of all my waywardness 
 
 Thought of a mother s deep distress ; 
 
 Of youthful follies yet unpurged 
 
 Sins, as the seas, about me surged 
 
 Thought of the printer s ready pen 
 
 To-morrow drowning me again ; 
 
 A million things without a name 
 
 I thought of everything but Fame. . . . 
 
152 ORLIE WILDE 
 
 "A memory yet is in my mind, 
 So keenly clear and sharp-defined, 
 I picture every phase and line 
 Of life and death, and neither mine, 
 While some fair seraph, golden-haired, 
 Bends over me, with white arms bared, 
 That strongly plait themselves about 
 My drowning weight and lift me out 
 With joy too great for words to state 
 Or tongue to dare articulate ! 
 
 "And this seraphic ocean-child 
 And heroine was Orlie Wilde : 
 And thus it was I came to hear 
 Her voice s music in my ear 
 Ay, thus it was Fate paved the way 
 That I walk desolate to-day !" . . . 
 
 The artist paused and bowed his face 
 
 Within his palms a little space, 
 
 While reverently on his form 
 
 I bent my gaze and marked a storm 
 
 That shook his frame as wrathfully 
 
 As some typhoon of agony, 
 
 And fraught with sobs the more profound 
 
 For that peculiar laughing sound 
 
 We hear when strong men weep. ... I leant 
 
 With warmest sympathy I bent 
 
 To stroke with soothing hand his brow, 
 
 He murmuring " Tis over now ! 
 
ORLIE WILDE 153 
 
 And shall I tie the silken thread 
 Of my frail romance?" "Yes," I said. 
 He faintly smiled ; and then, with brow 
 In kneading palm, as one in dread 
 His tasseled cap pushed from his head; 
 " Her voice s music/ I repeat," 
 He said, " twas sweet O passing sweet ! 
 Though she herself, in tittering- 
 Its melody, proved not the thing 
 Of loveliness my dreams made meet 
 For me there, yearning, at her feet 
 Prone at her feet a worshiper, 
 For lo! she spake a tongue," moaned he, 
 "Unknown to me ; unknown to me 
 As mine to her as mine to her." 
 
THAT OTHER MAUD MULLER 
 
 MAUD MULLER worked at making hay, 
 And cleared her forty cents a day. 
 
 Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine, 
 And so she worked in the sweet sunshine 
 
 Singing as glad as a bird in May 
 "Barbara Allen" the livelong day. 
 
 She often glanced at the far-off town, 
 And wondered if eggs were up or down. 
 
 And the sweet song died of a strange disease, 
 Leaving a phantom taste of cheese, 
 
 And an appetite and a nameless ache 
 For soda-water and ginger cake. 
 
 The Judge rode slowly into view 
 Stopped his horse in the shade and drew 
 154 
 
THAT OTHER MAUD MULLER 155 
 
 His fine-cut out, while the blushing Maud 
 Marveled much at the kind he "chawed." 
 
 "He was dry as a fish," he said with a wink, 
 "And kind o thought that a good square drink 
 
 Would brace him up." So the cup was filled 
 With the crystal wine that old spring spilled ; 
 
 And she gave it him with a sun-browned hand. 
 "Thanks," said the Judge in accents bland ; 
 
 "A thousand thanks ! for a sweeter draught, 
 
 From a fairer hand" but there he laughed. 
 
 And the sweet girl stood in the sun that day, 
 And raked the Judge instead of the hay. 
 
A MAN OF MANY PARTS 
 
 IT was a man of many parts, 
 Who in his coffer mind 
 Had stored the Classics and the Arts 
 
 And Sciences combined; 
 The purest gems of poesy 
 
 Came flashing from his pen 
 The wholesome truths of History 
 He gave his fellow men. 
 
 He knew the stars from "Dog" to Mars ; 
 
 And he could tell you, too, 
 Their distances as though the cars 
 
 Had often checked him through 
 And time twould take to reach the sun, 
 
 Or by the "Milky Way," 
 Drop in upon the moon, or run 
 
 The homeward trip, or stay. 
 156 
 
A MAN OF MANY PARTS 157 
 
 With Logic at his fingers ends, 
 
 Theology in mind, 
 He often entertained his friends 
 
 Until they died resigned ; 
 And with inquiring mind intent 
 
 Upon Alchemic arts 
 A dynamite experiment 
 
 A man of many parts ! 
 
THE FROG 
 
 T T 7HO am I but the Frog the Frog! 
 
 V V My realm is the dark bayou, 
 And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log 
 
 That the poison-vine clings to 
 And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide 
 
 Where the ghost of the moon looks blue. 
 
 What am I but a King a King! 
 
 For the royal robes I wear 
 A scepter, too, and a signet-ring, 
 
 As vassals and serfs declare : 
 And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not 
 
 In the wide world anywhere ! 
 
 I can talk to the Night the Night ! 
 
 Under her big black wing 
 She tells me the tale of the world outright, 
 
 And the secret of everything ; 
 For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, 
 
 To the doom that death will bring. 
 158 
 
THE FROG 159 
 
 The Storm swoops down, and he blows and 
 blows, 
 
 While I drum on his swollen cheek, 
 And croak in his angered eye that glows 
 
 With the lurid lightning s streak; 
 While the rushes drown in the watery frown 
 
 That his bursting passions leak. 
 
 And I can see through the sky the sky 
 
 As clear as a piece of glass ; 
 And I can tell you the how and why 
 
 Of the things that come to pass 
 And whether the dead are there instead, 
 
 Or under the graveyard grass. 
 
 To your Sovereign lord all hail all hail ! 
 To your Prince on his throne so grim ! 
 
 Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail 
 Their heads in the dust to him ; 
 
 And the wide world sing : Long live the King, 
 And grace to his royal whim ! 
 
DEAD SELVES 
 
 HOW many of my selves are dead? 
 The ghosts of many haunt me : Lo, 
 The baby in the tiny bed 
 With rockers on, is blanketed 
 
 And sleeping in the long ago ; 
 And so I ask, with shaking head, 
 How many of my selves are dead? 
 
 A little face with drowsy eyes 
 
 And lisping lips comes mistily 
 From out the faded past, and tries 
 The prayers a mother breathed with sighs 
 
 Of anxious care in teaching me ; 
 But face and form and prayers have fled 
 How many of my selves are dead ? 
 
 The little naked feet that slipped 
 In truant paths, and led the way 
 
 Through dead ning pasture-lands, and tripped 
 
 O er tangled poison-vines, and dipped 
 In streams forbidden where are they ? 
 
 In vain I listen for their tread 
 
 How many of my selves are dead ? 
 160 
 
DEAD SELVES 161 
 
 The awkward boy the teacher caught 
 
 Inditing letters filled with love, 
 Who was compelled, for all he fought, 
 To read aloud each tender thought 
 
 Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove." 
 I wonder where he hides his head 
 How many of my selves are dead? 
 
 The earnest features of a youth 
 With manly fringe on lip and chin, 
 
 With eager tongue to tell the truth, 
 
 To offer love and life, forsooth, 
 So brave was he to woo and win ; 
 
 A prouder man was never wed 
 
 How many of my selves are dead? 
 
 The great, strong hands so all-inclined 
 To welcome toil, or smooth the care 
 
 From mother-brows, or quick to find 
 
 A leisure-scrap of any kind, 
 To toss the baby in the air, 
 
 Or clap at babbling things it said 
 
 How many of my selves are dead ? 
 
 The pact of brawn and scheming brain 
 Conspiring in the plots of wealth, 
 
 Still delving, till the lengthened chain, 
 
 Unwindlassed in the mines of gain, 
 Recoils with dregs of ruined health 
 
 And pain and poverty instead 
 
 How many of my selves are dead ? 
 
162 DEAD SELVES 
 
 The faltering step, the faded hair 
 Head, heart and soul, all echoing 
 With maundering fancies that declare 
 That life and love were never there, 
 
 Nor ever joy in anything, 
 Nor wounded heart that ever bled 
 How many of my selves are dead? 
 
 So many of my selves are dead, 
 That, bending here above the brink 
 
 Of my last grave, with dizzy head, 
 
 I find my spirit comforted, 
 
 For all the idle things I think: 
 
 It can but be a peaceful bed, 
 
 Since all my other selves are dead. 
 
A DREAM OF LONG AGO 
 
 EING listless in the mosses 
 Underneath a tree that tosses 
 Flakes of sunshine, and embosses 
 
 Its green shadow with the snow 
 Drowsy-eyed, I think in slumber 
 Born of fancies without number 
 Tangled fancies that encumber 
 Me with dreams of long ago. 
 
 Ripples of the river singing; 
 And the water-lilies swinging 
 Bells of Parian, and ringing 
 
 Peals of perfume faint and fine, 
 While old forms and fairy faces 
 Leap from out their hiding-places 
 In the past, with glad embraces 
 
 Fraught with kisses sweet as wine. 
 
 Willows dip their slender fingers 
 O er the little fisher s stringers, 
 While he baits his hook and lingers 
 
 Till the shadows gather dim ; 
 And afar off comes a calling 
 163 
 
164 A DREAM OF LONG AGO 
 
 Like the sounds of water falling, 
 With the lazy echoes drawling 
 Messages of haste to him. 
 
 Little naked feet that tinkle 
 
 Through the stubble-fields, and twinkle 
 
 Down the winding road, and sprinkle 
 
 Little mists of dusty rain, 
 While in pasture-lands the cattle 
 Cease their grazing with a rattle 
 Of the bells whose clappers tattle 
 
 To their masters down the lane. 
 
 Trees that hold their tempting treasures 
 O er the orchard s hedge embrasures, 
 Furnish their forbidden pleasures 
 
 As in Eden lands of old ; 
 And the coming of the master 
 Indicates a like disaster 
 To the frightened heart that faster 
 
 Beats pulsations manifold. 
 
 Puckered lips whose pipings tingle 
 In staccato notes that mingle 
 Musically with the jingle 
 
 Haunted winds that lightly fan 
 Mellow twilights, crimson-tinted 
 By the sun, and picture-printed 
 Like a book that sweetly hinted 
 
 Of the Nights Arabian. 
 
A DREAM OF LONG AGO 165 
 
 Porticoes with columns plaited 
 
 And entwined with vines and freighted 
 
 With a bloom all radiated 
 
 With the light of moon and star ; 
 Where some tender voice is winging 
 In sad flights of song, and singing 
 To the dancing fingers flinging 
 
 Dripping from the sweet guitar. 
 
 Would my dreams were never taken 
 From me: that with faith unshaken 
 I might sleep and never waken 
 
 On a weary world of woe ! 
 Links of love would never sever 
 As I dreamed them, never, never ! 
 I would glide along forever 
 
 Through the dreams of long ago. 
 
CRAQUEODOOM 
 
 THE Crankadox leaned o er the edge of the 
 moon 
 
 And wistfully gazed on the sea 
 Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune 
 
 To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." 
 The quavering shriek of the Fly-up-the-creek 
 
 Was fitfully wafted afar 
 To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her 
 
 cheek 
 With the pulverized rays of a star. 
 
 The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, 
 
 And his heart it grew heavy as lead 
 As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wing 
 
 On the opposite side of his head, 
 And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill 
 
 Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies, 
 And plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill 
 
 To pick the tears out of his eyes. 
 
 The ghost of the Zhack flitted b"y in a trance, 
 And the Squidjum hid under a tub 
 166 
 
CRAQUEODOOM 167 
 
 As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken ad 
 vance 
 
 With a rub-a-dub dub-a-dub dub ! 
 And the Crankadox cried, as he lay down and died, 
 
 "My fate there is none to bewail," 
 While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the 
 
 tide 
 With a long piece of crape to her tail. 
 
JUNE 
 
 O QUEENLY month of indolent repose ! 
 I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, 
 
 As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom 
 I nestle like a drowsy child and doze 
 The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws 
 
 The shifting shuttle of the Summer s loom 
 
 And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom 
 Before thy listless feet. The lily blows 
 A bugle-call of fragrance o er the glade ; 
 
 And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, 
 Thy harvest-armies gather on parade ; 
 
 While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, 
 A voice calls out of alien lands of shade : 
 
 All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year ! 
 
 J68 
 
James Whitcomb Riley and his mother 
 
WASH LOWRY S REMINISCENCE 
 
 3D you re the poet of this concern? 
 
 I ve seed your name in print 
 A dozen times, but I ll be dern 
 I d V never V took the hint 
 O the size you are fur I d pictured you 
 
 A kind of a tallish man 
 Dark-complected and sailor too, 
 And on the consumpted plan. 
 
 Stid o that you re little and small, 
 
 With a milk-and-water face 
 Thout no snap in your eyes at all, 
 
 Or nothin to suit the case ! 
 Kind o look like a I don t know 
 
 One o these fair-ground chaps 
 That runs a thingamajig to blow, 
 
 Or a candy-stand perhaps. 
 169 
 
170 WASH LOWRY S REMINISCENCE 
 
 LI I ve allus thought that poetry 
 
 Was a sort of a some disease 
 For I knowed a poet once, and he 
 
 Was techy and hard to please, 
 And moody-like, and kindo sad 
 
 And didn t seem to mix 
 With other folks like his health was bad, 
 
 Or his liver out o fix. 
 
 Used to teach for a livelihood 
 
 There s folks in Pipe Crick yit 
 Remembers him and he was good 
 
 At cipherin I ll admit 
 And posted up in G ography 
 
 But when it comes to tact, 
 And gittin along with the school, you see, 
 
 He fizzled, and that s a fact ! 
 
 Boarded with us for fourteen months 
 
 And in all that time I ll say 
 We never catched him a sleepin once 
 
 Or idle a single day. 
 But shucks ! It made him worse and worse 
 
 A-writin rhymes and stuff, 
 And the school committee used to furse 
 
 At the school wa n t good enough. 
 
 He wa n t as strict as he ought to been, 
 And never was known to whip, 
 
 Or even to keep a scholard in 
 At work at his penmanship ; 
 
WASH LOWRY S REMINISCENCE 171 
 
 Stid o that he d learn em notes, 
 
 And have em every day, 
 Spilin hymns and a-splittin th oats 
 
 With his "Do-sol-fa-me-ra !" 
 
 Tell finally it was jest agreed 
 
 We d have to let him go, 
 And we all felt bad we did indeed, 
 
 When we come to tell him so ; 
 For I remember, he turned so white, 
 
 And smiled so sad, somehow, 
 I someway felt it wasn t right 
 
 And I m shore it wasn t now ! 
 
 He hadn t no complaints at all 
 
 He bid the school adieu, 
 And all o the scholards great and small 
 
 Was mighty sorry too ! 
 And when he closed that afternoon 
 
 They sung some lines that he 
 Had writ a purpose, to some old tune 
 
 That suited the case, you see. 
 
 And then he lingered and delayed 
 
 And wouldn t go away 
 And shut himself in his room and stayed 
 
 A-writin from day to day ; 
 And kep a-gittin stranger still, 
 
 And thinner all the time, 
 You know, as any feller will 
 
 On nothin else but rhyme. 
 
172 WASH LOWRY S REMINISCENCE 
 
 He didn t seem adzactly right, 
 
 Or like he was crossed in love, 
 He d work away night after night, 
 
 And walk the floor above ; 
 We d hear him read and talk, and sing 
 
 So lonesome-like and low, 
 My woman s cried like everything 
 
 Way in the night, you know. 
 
 And when at last he tuck to bed 
 
 He d have his ink and pen; 
 "So s he could coat the muse" he said, 
 
 "He d die contented then"; 
 And jest before he past away 
 
 He read with dyin gaze 
 The epitaph that stands to-day 
 
 To show you where he lays. 
 
 And ever sence then I ve allus thought 
 
 That poetry s some disease, 
 And them like you that s got it ought 
 
 To watch their q s and p s ; 
 And leave the sweets of rhyme, to sup 
 
 On the wholesome draughts of toil, 
 And git your health recruited up 
 
 By plowin in rougher soil. 
 
THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN 
 
 PRINTERMAN of sallow face 
 And look of absent guile, 
 
 Is it the copy on your case 
 
 That causes you to smile ? 
 Or is it some old treasure scrap 
 
 You call from Memory s file? 
 
 "I fain would guess its mystery 
 
 For often I can trace 
 A fellow dreamer s history 
 
 Whene er it haunts the face ; 
 Your fancy s running riot 
 
 In a retrospective race ! 
 
 "Ah, Printerman, you re straying 
 Afar from stick and type 
 
 Your heart has gone a-maying/ 
 And you taste old kisses, ripe 
 
 Again on lips that pucker 
 At your old asthmatic pipe! 
 173 
 
174 THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN 
 
 "You are dreaming of old pleasures 
 That have faded from your view ; 
 
 And the music-burdened measures 
 Of the laughs you listen to 
 
 Are now but angel-echoes 
 O, have I spoken true?" 
 
 The ancient Printer hinted 
 With a motion full of grace 
 
 To where the words were printed 
 On a card above his "case," 
 
 "I am deaf and dumb !" I left him 
 With a smile upon his face. 
 
PRIOR TO MISS BELLE S APPEARANCE 
 
 WHAT makes you come here fer, Mister, 
 So much to our house? Say? 
 Come to see our big sister ! 
 An Charley he says at you kissed her 
 An he ketched you, th uther day ! 
 Didn you, Charley? But we p omised Belle 
 An crossed our heart to never to tell 
 Cause she gived us some o them-er 
 Chawk lut-drops at you bringed to her! 
 
 Charley he s my little b uther 
 
 An we has a-mostest fun, 
 Don t we, Charley? Our Muther, 
 Whenever we whips one anuther, 
 
 Tries to whip us an we run 
 Don t we, Charley ? An nen, bime-by, 
 Nen she gives us cake an pie 
 Don t she, Charley? when we come in 
 An p omise never to do it ag in ! 
 
 175 
 
176 PRIOR TO MISS BELLE S APPEARANCE 
 
 He s named Charley. I m Willie 
 An I m got the purtiest name! 
 
 But Uncle Bob he calls me "Billy" 
 
 Don t he, Charley? N our filly 
 We named " Billy," the same 
 
 1st like me ! An our Ma said 
 
 At "Bob puts f oolishnuss into our head !" 
 
 Didn she, Charley? An she don t know 
 
 Much about boys! Cause Bob said so! 
 
 Baby s a funniest feller ! 
 
 Nain t no hair on his head 
 Is they, Charley? It s meller 
 Wite up there ! An ef Belle er 
 
 Us ask wuz we that way, Ma said, 
 "Yes ; an yer Pa s head wuz soft as that, 
 An it s that way yet !" An Pa grabs his hat 
 An says, "Yes, childern, she s right about Pa 
 Cause that s the reason he married yer Ma !" 
 
 An our Ma says at "Belle couldn 
 
 Ketch nothin at all but ist bows !" 
 An Pa says at "you re soft as puddun !" 
 An Uncle Bob says "you re a good-un 
 
 Cause he can tell by yer nose !" 
 Didn he, Charley? An when Belle ll play 
 In the poller on th pianer, some day, 
 Bob makes up funny songs about you, 
 Till she gits mad like he wants her to ! 
 
PRIOR TO MISS BELLE S APPEARANCE, 177 
 
 Our sister Fanny she s leven 
 
 Years old! At s mucher an / 
 Ain t it, Charley? . . . I m seven I 
 But our sister Fanny s in Heaven! 
 
 Nere s where you go ef you die ! 
 Don t you, Charley ? Nen you has wings 
 1st like Fanny! an purtiest things! 
 Don t you, Charley ? An nen you can fly 
 1st flyan everything] . . . Wisht 7 d die ! 
 
WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR 
 
 WHEN Memory, with gentle hand, 
 Has led me to that foreign land 
 Of childhood days, I long to be 
 Again the boy on bended knee, 
 With head a-bow, and drowsy smile 
 Hid in a mother s lap the while, 
 With tender touch and kindly care, 
 She bends above and combs my hair. 
 
 Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares 
 
 Had paled it to the hue it wears, 
 
 Its tangled threads of amber light 
 
 Fell o er a forehead, fair and white, 
 
 That only knew the light caress 
 
 Of loving hands, or sudden press 
 
 Of kisses that were sifted there 
 
 The times when mother combed my hair. 
 
 But its last gleams of gold have slipped 
 Away ; and Sorrow s manuscript 
 Is fashioned of the snowy brow 
 So lined and underscored now 
 178 
 
WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR 179 
 
 That you, to see it, scarce would guess 
 
 It e er had felt the fond caress 
 
 Of loving lips, or known the care 
 
 Of those dear hands that combed my hair. 
 
 I am so tired! Let me be 
 A moment at my mother s knee; 
 One moment that I may forget 
 The trials waiting for me yet: 
 One moment free from every pain 
 O! Mother! Comb my hair again! 
 And I will, oh, so humbly bow, 
 For I ve a wife that combs it now. 
 
A WRANGDILLION 
 
 DEXERY-TETHERY! down in the dike, 
 Under the ooze and the slime, 
 Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke, 
 
 Blubbering bubbles of rhyme : 
 Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth- 
 
 Though the Graigroll and the Cheest 
 Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath, 
 Nothing affects him the least. 
 
 He sinks to the dregs in the dead o the night, 
 
 And he shuffles the shadows about 
 As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight 
 
 And sets there and hatches them out : 
 The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine 
 
 In scorn with the Will-o -the-wisp, 
 As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine 
 
 That ends in a luminous lisp. 
 180 
 
A WRANGDILLION 181 
 
 The Morning is born like a baby of gold, 
 
 And it lies in a spasm of pink, 
 And rallies the Cheest for the horrible cold 
 
 He has dragged to the willowy brink, 
 The Gryke blots his tears with a scrap of his 
 grief, 
 
 And growls at the wary Graigroll 
 As he twunkers a tune on a Tiljicum leaf 
 
 And hums like a telegraph pole. 
 
GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 
 
 FOR the sake of guilty conscience, and the heart 
 that ticks the x time 
 Of the clockworks of my nature, I desire to say 
 
 that I m 
 A weak and sinful creature, as regards my daily 
 
 walk 
 
 The last five years and better. It ain t worth while 
 to talk 
 
 I ve been too mean to tell it! I ve been so hard, 
 
 you see,. 
 And full of pride, and onry now there s the word 
 
 for me 
 
 Just onry and to show you, I ll give my history 
 With vital points in question, and I think you ll all 
 
 agree. 
 
 I was always stiff and stubborn since I could recol 
 lect, 
 
 And had an awful temper, and never would reflect ; 
 
 And always into trouble I remember once at 
 school 
 
 The teacher tried to flog me, and I reversed that 
 rule. 
 
 182 
 
GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 183 
 
 O I was bad I tell you ! And it s a funny move 
 That a fellow wild as I was could ever fall in love ; 
 And it s a funny notion that an animal like me, 
 Under a girl s weak fingers was as tame as tame 
 could be! 
 
 But it s so, and sets me thinking of the easy way 
 she had 
 
 Of cooling down my temper though I d be fight 
 ing mad. 
 
 "My Lion Queen" I called her when a spell of 
 mine occurred 
 
 She d come in a den of feelings and quell them 
 with a word. 
 
 I ll tell you how she loved me and what her peo 
 ple thought: 
 
 When I asked to marry Annie they said "they reck 
 oned not 
 
 That I cut too many didoes and monkey-shines to 
 suit 
 
 Their idea of a son-in-law, and I could go, to boot ! 
 
 I tell you that thing riled me ! Why, I felt my face 
 
 turn white, 
 And my teeth shut like a steel trap, and the fingers 
 
 of my right 
 Hand pained me with their pressure all the rest s 
 
 a mystery 
 Till I heard my Annie saying "I m going, too, you 
 
 see." 
 
184 GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 
 
 We were coming through the gateway, and she 
 
 wavered for a spell 
 When she heard her mother crying and her raving 
 
 father yell 
 That she wa n t no child of his n like an actor in 
 
 a play 
 We saw at Independence, coming through the other 
 
 day. 
 
 Well! that s the way we started. And for days 
 
 and weeks and months 
 And even years we journeyed on, regretting never 
 
 once 
 
 Of starting out together upon the path of life 
 A kind o sorto husband, but a mighty loving 
 
 wife, 
 
 And the cutest little baby little Grace I see her 
 
 now 
 A-standin on the pig-pen as her mother milked the 
 
 cow 
 And I can hear her shouting as I stood unloading 
 
 straw, 
 "I m ain t as big as papa, but I m biggerest n ma." 
 
 Now folks that never married don t seem to under 
 stand 
 
 That a little baby s language is the sweetest ever 
 planned 
 
GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 185 
 
 Why, I tell you it s pure music, and I ll just go on 
 
 to say 
 That I sometimes have a notion that the angels talk 
 
 that way! 
 
 There s a chapter in this story I d be happy to de 
 stroy ; 
 
 I could burn it up before you with a mighty sight 
 of joy; 
 
 But I ll go ahead and give it not in detail, no, my 
 friend, 
 
 For it takes five years of reading before you find 
 the end. 
 
 My Annie s folks relented at least, in some de 
 gree; 
 
 They sent one time for Annie, but they didn t send 
 for me. 
 
 The old man wrote the message with a heart as hot 
 and dry 
 
 As a furnace "Annie Mullen, come and see your 
 mother die." 
 
 I saw the slur intended why I fancied I could see 
 The old man shoot the insult like a poison dart at 
 
 me; 
 
 And in that heat of passion I swore an inward oath 
 That if Annie pleased her father she could never 
 
 please us both. 
 
186 GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 
 
 I watched her dark and sullen as she hurried on 
 
 her shawl; 
 I watched her calm and cruel, though I saw her 
 
 tear-drops fall; 
 I watched her cold and heartless, though I heard 
 
 her moaning, call 
 For mercy from high Heaven and I smiled 
 
 throughout it all. 
 
 Why even when she kissed me, and her tears were 
 
 on my brow, 
 As she murmured, "George, forgive me I must go 
 
 to mother now !" 
 Such hate there was within me that I answered not 
 
 at all, 
 But calm, and cold and cruel, I smiled throughout 
 
 it all. 
 
 But a shadow in the doorway caught my eye, and 
 then the face 
 
 Full of innocence and sunshine of little baby Grace. 
 
 And I snatched her up and kissed her, and I soft 
 ened through and through 
 
 For a minute when she told me "I must kiss her 
 
 I remember, at the starting, how I tried to freeze 
 
 again 
 As I watched them slowly driving down the little 
 
 crooked lane 
 
GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 187 
 
 When Annie shouted something that ended in a 
 
 cry, 
 And how I tried to whistle and it fizzled in a sigh. 
 
 I remember running after, with a glimmer in my 
 
 sight- 
 Pretending I d discovered that the traces wasn t 
 
 right ; 
 And the last that I remember, as they disappeared 
 
 from view, 
 
 Was little Grace a-calling, "I see papa! Howdy- 
 do!" 
 
 And left alone to ponder, I again took up my hate 
 For the old man who would chuckle that I was 
 
 desolate ; 
 And I mouthed my wrongs in mutters till my pride 
 
 called up the pain 
 His last insult had given me until I smiled again 
 
 Till the wild beast in my nature was raging in the 
 
 den 
 With no one now to quell it, and I wrote a letter 
 
 then 
 Full of hissing things, and heated with so hot a heat 
 
 of hate 
 That my pen flashed out black lightning at a most 
 
 terrific rate. 
 
188 GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 
 
 I wrote that "she had wronged me when she went 
 
 away from me 
 Though to see her dying mother twas her father s 
 
 victory, 
 And a woman that could waver when her husband s 
 
 pride was rent 
 Was no longer worthy of it." And I shut the house 
 
 and went. 
 
 To tell of my long exile would be of little good 
 
 Though I couldn t half-way tell it, and I wouldn t 
 if I could! 
 
 I could tell of California of a wild and vicious 
 life; 
 
 Of trackless plains, and mountains, and the In 
 dian s scalping-knife. 
 
 I could tell of gloomy forests howling wild with 
 
 threats of death; 
 I could tell of fiery deserts that have scorched me 
 
 with their breath ; 
 I could tell of wretched outcasts by the hundreds, 
 
 great and small, 
 And could claim the nasty honor of the greatest of 
 
 them all. 
 
 I could tell of toil and hardship; and of sickness 
 
 and disease, 
 And hollow-eyed starvation, but I tell you, friend, 
 
 that these 
 
GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 189 
 
 Are trifles in comparison with what a fellow feels 
 With that bloodhound, Remorsefulness, forever at 
 his heels. 
 
 I remember worn and weary of the long, long 
 years of care, 
 
 When the frost of time was making early harvest of 
 my hair 
 
 I remember, wrecked and hopeless of a rest be 
 neath the sky, 
 
 My resolve to quit the country, and to seek the 
 East, and die. 
 
 I remember my long journey, like a dull, oppres 
 sive dream, 
 
 Across the empty prairies till I caught the distant 
 gleam 
 
 Of a city in the beauty of its broad and shining 
 stream 
 
 On whose bosom, flocked together, float the mighty 
 swans of steam. 
 
 I remember drifting with them till I found myself 
 
 again 
 In the rush and roar and rattle of the engine and 
 
 the train ; 
 And when from my surroundings something spoke 
 
 of child and wife, 
 It seemed the train was rumbling through a tunnel 
 
 in my life. 
 
190 GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 
 
 Then I remember something like a sudden burst 
 
 of light- 
 That don t exactly tell it, but I couldn t tell it 
 
 right 
 A something clinging to me with its arms around 
 
 my neck 
 A little girl, for instance or an angel, I expect 
 
 For she kissed me, cried and called me "her dear 
 
 papa," and I felt 
 My heart was pure virgin gold, and just about to 
 
 melt 
 
 And so it did it melted in a mist of gleaming rain 
 When she took my hand and whispered, "My 
 
 mama s on the train." 
 
 There s some things I can dwell on, and get off 
 
 pretty well, 
 
 But the balance of this story I know I couldn t tell ; 
 So I ain t going to try it, for to tell the reason 
 
 why 
 I m so chicken-hearted lately I d be certain most 
 
 to cry. 
 
"TIRED OUT" 
 
 out !" Yet face and brow 
 Do not look aweary now, 
 And the eyelids lie like two 
 Pure, white rose-leaves washed with dew. 
 Was her life so hard a task? 
 Strange that we forget to ask 
 What the lips now dumb for aye 
 Could have told us yesterday ! 
 
 "Tired out !" A faded scrawl 
 Pinned upon the ragged shawl 
 Nothing else to leave a clue 
 Even of a friend or two, 
 Who might come to fold the hands, 
 Or smooth back the dripping strands 
 Of her tresses, or to wet 
 Them anew with fond regret. 
 
 "Tired out !" We can but guess 
 Of her little happiness 
 Long ago, in some fair land, 
 When a lover held her hand 
 In the dream that frees us all, 
 Soon or later, from its thrall 
 Be it either false or true, 
 We, at last, must tire, too. 
 191 
 
HARLIE 
 
 the little waxen hands 
 Lightly. Let your warmest tears 
 Speak regrets, but never fears, 
 
 Heaven understands ! 
 Let the sad heart, o er the tomb, 
 Lift again and burst in bloom 
 Fragrant with a prayer as sweet 
 As the lily at your feet. 
 
 Bend and kiss the folded eyes 
 They are only feigning sleep 
 While their truant glances peep 
 
 Into Paradise. 
 
 See, the face, though cold and white, 
 Holds a hint of some delight 
 E en with Death, whose finger-tips 
 Rest upon the frozen lips. 
 
 When, within the years to come, 
 Vanished echoes live once more 
 Pattering footsteps on the floor, 
 
 And the sounds of home, 
 Let your arms in fancy fold 
 Little Harlie as of old 
 As of old and as he waits 
 At the City s golden gates. 
 192 
 
SAY SOMETHING TO ME 
 
 SAY something to me ! I ve waited so 
 long 
 
 Waited and wondered in vain ; 
 Only a sentence would fall like a song 
 
 Over this listening pain 
 Over a silence that glowers and frowns, 
 
 Even my pencil to-night 
 Slips in the dews of my sorrow and wounds 
 Each tender word that I write. 
 
 Say something to me if only to tell 
 
 Me you remember the past; 
 Let the sweet words, like the notes of a bell, 
 
 Ring out my vigil at last. 
 O it were better, far better than this 
 
 Doubt and distrust in the breast, 
 For in the wine of a fanciful kiss 
 
 I could taste Heaven, and rest. 
 
 Say something to me ! I kneel and I plead, 
 
 In my wild need, for a word ; 
 If my poor heart from this silence were 
 freed, 
 
 I could soar up like a bird 
 In the glad morning, and twitter and sing, 
 
 Carol and warble and cry 
 Blithe as the lark as he cruises awing 
 
 Over the deeps of the sky. 
 193 
 
LEONAINIE 
 
 EDNAINIE Angels named her; 
 And they took the light 
 Of the laughing stars and framed her 
 In a smile of white ; 
 
 And they made her hair of gloomy 
 Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy 
 Moonshine, and they brought her to 
 
 me 
 In the solemn night. 
 
 In a solemn night of summer, 
 
 When my heart of gloom 
 Blossomed up to greet the comer 
 Like a rose in bloom ; 
 
 All forebodings that distressed me 
 I forgot as Joy caressed me 
 (Lying Joy! that caught and pressed 
 
 me 
 In the arms of doom!) 
 
 Only spake the little lisper 
 
 In the Angel-tongue; 
 Yet I, listening, heard her whisper, 
 
 "Songs are only sung 
 194 
 
LEONAINIE 195 
 
 Here below that they may grieve 
 
 you 
 
 Tales but told you to deceive you, 
 So must Leonainie leave you 
 While her love is young." 
 
 Then God smiled and it was morning. 
 
 Matchless and supreme 
 Heaven s glory seemed adorning 
 Earth with its esteem: 
 
 Every heart but mine seemed gifted 
 With the voice of prayer, and lifted 
 Where my Leonainie drifted 
 From me like a dream. 
 
A TEST OF LOVE 
 Now who shall say he loves me not." 
 
 HE wooed her first in an atmosphere 
 Of tender and low-breathed sighs ; 
 But the pang of her laugh went cutting clear 
 
 To the soul of the enterprise ; 
 "You beg so pert for the kiss you seek 
 
 It reminds me, John," she said, 
 "Of a poodle pet that jumps to speak 
 For a crumb or a crust of bread." 
 
 And flashing up, with the blush that flushed 
 
 His face like a tableau-light, 
 Came a bitter threat that his white lips 
 
 hushed 
 
 To a chill, hoarse-voiced "Good night !" 
 And again her laugh, like a knell that tolled, 
 
 And a wide-eyed mock surprise, 
 "Why, John," she said, "you have taken 
 
 cold 
 
 In the chill air of your sighs !" 
 196 
 
A TEST OF LOVE 197 
 
 And then he turned, and with teeth tight- 
 clenched, 
 
 He told her he hated her, 
 That his love for her from his heart he 
 wrenched 
 
 Like a corpse from a sepulcher. 
 And then she called him "a ghoul all red 
 
 With the quintessence of crimes"- 
 "But I know you love me now/ she said, 
 
 And kissed him a hundred times. 
 
FATHER WILLIAM 
 
 A NEW VERSION BY LEE O. HARRIS AND JAMES 
 WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 r "\ / 7 OU are old, Father William, and though one 
 
 X would think 
 
 All the veins in your body were dry, 
 Yet the end of your nose is red as a pink ; 
 
 I beg your indulgence, but why?" 
 
 "You see," Father William replied, "in my youth 
 
 Tis a thing I must ever regret 
 It worried me so to keep up with the truth 
 
 That my nose has a flush on it yet." 
 
 "You are old," said the youth, "and I grieve to de 
 tect 
 
 A feverish gleam in your eye ; 
 Yet I m willing to give you full time to reflect. 
 
 Now, pray, can you answer me why?" 
 
 "Alas," said the sage, "I was tempted to choose 
 
 Me a wife in my earlier years, 
 And the grief, when I think that she didn t refuse, 
 
 Has reddened my eyelids with tears." 
 198 
 
FATHER WILLJAM 199 
 
 "You are old, Father William," the young man said, 
 "And you never touch wine, you declare, 
 
 Yet you sleep with your feet at the head of the bed; 
 Now answer me that if you dare." 
 
 "In my youth/ said the sage, "I was told it was 
 true, 
 
 That the world turned around in the night ; 
 I cherished the lesson, my boy, and I knew 
 
 That at morning my feet would be right." 
 
 "You are old," said the youth, "and it grieved me to 
 
 note, 
 
 As you recently fell through the door, 
 That full as a goose had been chalked on your 
 
 coat; 
 Now answer me that I implore." 
 
 "My boy," said the sage, "I have answered you fair, 
 While you stuck to the point in dispute, 
 
 But this is a personal matter, and there 
 Is my answer the toe of my boot." 
 
WHAT THE WIND SAID 
 
 /MUSE to-day, in a listless way, 
 In the gleam of a summer land; 
 I close my eyes as a lover may 
 
 At the touch of his sweetheart s hand, 
 
 And I hear these things in the whisperings 
 
 Of the zephyrs round me fanned: 
 
 I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, 
 
 And I hold a sovereign reign 
 Over the lands, as God designed, 
 
 And the waters they contain: 
 Lo ! the bound of the wide world round 
 
 Falleth in my domain ! 
 
 I was born on a stormy morn 
 In a kingdom walled with snow, 
 
 Whose crystal cities laugh to scorn 
 The proudest the world can show; 
 
 And the daylight s glare is frozen there 
 In the breath of the blasts that blow. 
 200 
 
WHAT THE WIND SAID 201 
 
 Life to me was a jubilee 
 
 From the first of my youthful days : 
 Clinking my icy toys with glee 
 
 Playing my childish plays ; 
 Filling my hands with the silver sands 
 
 To scatter a thousand ways : 
 
 Chasing the flakes that the Polar shakes 
 
 From his shaggy coat of white, 
 Or hunting the trace of the track he makes 
 
 And sweeping it from sight, 
 As he turned to glare from the slippery stair 
 
 Of the iceberg s farthest height. 
 
 Till I grew so strong that I strayed ere long 
 From my home of ice and chill ; 
 
 With an eager heart and a merry song 
 I traveled the snows until 
 
 I heard the thaws in the ice-crag s jaws 
 Crunched with a hungry will ; 
 
 And the angry crash of the waves that dash 
 Themselves on the jagged shore 
 
 Where the splintered masts of the ice-wrecks 
 
 flash, 
 And the frightened breakers roar 
 
 In wild unrest on the ocean s breast 
 For a thousand leagues or more. 
 
202 WHAT THE WIND SAID 
 
 And the grand old sea invited me 
 With a million beckoning hands, 
 
 And I spread my wings for a flight as free 
 As ever a sailor plans 
 
 When his thoughts are wild and his heart be 
 guiled 
 With the dreams of foreign lands. 
 
 I passed a ship on its homeward trip, 
 With a weary and toil-worn crew ; 
 
 And I kissed their flag with a welcome lip, 
 And so glad a gale I blew 
 
 That the sailors quaffed their grog and 
 
 laughed 
 At the work I made them do. 
 
 I drifted by where sea-groves lie 
 
 Like brides in the fond caress 
 Of the warm sunshine and the tender sky 
 
 Where the ocean, passionless 
 And tranquil, lies like a child whose eyes 
 
 Are blurred with drowsiness. 
 
 I drank the air and the perfume there, 
 And bathed in a fountain s spray; 
 
 And I smoothed the wings and the plumage 
 
 rare 
 Of a bird for his roundelay, 
 
 And fluttered a rag from a signal-crag 
 For a wretched castaway. 
 
WHAT THE WIND SAID 203 
 
 With a sea-gull resting on my breast, 
 
 I launched on a madder flight : 
 And I lashed the waves to a wild unrest, 
 
 And howled with a fierce delight 
 Till the daylight slept; and I wailed and 
 wept 
 
 Like a fretful babe all night. 
 
 For I heard the boom of a gun strike doom ; 
 
 And the gleam of a blood-red star 
 Glared at me through the mirk and gloom 
 
 From the lighthouse tower afar ; 
 And I held my breath at the shriek of death 
 
 That came from the harbor bar. 
 
 For I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, 
 
 And I hold a sovereign reign 
 Over the lands, as God designed, 
 
 And the waters they contain: 
 Lo ! the bound of the wide world round 
 
 Falleth in my domain! 
 
 I journeyed on, when the night was gone, 
 
 O er a coast of oak and pine ; 
 And I followed a path that a stream had 
 drawn 
 
 Through a land of vale and vine, 
 And here and there was a village fair 
 
 In a nest of shade and shine. 
 
204 WHAT Til]-. WIND SAID 
 
 I passed o er lakes where the sunshine shakes 
 
 And shivers his golden lance 
 On the glittering shield of the wave that 
 breaks 
 
 Where the fish-boats dip and dance, 
 And the trader sails where the mist unveils 
 
 The glory of old romance. 
 
 I joyed to stand where the jeweled hand 
 
 Of the maiden-morning lies 
 On the tawny brow of the mountain-land. 
 
 Where the eagle shrieks and cries, 
 And holds his throne to himself alone 
 
 From the light of human eyes. 
 
 Adown deep glades where the forest shades 
 Are dim as the dusk of day 
 
 Where only the foot of the wild beast wades, 
 Or the Indian dares to stray, 
 
 As the blacksnakcs glide through the reeds 
 
 and hide 
 In the swamp-depths grim and gray. 
 
 And I turned and fled from the place of 
 dread 
 
 To the far-off haunts of men. 
 "In the city s heart is rest," I said, 
 
 But I found it not, and when 
 I saw but care and vice reign there 
 
 I was filled with wrath again : 
 
WHAT THE rr/.YD SAID 205 
 
 And I blew a spark in the midnight dark 
 Till it Hashed to an angry ilame 
 
 And scarred the sky with a lurid mark 
 As red as the blush of shame : 
 
 And a hint of hell was the dying yell 
 That up from the ruins came. 
 
 The bells went wild, and the black smoke 
 piled 
 
 Its pillars against the night, 
 Till I gathered them, like tlocks defiled. 
 
 And scattered them left and right, 
 While the holocaust s red tresses tossed 
 
 As a maddened Fury s might. 
 
 "Ye overthrown !" did I jeer and groan 
 "Ho! who is your master? say! 
 
 Ye shapes that writhe in the slag and moan 
 Your slow-charred souls away 
 
 Ye worse than worst of things accurst 
 Ye dead leaves of a day !" 
 
 I am the Wind, and I rule mankind. 
 
 And I hold a sovereign reign 
 Over the lands, as God designed, 
 
 And the waters they contain : 
 Lo! the bound of the wide world round 
 
 Falleth in my domain ! 
 
206 WHAT THE WIND SAID 
 
 I wake, as one from a dream half done, 
 And gaze with a dazzled eye 
 
 On an autumn leaf like a scrap of sun 
 That the wind goes whirling by, 
 
 While afar I hear, with a chill of fear, 
 The winter storm-king sigh. 
 
MORTON 
 
 THE warm pulse of the nation has grown 
 chill; 
 
 The muffled heart of Freedom, like a knell, 
 Throbs solemnly for one whose earthly will 
 Wrought every mission well. 
 
 Whose glowing reason towered above the sea 
 Of dark disaster like a beacon light, 
 
 And led the Ship of State, unscathed and free, 
 Out of the gulfs of night. 
 
 When Treason, rabid-mouthed, and fanged with 
 steel, 
 
 Lay growling o er the bones of fallen braves. 
 And when beneath the tyrant s iron heel 
 
 Were ground the hearts of slaves, 
 
 And War, with all his train of horrors, leapt 
 Across the fortress-walls of Liberty. 
 
 With havoc, e en the marble goddess wept 
 With tears of blood to see. 
 207 
 
208 MORTON 
 
 Throughout it all his brave and kingly mind 
 Kept loyal vigil o er the patriot s vow, 
 
 And yet the flag he lifted to the wind 
 Is drooping o er him now. 
 
 And Peace all pallid from the battle-field 
 When first again it hovered o er the land, 
 
 And found his voice above it like a shield, 
 Had nestled in his hand. 
 
 O throne of State and gilded Senate halls 
 Though thousands throng your aisles and gal 
 leries 
 
 How empty are ye ! and what silence falls 
 On your hilarities ! 
 
 And yet, though great the loss to us appears, 
 The consolation sweetens all our pain 
 
 Though hushed the voice, through all the coming 
 
 years 
 Its echoes will remain. 
 
AN AUTUMNAL EXTRAVAGANZA 
 
 WITH a sweeter voice than birds 
 Dare to twitter in their sleep, 
 Pipe for me a tune of words, 
 
 Till my dancing fancies leap 
 Into freedom vaster far 
 Than the realms of Reason are! 
 Sing for me with wilder fire 
 
 Than the lover ever sung, 
 From the time he twanged the lyre, 
 
 When the world was baby-young. 
 
 O, my maiden Autumn, you 
 
 You have filled me through and through, 
 
 With a passion so intense, 
 
 All of earthly eloquence 
 
 Fails, and falls, and swoons away 
 In your presence. Like as one 
 Who essays to look the sun 
 
 Fairly in the face, I say, 
 Though my eyes you dazzle blind 
 Greater dazzled is my mind. 
 So, my Autumn, let me kneel 
 
 At your feet and worship you ! 
 Be my sweetheart ; let me feel 
 209 
 
210 AN AUTUMNAL EXTRAVAGANZA 
 
 Your caress ; and tell me too 
 Why your smiles bewilder me? 
 Glancing into laughter, then 
 Trancing into calm again, 
 Till your meaning drowning lies 
 In the dim depths of your eyes. 
 Let me see the things you see 
 Down the depths of mystery ! 
 Blow aside the hazy veil 
 
 From the daylight of your face 
 With the f ragrance-ladened gale 
 
 Of your saucy breath and chase 
 
 Every dimple to its place. 
 Lift your gipsy finger-tips 
 To the roses of your lips, 
 And fling down to me a bud ; 
 
 But an unblown kiss but one 
 It shall blossom in my blood, 
 
 Even after life is done 
 When I dare to touch the brow 
 Your rare hair is veiling now 
 When the rich, red-golden strands 
 Of the treasure in my hands 
 Shall be all of worldly worth 
 Heaven lifted from the earth, 
 Like a banner to have set 
 On its highest minaret. 
 
THE ROSE 
 
 IT tossed its head at the wooing breeze ; 
 And the sun, like a bashful swain, 
 Beamed on it through the waving trees 
 
 With a passion all in vain, 
 For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, 
 And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 
 
 The honey-bee came there to sing 
 
 His love through the languid hours, 
 
 And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king 
 Might boast of his palace-towers: 
 
 But my rose bowed in a mockery, 
 
 And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 
 
 The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, 
 Dipped down with a dalliant song, 
 
 And twanged his wings through the roundelay 
 Of love the whole day long: 
 
 Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy 
 
 And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 
 211 
 
212 THE ROSE 
 
 The firefly came in the twilight dim 
 
 My red, red rose to woo 
 Till quenched was the flame of love in him, 
 
 And the light of his lantern too, 
 As my rose wept with dewdrops three 
 And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 
 
 And I said : I will cull my own sweet rose 
 
 Some day I will claim as mine 
 The priceless worth of the flower that knows 
 
 No change, but a bloom divine 
 The bloom of a fadeless constancy 
 That hides in the leaves in wait for me! 
 
 But time passed by in a strange disguise, 
 
 And I marked it not, but lay 
 In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, 
 
 Till the summer slipped away, 
 And a chill wind sang in a minor key : 
 "Where is the rose that waits for thee ?" 
 
 I dream to-day, o er a purple stain 
 Of bloom on a withered stalk, 
 
 Pelted down by the autumn rain 
 In the dust of the garden-walk, 
 
 That an Angel-rose in the world to be 
 
 Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. 
 
THE MERMAN 
 I 
 
 WHO would be 
 A merman gay, 
 Singing alone, 
 Sitting alone, 
 With a mermaid s knee, 
 For instance hey 
 For a throne? 
 
 II 
 
 I would be a merman gay ; 
 
 I would sit and sing the whole day long ; 
 I would fill my lungs with the strongest brine, 
 
 And squirt it up in a spray of song, 
 And soak my head in my liquid voice ; 
 
 I d curl my tail in curves divine, 
 And let each curve in a kink rejoice. 
 
 I d tackle the mermaids under the sea, 
 And yank em around till they yanked me, 
 
 Sportively, sportively ; 
 And then we would wiggle away, away, 
 To the pea-green groves on the coast of day, 
 Chasing each other sportively. 
 213 
 
214 THE MERMAN 
 
 III 
 
 There would be neither moon nor star ; 
 But the waves would twang like a wet guitar- 
 Low thunder and thrum in the darkness grum- 
 
 Neither moon nor star ; 
 We would shriek aloud in the dismal dales- 
 Shriek at each other and squawk and squeal: 
 
 "All night !" rakishly, rakishly ; 
 They would pelt me with oysters and 
 
 wiggletails, 
 Laughing and clapping their hands at me, 
 
 : A11 night!" prankishly, prankishly; 
 But I would toss them back in mine, 
 Lobsters and turtles of quaint design ; 
 Then leaping out in an abrupt way, 
 I d snatch them bald in my devilish glee, 
 And skip away when they snatched at me, 
 
 Fiendishly, fiendishly. 
 O, what a jolly life I d lead, 
 Ah, what a "bang-up" life indeed! 
 Soft are the mermaids under the sea 
 We would live merrily, merrily. 
 
THE RAINY MORNING 
 
 THE dawn of the day was dreary, 
 And the lowering clouds o erhead 
 Wept in a silent sorrow 
 
 Where the sweet sunshine lay dead; 
 And a wind came out of the eastward 
 
 Like an endless sigh of pain, 
 And the leaves fell down in the pathway 
 And writhed in the falling rain. 
 
 I had tried in a brave endeavor 
 
 To chord my harp with the sun, 
 But the strings would slacken ever, 
 
 And the task was a weary one : 
 And so, like a child impatient 
 
 And sick of a discontent, 
 I bowed in a shower of tear-drops 
 
 And mourned with the instrument. 
 
 And lo ! as I bowed, the splendor 
 
 Of the sun bent over me, 
 With a touch as warm and tender 
 
 As a father s hand might be : 
 And, even as I felt its presence, 
 
 My clouded soul grew bright, 
 And the tears, like the rain of morning, 
 
 Melted in mists of light. 
 215 
 
WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN 
 WE SMILE 
 
 WE are not always glad when we smile : 
 Though we wear a fair face and are gay, 
 And the world we deceive 
 May not ever believe 
 We could laugh in a happier way. 
 Yet, down in the deeps of the soul, 
 Ofttimes, with our faces aglow, 
 There s an ache and a moan 
 That we know of alone, 
 And as only the hopeless may know. 
 
 We are not always glad when we smile, 
 For the heart, in a tempest of pain, 
 May live in the guise 
 Of a smile in the eyes 
 As a rainbow may live in the rain ; 
 And the stormiest night of our woe 
 May hang out a radiant star 
 Whose light in the sky 
 Of despair is a lie 
 As black as the thunder-clouds are. 
 216 
 
WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD 217 
 
 We are not always glad when we smile ! 
 But the conscience is quick to record, 
 
 All the sorrow and sin 
 
 We are hiding within 
 Is plain in the sight of the Lord: 
 And ever, O ever, till pride 
 And evasion shall cease to defile 
 
 The sacred recess 
 
 Of the soul, we confess 
 We are not always glad when we smile. 
 
A SUMMER SUNRISE 
 
 AFTER LEE 0. HARRIS 
 
 THE master-hand whose pencils trace 
 This wondrous landscape of the morn, 
 Is but the sun, whose glowing face 
 Reflects the rapture and the grace 
 Of inspiration Heaven-born. 
 
 And yet with vision-dazzled eyes, 
 
 I see the lotus-lands of old, 
 Where odorous breezes fall and rise, 
 And mountains, peering in the skies, 
 
 Stand ankle-deep in lakes of gold. 
 
 And, spangled with the shine and shade, 
 
 I see the rivers raveled out 
 In strands of silver, slowly fade 
 In threads of light along the glade 
 
 Where truant roses hide and pout. 
 218 
 
A SUMMER SUNRISE 219 
 
 The tamarind on gleaming sands 
 Droops drowsily beneath the heat ; 
 
 And bowed as though aweary, stands 
 
 The stately palm, with lazy hands 
 
 That fold their shadows round his feet. 
 
 And mistily, as through a veil, 
 
 I catch the glances of a sea 
 Of sapphire, dimpled with a gale 
 Toward Colch s blowing, where the sail 
 
 Of Jason s Argo beckons me. 
 
 And gazing on and farther yet, 
 
 I see the isles enchanted, bright 
 With fretted spire and parapet, 
 And gilded mosque and minaret, 
 
 That glitter in the crimson light. 
 
 But as I gaze, the city s walls 
 Are keenly smitten with a gleam 
 
 Of pallid splendor, that appalls 
 
 The fancy as the ruin falls 
 In ashen embers of a dream. 
 
 Yet over all the waking earth 
 
 The tears of night are brushed away, 
 
 And eyes are lit with love and mirth, 
 
 And benisons of richest worth 
 GO up to bless the new-born day. 
 
DAS KRIST KINDEL 
 
 I HAD fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles 
 in delight 
 
 Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill De 
 cember night ; 
 And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back 
 
 "my throne" 
 
 The old split-bottomed rocker and was musing all 
 alone. 
 
 I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the 
 
 outer door, 
 And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white 
 
 piazza floor; 
 But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of 
 
 a stream 
 That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing 
 
 dream. 
 
 Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of 
 my cigar, 
 
 With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist- 
 enfolded star; 
 
 220 
 
DAS KRIST KINDEL 221 
 
 And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, 
 With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter 
 of a sleigh. 
 
 And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, 
 I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair 
 A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he 
 
 appeared, 
 And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of 
 
 his beard. 
 
 He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of 
 
 mirth, 
 On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on 
 
 the hearth ; 
 
 And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb, 
 I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium. 
 
 And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic 
 stage 
 
 Alive with little actors of a very tender age ; 
 
 And some so very tiny that they tottered as they 
 walked, 
 
 And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brook 
 lets, when they talked. 
 
 And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like 
 
 purest dew, 
 And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is 
 
 woven through ; 
 
222 DAS KRIST KINDEL 
 
 And they each had little burdens, and a little tale 
 
 to tell 
 Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable. 
 
 And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody 
 
 with joy, 
 Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming 
 
 baby-boy ; 
 And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstacy 
 
 of glee, 
 And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, 
 
 to see. 
 
 Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty dou 
 ble-chin, 
 
 And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to 
 blossom in ; 
 
 And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw 
 and reeds, 
 
 As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the 
 weeds. 
 
 And I saw the happy mother, and a group sur 
 rounding her 
 
 That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and 
 myrrh ; 
 
 And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur 
 on the air 
 
 Came drifting o er the hearing in a melody of 
 prayer : 
 
DAS KR1ST KINDEL 223 
 
 By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon 
 
 the sea, 
 
 And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, 
 We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow 
 
 the knee 
 And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to 
 
 Thee. 
 
 Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have 
 fled and gone 
 
 As the dark and spectral shadows of the night be 
 fore the dawn; 
 
 And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us 
 drawn, 
 
 We would nestle down forever in the breast we 
 lean upon. 
 
 You have given us a shepherd You have given 
 
 us a guide, 
 And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You 
 
 sent him from Your side, 
 But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates 
 
 will open wide 
 To welcome his returning when his works are 
 
 glorified. 
 
 By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon 
 
 the sea, 
 And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, 
 
224 DAS KRIST KIN DEL 
 
 We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow 
 
 the knee 
 And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to 
 
 Thee. 
 
 Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of 
 the refrain, 
 
 Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty 
 window-pane ; 
 
 And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager 
 sentinel 
 
 Who brings the world good tidings, "It is Christ 
 mas all is well!" 
 
AN OLD YEAR S ADDRESS 
 
 "THAVE twankled the strings of the twinkling 
 JL rain ; 
 
 I have burnished the meteor s mail ; 
 I have bridled the wind 
 When he whinnied and whined 
 With a bunch of stars tied to his tail ; 
 But my sky-rocket hopes, hanging over the past, 
 Must fuzzle and fazzle and fizzle at last!" 
 
 I had waded far out in a drizzling dream, 
 And my fancies had spattered my eyes 
 With a vision of dread, 
 With a number ten head, 
 And a form of diminutive size 
 That wavered and wagged in a singular way 
 As he wound himself up and proceeded to say, 
 
 "I have trimmed all my corns with the blade of the 
 
 moon; 
 
 I have picked every tooth with a star : 
 And I thrill to recall 
 That I went through it all 
 Like a tune through a tickled guitar. 
 225 
 
226 AN OLD YEAR S ADDRESS 
 
 I have ripped up the rainbow and raveled the ends 
 When the sun and myself were particular friends." 
 
 And pausing again, and producing a sponge 
 And wiping the tears from his eyes, 
 He sank in a chair 
 With a technical air 
 That he struggled in vain to disguise, 
 For a sigh that he breathed, as I over him leant, 
 Was haunted and hot with a peppermint scent. 
 
 "Alas!" he continued in quavering tones 
 As a pang rippled over his face, 
 "The life was too fast 
 For the pleasure to last 
 In my very unfortunate case; 
 And I m going" he said as he turned to adjust 
 A fuse in his bosom, "Fm going to BUST !" 
 
 I shrieked and awoke with the sullen che-boom 
 Of a five-pounder filling my ears ; 
 And a roseate bloom 
 Of a light in the room 
 I saw through the mist of my tears, 
 But my guest of the night never saw the display, 
 He had f uzzled and f azzled and fizzled away ! 
 
A NEW YEAR S PLAINT 
 
 In words like weeds, I ll wrap me o er, 
 Like coarsest clothes against the cold; 
 But that large grief which these enfold 
 
 Is given in outline and no more. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 THHE bells that lift their yawning throats 
 
 -L And lolling tongues with wrangling cries 
 Flung up in harsh, discordant notes, 
 
 As though in anger, at the skies, 
 Are rilled with echoings replete, 
 
 With purest tinkles of delight 
 So I would have a something sweet 
 
 Ring in the song I sing to-night. 
 
 As when a blotch of ugly guise 
 
 On some poor artist s naked floor 
 Becomes a picture in his eyes, 
 
 And he forgets that he is poor, 
 So I look out upon the night, 
 
 That ushers in the dawning year, 
 And in a vacant blur of light 
 
 I see these fantasies appear. 
 227 
 
228 A NEW YEAR S PLAINT 
 
 I see a home whose windows gleam 
 
 Like facets of a mighty gem 
 That some poor king s distorted dream 
 
 Has fastened in his diadem. 
 And I behold a throng that reels 
 
 In revelry of dance and mirth, 
 With hearts of love beneath their heels, 
 
 And in their bosoms hearts of earth. 
 
 O Luxury, as false and grand 
 
 As in the mystic tales of old, 
 When genii answered man s command, 
 
 And built of nothing halls of gold! 
 O Banquet, bright with pallid jets, 
 
 And tropic blooms, and vases caught 
 In palms of naked statuettes, 
 
 Ye can not color as ye ought ! 
 
 For, crouching in the storm without, 
 
 I see the figure of a child, 
 In little ragged roundabout, 
 
 Who stares with eyes that never smiled 
 And he, in fancy can but taste 
 
 The dainties of the kingly fare, 
 And pick the crumbs that go to waste 
 
 Where none have learned to kneel in prayer. 
 
 Go, Pride, and throw your goblet down 
 The "merry greeting" best appears 
 
 On loving lips that never drown 
 Its worth but in the wine of tears; 
 
A NEW YEAR S PLAINT 229 
 
 Go, close your coffers like your hearts, 
 And shut your hearts against the poor, 
 
 Go, strut through all your pretty parts 
 But take the "Welcome" from your door. 
 
LUTHER BENSON 
 
 AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 POOR victim of that vulture curse 
 That hovers o er the universe, 
 With ready talons quick to strike 
 In every human heart alike, 
 And cruel beak to stab and tear 
 In virtue s vitals everywhere, 
 You need no sympathy of mine 
 To aid you, for a strength divine 
 Encircles you, and lifts you clear 
 Above this earthly atmosphere. 
 
 And yet I can but call you poor, 
 As, looking through the open door 
 Of your sad life, I only see 
 A broad landscape of misery, 
 And catch through mists of pitying tears 
 The ruins of your younger years, 
 I see a father s shielding arm 
 Thrown round you in a wild alarm 
 Struck down, and powerless to free 
 Or aid you in your agony. 
 230 
 
LUTHER BENSON 231 
 
 I see a happy home grow dark 
 
 And desolate the latest spark 
 
 Of hope is passing in eclipse 
 
 The prayer upon a mother s lips 
 
 Has fallen with her latest breath 
 
 In ashes on the lips of death 
 
 I see a penitent who reels, 
 
 And writhes, and clasps his hands, and 
 
 kneels, 
 
 And moans for mercy for the sake 
 Of that fond heart he dared to break. 
 
 And lo ! as when in Galilee 
 A voice above the troubled sea 
 Commanded "Peace ; be still !" the flood 
 That rolled in tempest-waves of blood 
 Within you, fell in calm so sweet 
 It ripples round the Saviour s feet; 
 And all your noble nature thrilled 
 With brightest hope and faith, and filled 
 Your thirsty soul with joy and peace 
 And praise to Him who gave release. 
 
"DREAM" 
 
 T)ECAUSE her eyes were far too deep 
 JD And holy for a laugh to leap 
 Across the brink where sorrow tried 
 To drown within the amber tide; 
 Because the looks, whose ripples kissed 
 The trembling lids through tender mist, 
 Were dazzled with a radiant gleam 
 Because of this I called her "Dream." 
 
 Because the roses growing wild 
 About her features when she smiled 
 Were ever dewed with tears that fell 
 With tenderness ineffable; 
 Because her lips might spill a kiss 
 That, dripping in a world like this, 
 Would tincture death s myrrh-bitter stream 
 To sweetness so I called her "Dream." 
 
 Because I could not understand 
 The magic touches of a hand 
 That seemed, beneath her strange control, 
 To smooth the plumage of the soul 
 232 
 
"DREAM" 233 
 
 And calm it, till, with folded wings, 
 It half forgot its flutterings, 
 And, nestled in her palm, did seem 
 To trill a song that called her "Dream." 
 
 Because I saw her, in a sleep 
 As dark and desolate and deep 
 And fleeting as the taunting night 
 That flings a vision of delight 
 To some lorn martyr as he lies 
 In slumber ere the day he dies 
 Because she vanished like a gleam 
 Of glory, do I call her "Dream." 
 
WHEN EVENING SHADOWS FALL 
 
 WHEN evening shadows fall, 
 She hangs her cares away 
 Like empty garments on the wall 
 
 That hides her from the day; 
 And while old memories throng, 
 
 And vanished voices call, 
 She lifts her grateful heart in song 
 When evening shadows fall. 
 
 Her weary hands forget 
 
 The burdens of the day. 
 The weight of sorrow and regret 
 
 In music rolls away; 
 And from the day s dull tomb, 
 
 That holds her in its thrall, 
 Her soul springs up in lily bloom 
 
 When evening shadows fall. 
 
 O weary heart and hand, 
 
 Go bravely to the strife 
 No victory is half so grand 
 
 As that which conquers life! 
 234 
 
\ 
 
 ) li l\t* < i , , ^ A T^ ( f. r , xj c^i ^ o^ / 
 
 ^ 
 
 yut. * >..j *4 <"> - W *t 
 
 * 
 
 If/ 
 // AA 
 
 . _ 
 
 *t^-OC^ * v- M f, ^x... ^v; (flLO / f 
 
 friJJLt^ ,*&, i j /" . + 
 
 
 b~ 
 
 ^ x/y 
 /, ^, 
 
O o r ,.. / 
 
 J 
 
 / /I c C/Cl 
 
 ,l &/ * 
 >/ 
 
 // 
 
 /- " 
 
 y*. ,- <:>(, ,- VK^ 
 
WHEN EVENING SHADOWS FALL 235 
 
 One day shall yet be thine 
 
 The day that waits for all 
 Whose prayerful eyes are things divine 
 
 When evening shadows fall. 
 
YLLADMAR 
 
 HER hair was, oh, so dense a blur 
 Of darkness, midnight envied her ; 
 And stars grew dimmer in the skies 
 To see the glory of her eyes ; 
 And all the summer rain of light 
 That showered from the moon at night 
 Fell o er her features as the gloom 
 Of twilight o er a lily-bloom. 
 
 The crimson fruitage of her lips 
 Was ripe and lush with sweeter wine 
 Than burgundy or muscadine 
 Or vintage that the burgher sips 
 In some old garden on the Rhine : 
 And I to taste of it could well 
 Believe my heart a crucible 
 Of molten love and I could feel 
 The drunken soul within me reel 
 And rock and stagger till it fell. 
 236 
 
YLLADMAR 237 
 
 And do you wonder that I bowed 
 Before her splendor as a cloud 
 Of storm the golden-sandaled sun 
 Had set his conquering foot upon ? 
 And did she will it, I could lie 
 In writhing rapture down and die 
 A death so full of precious pain 
 I d waken up to die again. 
 
A FANTASY 
 
 A FANTASY that came to me 
 
 XJL As wild and wantonly designed 
 
 As ever any dream might be 
 
 Unraveled from a madman s mind,- 
 
 A tangle-work of tissue, wrought 
 By cunning of the spider-brain, 
 And woven, in an hour of pain, 
 
 To trap the giddy flies of thought 
 
 I stood beneath a summer moon 
 All swollen to uncanny girth, 
 
 And hanging, like the sun at noon, 
 Above the center of the earth; 
 But with a sad and sallow light, 
 As it had sickened of the night 
 
 And fallen in a pallid swoon. 
 
 Around me I could hear the rush 
 Of sullen winds, and feel the whir, 
 
 Of unseen wings apast me brush 
 Like phantoms round a sepulcher; 
 
 And, like a carpeting of plush, 
 238 
 
A FANTASY 239 
 
 A lawn unrolled beneath my feet, 
 Bespangled o er with flowers as sweet 
 To look upon as those that nod 
 Within the garden-fields of God, 
 But odorless as those that blow 
 In ashes in the shades below. 
 
 And on my hearing fell a storm 
 
 Of gusty music, sadder yet 
 
 Than every whimper of regret 
 That sobbing utterance could form, 
 
 And patched with scraps of sound that seemed 
 
 Torn out of tunes that demons dreamed, 
 
 And pitched to such a piercing key, 
 
 It stabbed the ear with agony; 
 
 And when at last it lulled and died, 
 
 I stood aghast and terrified. 
 I shuddered and I shut my eyes, 
 
 And still could see, and feel aware 
 
 Some mystic presence waited there; 
 And staring, with a dazed surprise, 
 
 I saw a creature so divine 
 
 That never subtle thought of mine 
 
 May reproduce to inner sight 
 
 So fair a vision of delight. 
 
 A syllable of dew that drips 
 From out a lily s laughing lips 
 Could not be sweeter than the word 
 I listened to, yet never heard. 
 
240 A FANTASY 
 
 For, oh, the woman hiding there 
 
 Within the shadows of her hair, 
 
 Spake to me in an undertone 
 
 So delicate, my soul alone 
 
 But understood it as a moan 
 
 Of some weak melody of wind 
 
 A heavenward breeze had left behind. 
 
 A tracery of trees, grotesque 
 Against the sky, behind her seen, 
 
 Like shapeless shapes of arabesque 
 Wrought in an Oriental screen; 
 
 And tall, austere and statuesque 
 
 She loomed before it e en as though 
 
 The spirit-hand of Angelo 
 
 Had chiseled her to life complete, 
 
 With chips of moonshine round her feet. 
 
 And I grew jealous of the dusk, 
 To see it softly touch her face, 
 As lover-like, with fond embrace, 
 
 It folded round her like a husk: 
 
 But when the glitter of her hand, 
 Like wasted glory, beckoned me, 
 My eyes grew blurred and dull and dim- 
 My vision failed I could not see 
 
 I could not stir I could but stand, 
 Till, quivering in every limb, 
 I flung me prone, as though to swim 
 
A FANTASY 241 
 
 The tide of grass whose waves of green 
 Went rolling ocean-wide between 
 My helpless shipwrecked heart and her 
 Who claimed me for a worshiper. 
 
 And writhing thus in my despair, 
 I heard a weird, unearthly sound, 
 That seemed to lift me from the ground 
 
 And hold me floating in the air. 
 
 I looked, and lo! I saw her bow 
 Above a harp within her hands ; 
 
 A crown of blossoms bound her brow, 
 And on her harp were twisted strands 
 
 Of silken starlight, rippling o er 
 
 With music never heard before 
 
 By mortal ears ; and, at the strain, 
 
 I felt my Spirit snap its chain 
 
 And break away, and I could see 
 
 It as it turned and fled from me 
 
 To greet its mistress, where she smiled 
 
 To see the phantom dancing wild 
 
 And wizard-like before the spell 
 
 Her mystic fingers knew so well. 
 
A DREAM 
 
 I DREAMED I was a spider ; 
 A big, fat, hungry spider ; 
 A lusty, rusty spider 
 
 With a dozen palsied limbs ; 
 With a dozen limbs that dangled 
 Where three wretched flies were tangled 
 And their buzzing wings were strangled 
 In the middle of their hymns. 
 
 And I mocked them like a demon; 
 
 A demoniacal demon 
 
 Who delights to be a demon 
 
 For the sake of sin alone. 
 And with fondly false embraces 
 Did I weave my mystic laces 
 Round their horror-stricken faces 
 
 Till I muffled every groan. 
 
 And I smiled to see them weeping, 
 For to see an insect weeping, 
 Sadly, sorrowfully weeping, 
 Fattens every spider s mirth ; 
 242 
 
A DREAM 243 
 
 And to note a fly s heart quaking, 
 And with anguish ever aching 
 Till you see it slowly breaking 
 Is the sweetest thing on earth. 
 
 I experienced a pleasure, 
 Such a highly-flavored pleasure, 
 Such intoxicating pleasure, 
 
 That I drank of it like wine ; 
 And my mortal soul engages 
 That no spider on the pages 
 Of the history of ages 
 
 Felt a rapture more divine. 
 
 I careened around and capered 
 
 Madly, mystically capered 
 
 For three days and nights I capered 
 
 Round my web in wild delight; 
 Till with fierce ambition burning, 
 And an inward thirst and yearning 
 I hastened my returning 
 
 With a fiendish appetite. 
 
 And I found my victims dying, 
 "Ha!" they whispered, "we are dying!" 
 Faintly whispered, "we are dying, 
 
 And our earthly course is run." 
 And the scene was so impressing 
 That I breathed a special blessing, 
 As I killed them with caressing 
 
 And devoured them one by one. 
 
DREAMER, SAY 
 
 DREAMER, say, will you dream for me 
 A wild sweet dream of a foreign land, 
 Whose border sips of a foaming sea 
 
 With lips of coral and silver sand ; 
 Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps, 
 
 Or lave themselves in the tearful mist 
 The great wild wave of the breaker weeps 
 O er crags of opal and amethyst ? 
 
 Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream 
 
 Of tropic shades in the lands of shine, 
 Where the lily leans o er an amber stream 
 
 That flows like a rill of wasted wine, 
 Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of 
 green, 
 
 Parry the shafts of the Indian sun 
 Whose splintering vengeance falls between 
 
 The reeds below where the waters run? 
 244 
 
DREAMER, SAY 245 
 
 Dreamer, say, will you dream of love 
 
 That lives in a land of sweet perfume, 
 Where the stars drip down from the skies above 
 
 In molten spatters of bud and bloom? 
 Where never the weary eyes are wet, 
 
 And never a sob in the balmy air, 
 And only the laugh of the paroquet 
 
 Breaks the sleep of the silence there? 
 
BRYANT 
 
 harp has fallen from the master s hand ; 
 A Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings, 
 
 Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings 
 In sad ^Eolian murmurs through the land. 
 The tide of melody, whose billows grand 
 
 Flowed o er the world in clearest utterings, 
 
 Now, in receding current, sobs and sings 
 That song we never wholly understand. 
 * * O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong, 
 
 And gracious reverence to humbly bow, 
 And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong; 
 
 O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow, 
 And lips so long attuned to sacred song, 
 
 How sweet must be the heavenly anthem now ! 
 
 246 
 
BABYHOOD 
 
 HEIGH-HO ! Babyhood ! Tell me where you 
 linger ! 
 
 Let s toddle home again, for we have gone astray ; 
 Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the 
 
 ringer 
 Back to the lotus-lands of the far-away! 
 
 Turn back the leaves of life. Don t read the 
 story. 
 
 Let s find the pictures, and fancy all the rest ; 
 We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory 
 
 Than old Time, the story-teller, at his very best. 
 
 Turn to the brook where the honeysuckle tipping 
 O er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze, 
 And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sip 
 ping 
 
 From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust- 
 trees. 
 
 247 
 
248 BABYHOOD 
 
 Turn to the lane where we used to "teeter-totter," 
 Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold 
 
 Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water 
 Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of 
 gold ; 
 
 Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel 
 Of the sunny sand-bar in the middle tide, 
 
 And the ghostly dragon-fly pauses in his travel 
 To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! Babyhood ! Tell me where you linger ! 
 
 Let s toddle home again, for we have gone astray ; 
 Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the 
 finger 
 
 Back to the lotus-lands of the far-away ! 
 
LIBERTY 
 
 NEW CASTLE, JULY 4, 1878. 
 I 
 
 FVDR a hundred years the pulse of time 
 Has throbbed for Liberty; 
 For a hundred years the grand old clime, 
 Columbia has been free ; 
 
 For a hundred years our country s love, 
 The Stars and Stripes has waved above. 
 
 Away far out on the gulf of years 
 
 Misty and faint and white 
 Through the fogs of wrong a sail appears, 
 And the Mayflower heaves in sight, 
 And drifts again, with its little flock 
 Of a hundred souls, on Plymouth Rock. 
 
 Do you see them there as long, long since 
 Through the lens of History; 
 249 
 
250 LIBERTY 
 
 Do you see them there as their chieftain prints 
 In the snow his bended knee, 
 
 And lifts his voice through the wintry blast 
 In thanks for a peaceful home at last? 
 
 Though the skies are dark and the coast is bleak, 
 
 And the storm is wild and fierce, 
 Its frozen flake on the upturned cheek 
 Of the Pilgrim melts in tears, 
 
 And the dawn that springs from the darkness 
 
 there 
 Is the morning light of an answered prayer. 
 
 The morning light of the day of Peace 
 
 That gladdens the aching eyes, 
 And gives to the soul that sweet release 
 That the present verifies, 
 
 Nor a snow so deep, nor a wind so chill 
 To quench the flame of a freeman s will! 
 
 II 
 
 Days of toil when the bleeding hand 
 
 Of the pioneer grew numb, 
 When the untilled tracts of the barren land 
 Where the weary ones had come 
 
 Could offer nought from a fruitful soil 
 To stay the strength of the stranger s toil. 
 
LIBERTY 251 
 
 Days of pain, when the heart beat low, 
 
 And the empty hours went by 
 Pitiless, with the wail of woe 
 And the moan of Hunger s cry. 
 
 When the trembling hands upraised in prayer 
 Had only the strength to hold them there. 
 
 Days when the voice of hope had fled 
 
 Days when the eyes grown weak 
 Were folded to, and the tears they shed 
 Were frost on a frozen cheek 
 
 When the storm bent down from the skies 
 
 and gave 
 A shroud of snow for the Pilgrim s grave. 
 
 Days at last when the smiling sun 
 
 Glanced down from a summer sky, 
 
 And a music rang where the rivers run, 
 
 And the waves went laughing by; 
 
 And the rose peeped over the mossy bank 
 While the wild deer stood in the stream and 
 drank. 
 
 And the birds sang out so loud and good, 
 
 In a symphony so clear 
 
 And pure and sweet that the woodman stood 
 With his ax upraised to hear, 
 
 And to shape the words of the tongue unknown 
 Into a language all his own : 
 
252 LIBERTY 
 
 Sing! every bird, to-day! 
 
 Sing for the sky so clear, 
 
 And the gracious breath of the atmosphere 
 Shall waft our cares away. 
 Sing! sing! for the sunshine free; 
 Sing through the land from sea to sea; 
 Lift each voice in the highest key 
 And sing for Liberty! 
 
 Sing for the arms that fling 
 
 Their fetters in the dust 
 
 And lift their hands in higher trust 
 Unto the one Great King; 
 Sing for the patriot heart and hand; 
 Sing for the country they have planned; 
 Sing that the world may understand 
 This is Freedom s land! 
 
 Sing in the tones of prayer, 
 
 Sing till the soaring soul 
 
 Shall float above the world s control 
 In Freedom everywhere! 
 
LIBERTY 253 
 
 Sing for the good that is to be, 
 Sing for the eyes that are to see 
 The land where man at last is free, 
 sing for Liberty! 
 
 Ill 
 
 A holy quiet reigned, save where the hand 
 Of labor sent a murmur through the land, 
 And happy voices in a harmony 
 Taught every lisping breeze a melody. 
 A nest of cabins, where the smoke upctirled 
 A breathing incense to the other world. 
 A land of languor from the sun of noon, 
 That fainted slowly to the pallid moon, 
 Till stars, thick-scattered in the garden-land 
 Of Heaven by the great Jehovah s hand, 
 Had blossomed into light to look upon 
 The dusky warrior with his arrow drawn, 
 As skulking from the covert of the night 
 With serpent cunning and a fiend s delight, 
 With murderous spirit, and a yell of hate 
 The voice of Hell might tremble to translate: 
 When the fond mother s tender lullaby 
 Went quavering in shrieks all suddenly, 
 And baby-lips were dabbled with the stain 
 Of crimson at the bosom of the slain, 
 And peaceful homes and fortunes ruined lost 
 In smoldering embers of the holocaust. 
 
254 LIBERTY 
 
 Yet on and on, through years of gloom and strife, 
 Our country struggled into stronger life; 
 Till colonies, like footprints in the sand 
 Marked Freedom s pathway winding through the 
 
 land 
 
 And not the footprints to be swept away 
 Before the storm we hatched in Boston Bay, 
 But footprints where the path of war begun 
 That led to Bunker Hill and Lexington, 
 For he who "dared to lead where others dared 
 To follow" found the promise there declared 
 Of Liberty, in blood of Freedom s host 
 Baptized to Father, Son and Holy Ghost ! 
 
 Oh, there were times when every patriot breast 
 Was riotous with sentiments expressed 
 In tones that swelled in volume till the sound 
 Of lusty war itself was well-nigh drowned. 
 Oh, those were times when happy eyes with tears 
 Brimmed o er as all the misty doubts and fears 
 Were washed away, and Hope with gracious mien, 
 Reigned from her throne again a sovereign queen 
 Until at last, upon a day like this 
 When flowers were blushing at the summer s kiss, 
 And when the sky was cloudless as the face 
 Of some sweet infant in its angel grace, 
 There came a sound of music, thrown afloat 
 Upon the balmy air a clanging note 
 Reiterated from the brazen throat 
 
LIBERTY 255 
 
 Of Independence Bell: A sound so sweet, 
 The clamoring throngs of people on the streets 
 Were stilled as at the solemn voice of prayer, 
 And heads were bowed, and lips were moving there 
 That made no sound until the spell had passed, 
 And then, as when all sudden comes the blast 
 Of some tornado, came the cheer on cheer 
 Of every eager voice, while far and near 
 The echoing bells upon the atmosphere 
 Set glorious rumors floating, till the ear 
 Of every listening patriot tingled clear, 
 And thrilled with joy and jubilee to hear. 
 
 Stir all your echoes up, 
 
 O Independence Bell, 
 And pour from your inverted cup 
 
 The song we love so well. 
 
 Lift high your happy voice, 
 And swing your iron tongue 
 
 Till syllables of praise rejoice 
 That never yet were sung. 
 
 Ring in the gleaming dawn 
 Of Freedom Toll the knell 
 
 Of Tyranny, and then ring on, 
 Independence Bell. 
 
256 LIBERTY 
 
 Ring on, and drown the moan 
 
 Above the patriot slain 
 Till sorrow s voice shall catch the tone 
 
 And join the glad refrain. 
 
 Ring out the wounds of wrong 
 And rankle in the breast; 
 
 Your music like a slumber-song 
 Will lull revenge to rest. 
 
 Ring out from Occident 
 
 To Orient, and peal 
 From continent to continent 
 
 The mighty joy you feel. 
 
 Ring! Independence Bell! 
 
 Ring on till worlds to be 
 Shall listen to the tale you tell 
 
 Of love and Liberty! 
 
 IV 
 
 O Liberty the dearest word 
 A bleeding country ever heard, 
 We lay our hopes upon thy shrine 
 And offer up our lives for thine. 
 You gave us many happy years 
 Of peace and plenty ere the tears 
 A mourning country wept were dried 
 Above the graves of those who died 
 
LIBERTY 257 
 
 Upon thy threshold. And again 
 
 When newer wars were bred, and men 
 
 Went marching in the cannon s breath 
 
 And died for thee and loved the death, 
 
 While, high above them, gleaming bright, 
 
 The dear old flag remained in sight, 
 
 And lighted up their dying eyes 
 
 With smiles that brightened paradise. 
 
 O Liberty, it is thy power 
 
 To gladden us in every hour 
 
 Of gloom, and lead us by thy hand 
 
 As little children through a land 
 
 Of bud and blossom ; while the days 
 
 Are filled with sunshine, and thy praise 
 
 Is warbled in the roundelays 
 
 Of joyous birds, and in the song 
 
 Of waters, murmuring along 
 
 The paths of peace, whose flowery fringe 
 
 Has roses finding deeper tinge 
 
 Of crimson, looking on themselves 
 
 Reflected leaning from the shelves 
 
 Of cliff and crag and mossy mound 
 
 Of emerald splendor shadow-drowned. 
 
 We hail thy presence, as you come 
 
 With bugle blast and rolling drum, 
 
 And booming guns and shouts of glee 
 
 Commingled in a symphony 
 
 That thrills the worlds that throng to see 
 
 The glory of thy pageantry. 
 
258 LIBERTY 
 
 And with thy praise, we breathe a prayer 
 That God who leaves you in our care 
 May favor us from this day on 
 With thy dear presence till the dawn 
 Of Heaven, breaking on thy face, 
 Lights up thy first abiding place. 
 
Old Seminary at Greenfield where Riley attended school and later 
 lived for a time 
 
TOM VAN ARDEN 
 
 TOM VAN ARDEN, my old friend, 
 Our warm fellowship is one 
 Far too old to comprehend 
 
 Where its bond was first begun: 
 Mirage-like before my gaze 
 Gleams a land of other days, y 
 Where two truant boys, astray, 
 Dream their lazy lives away. 
 
 There s a vision, in the guise 
 
 Of Midsummer, where the Past 
 Like a weary beggar lies 
 
 In the shadow Time has cast ; 
 And as blends the bloom of trees 
 With the drowsy hum of bees, 
 Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 
 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
 All the pleasures we have known 
 
 Thrill me now as I extend 
 
 This old hand and grasp your own 
 259 
 
260 TOM VAN ARDEN 
 
 Feeling, in the rude caress, 
 All affection s tenderness; 
 Feeling, though the touch be rough, 
 Our old souls are soft enough. 
 
 So we ll make a mellow hour : 
 
 Fill your pipe, and taste the wine 
 Warp your face, if it be sour, 
 I can spare a smile from mine ; 
 If it sharpen up your wit, 
 Let me feel the edge of it 
 I have eager ears to lend, 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 
 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
 Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? 
 Are we all that we pretend 
 In the jolly life we lead? 
 Bachelors, we must confess, 
 Boast of "single blessedness" 
 To the world, but not alone 
 Man s best sorrow is his own! 
 
 And the saddest truth is this, 
 
 Life to us has never proved 
 What we tasted in the kiss 
 
 Of the women we have loved: 
 Vainly we congratulate 
 Our escape from such a fate 
 As their lying lips could send, 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend! 
 
TOM VAN ARDEN 261 
 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
 
 Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, 
 Ripen sweetest, I contend, 
 As the frost falls over them: 
 Your regard for me to-day 
 Makes November taste of May, 
 And through every vein of rhyme 
 Pours the blood of summer-time. 
 
 When our souls are cramped with youth 
 
 Happiness seems far away 
 In the future, while, in truth, 
 We look back on it to-day 
 Through our tears, nor dare to boast, 
 "Better to have loved and lost !" 
 Broken hearts are hard to mend, 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 
 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
 
 I grow prosy, and you tire ; 
 Fill the glasses while I bend 
 
 To prod up the failing fire. . . . 
 You are restless: I presume 
 There s a dampness in the room. 
 Much of warmth our nature begs, 
 With rheumatics in our legs! . . . 
 
 Humph ! the legs we used to fling 
 
 Limber-jointed in the dance, 
 When we heard the fiddle ring 
 
 Up the curtain of Romance, 
 
262 TOM VAN ARDEN 
 
 And in crowded public halls 
 Played with hearts like jugglers balls. 
 Feats of mountebanks, depend! 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 
 
 Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
 
 Pardon, then, this theme of mine: 
 While the firelight leaps to lend 
 Higher color to the wine, 
 I propose a health to those 
 Who have homes, and home s repose, 
 Wife- and child-love without end ! 
 . . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 
 
T. C. PHILIPS 
 
 O NOBLE heart, and brave impetuous hand ! 
 So all engrossed in work of public weal 
 Thou couldst not pause thy own distress to feel 
 
 While maladies of Wrong oppressed the land. 
 
 The hopes that marshaled at thy pen s command 
 To cheer the Right, had not the power to heal 
 The ever-aching wounds thou didst conceal 
 
 Beneath a front so stoically bland 
 
 That no one guessed thy inward agony, 
 Until the Master, leaning from his throne, 
 Heard some soul wailing in an undertone, 
 
 And bending lower down, discovered thee, 
 And clasped thy weary hand within His own 
 
 And lifted thee to rest eternally. 
 
 263 
 
A DREAM UNFINISHED 
 
 ONLY a dream unfinished ; only a form at rest 
 With weary hands clasped lightly over a peace 
 ful breast. 
 
 And the lonesome light of summer through the 
 
 open doorway falls, 
 But it wakes no laugh in the parlor no voice in 
 
 the vacant halls. 
 
 It throws no spell of music over the slumbrous air ; 
 It meets no step on the carpet no form in the 
 easy chair. 
 
 It finds no queenly presence blessing the solitude 
 With the gracious benediction of royal womanhood. 
 
 It finds no willowy figure tilting the cage that 
 
 swings 
 With the little pale canary that forgets the song 
 
 he sings. 
 
 264 
 
A DREAM UNFINISHED 265 
 
 No face at the open window to welcome the fra 
 grant breeze; 
 
 No touch at the old piano to waken the sleeping 
 keys. 
 
 The idle book lies open, and the folded leaf is 
 
 pressed 
 Over the half-told story while death relates the 
 
 rest. 
 
 Only a dream unfinished; only a form at rest, 
 With weary hands clasped lightly over a peaceful 
 breast. 
 
 The light steals into the corner where the darkest 
 
 shadows are, 
 And sweeps with its golden fingers the strings of 
 
 the mute guitar. 
 
 And over the drooping mosses it clambers the rus 
 tic stand, 
 
 And over the ivy s tresses it trails a trembling 
 hand. 
 
 But it brings no smile from the darkness it calls 
 
 no face from the gloom 
 No song flows out of the silence that aches in the 
 
 empty room. 
 
266 A DREAM UNFINISHED 
 
 And we look in vain for the dawning in the depths 
 
 of our despair, 
 Where the weary voice goes wailing through the 
 
 empty aisles of prayer. 
 
 And the hands reach out through the darkness for 
 
 the touches we have known 
 When the icy palms lay warmly in the pressure of 
 
 our own. 
 
 When the folded eyes were gleaming with a glory 
 
 God designed 
 To light a way to Heaven by the smiles they left 
 
 behind. 
 
 Only a dream unfinished; only a form at rest, 
 With weary hands clasped lightly over a peaceful 
 breast. 
 
A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 
 
 READ AT AN OLD SETTLERS MEETING AT OAKLAND, 
 INDIANA, AUGUST 3, 1878. 
 
 THE terse old maxim of the poet s pen, 
 "What constitutes a state? High-minded men," 
 Holds such a wealth of truth, when one reflects, 
 It seems more like a sermon than a text. 
 Yet looking dimly backward o er the years 
 Where first the face of progress, through our tears, 
 Smiles on us, where within the forest gloom 
 The bud of Indiana bursts in bloom; 
 We can but see, from Lake of Michigan, 
 To where Ohio rolls, the work of man 
 From where our eastern boundary-line is pressed, 
 To where the Wabash revels on the west ; 
 A broad expanse of fair and fertile land, 
 Like some rich landscape, from a master s hand, 
 That in its rustic frame, we well might call 
 The fairest picture on Columbia s wall 
 A picture now a masterpiece divine, 
 That, ere the artist s hand in its design 
 267 
 
268 A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 
 
 Had traced this loveliness, was but a blot 
 
 Of ugly pigment on a barren spot 
 
 A blur of color on a hueless ground 
 
 Where scarce a hint of beauty could be found. 
 
 But patiently the hand of labor wrought, 
 
 And from each touch new inspiration caught; 
 
 Toiled on through disadvantages untold, 
 
 And at each onward step found firmer hold, 
 
 And obstacles that threatened long delay 
 
 He climbed above and went upon his way, 
 
 Until at last, exulting, he could see 
 
 The sweet reward of patient industry; 
 
 And beauties he had hardly dared to dream, 
 
 In hill and vale, and cliff and winding stream, 
 
 Spread out before his vision, till the soul 
 
 Within him seemed to leap beyond control, 
 
 And hover over lands the genii made 
 
 Of sifted sunshine and of dew-washed shade. 
 
 And who, indeed, that loves his native state, 
 Has not a heart to throb and palpitate 
 With ecstacy, as o er her wintry past, 
 He sees the sun of summer dawn at last, 
 And catches, through the misty shower of light, 
 Dim glimpses of the orchards bloom of white, 
 And fields beyond where, waving empty sleeves, 
 The "scarecrow" beckons to the feathered thieves 
 That perch, and perk their nimble heads away, 
 And flit away with harsh, discordant cry, 
 Or shading with his hand, his dazzled eyes, 
 Looks out across the deadened paradise, 
 
A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 269 
 
 Where wild flowers blossom, and the ivy clings, 
 And from the ruined oak the grapevine swings, 
 While high above upon the leafless tree 
 The red-head drummer beats his reveille, 
 And, like an army thronging at the sound, 
 The soldier corn-stalks on their battle-ground 
 March on to harvest victories, and flaunt 
 Their banners o er the battlements of want ! 
 
 And musing thus to-day, the pioneer 
 
 Whose brawny arm has grubbed a pathway here, 
 
 Stands, haply; with his vision backward turned 
 
 To where the log-heap of the past was burned, 
 
 And sees again, as in some shadowy dream, 
 
 The wild deer bending o er the hidden stream, 
 
 Or sniffing, with his antlers lifted high, 
 
 The gawky crane, as he comes trailing by, 
 
 And drops in shallow tides below to wade 
 
 On tilting legs through dusky depths of shade, 
 
 While just across the glossy otter slips 
 
 Like some wet shadow neath the ripple s lips 
 
 As, drifting from the thicket-hid bayou, 
 
 The wild duck paddles past his rendezvous, 
 
 And overhead the beech and sycamore, 
 
 That lean their giant forms from either shore, 
 
 Clasp hands and bow their heads, as though to bless 
 
 In whispered prayer the sleeping wilderness. 
 
 A scene of such magnificent expanse 
 
 Of nameless grandeur that the utterance 
 
 Of even feathered orators is faint. 
 
 For here the dove s most melancholy plaint 
 
270 A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 
 
 Invokes no echo, and the killdeer s call 
 
 Swoons in the murmur of the waterfall 
 
 That, faint and far away and undefined, 
 
 Falls like a ghost of sound upon the mind. 
 
 The voice of nature s very self drops low, 
 
 As though she whispered of the long ago, 
 
 When down the wandering stream the rude canoe 
 
 Of some lone trapper glided into view, 
 
 And loitered down the watery path that led 
 
 Through forest depths that only knew the tread 
 
 Of savage beasts ; and wild barbarians 
 
 That skulked about with blood upon their hands 
 
 And murder in their hearts. The light of day 
 
 Might barely pierce the gloominess that lay 
 
 Like some dark pall across the water s face, 
 
 And folded all the land in its embrace ; 
 
 The panther s whimper, and the bear s low growl 
 
 The snake s sharp rattle, and the wolf s wild howl ; 
 
 The owl s grim chuckle, as it rose and fell 
 
 In alternation with the Indian s yell, 
 
 Made fitting prelude for the gory plays 
 
 That were enacted in the early days. 
 
 But fancy, soaring o er the storm of grief 
 
 Like that lone bird that brought the olive leaf, 
 
 Brings only peace an amulet whose spell 
 
 Works stranger marvels than the tongue can tell 
 
 For o er the vision, like a mirage, falls 
 
 The old log cabin with its dingy walls, 
 
 And crippled chimney with its crutch-like prop 
 
 Beneath a sagging shoulder at the top: 
 
A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 271 
 
 The coonskin battened fast on either side 
 
 The wisps of leaf-tobacco "cut-and-dried" ; 
 
 The yellow strands of quartered apples, hung 
 
 In rich festoons that tangle in among 
 
 The morning-glory vines that clamber o er 
 
 The little clapboard roof above the door: 
 
 The old well-sweep that drops a courtesy 
 
 To every thirsting soul so graciously, 
 
 The stranger, as he drains the dripping gourd, 
 
 Intuitively murmurs, "Thank the Lord!" 
 
 Again through mists of memory arise 
 
 The simple scenes of home before the eyes : 
 
 The happy mother, humming, with her wheel, 
 
 The dear old melodies that used to steal 
 
 So drowsily upon the summer air, 
 
 The house-dog hid his bone, forgot his care, 
 
 And nestled at her feet, to dream, perchance, 
 
 Some cooling dream of winter-time romance: 
 
 The square of sunshine through the open door 
 
 That notched its edge across the puncheon floor, 
 
 And made a golden coverlet whereon 
 
 The god of slumber had a picture drawn 
 
 Of Babyhood, in all the loveliness 
 
 Of dimpled cheek and limb and linsey dress : 
 
 The bough-filled fireplace, and the mantel wide, 
 
 Its fire-scorched ankles stretched on either side, 
 
 Where, perched upon its shoulders neath the joist, 
 
 The old clock hiccoughed, harsh and husky-voiced, 
 
 And snarled the premonition, dire and dread, 
 
 When it should hammer Time upon the head : 
 
272 A- CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 
 
 Tomatoes, red and yellow, in a row, 
 
 Preserved not then for diet, but for show, 
 
 Like rare and precious jewels in the rough 
 
 Whose worth was not appraised at half enough : 
 
 The jars of jelly, with their dusty tops; 
 
 The bunch of pennyroyal ; the cordial drops ; 
 
 The flask of camphor, and the vial of squills, 
 
 The box of buttons, garden-seeds, and pills; 
 
 And, ending all the mantel s bric-a-brac, 
 
 The old, time-honored "Family Almanack." 
 
 And Memory, with a mother s touch of love, 
 
 Climbs with us to the dusky loft above, 
 
 Where drowsily we trail our fingers in 
 
 The mealy treasures of the harvest bin ; 
 
 And, feeling with our hands the open track, 
 
 We pat the bag of barley on the back ; 
 
 And, groping onward through the mellow gloom, 
 
 We catch the hidden apple s faint perfume, 
 
 And, mingling with it, fragrant hints of pear 
 
 And musky melon ripening somewhere. 
 
 Again we stretch our limbs upon the bed 
 
 Where first our simple childish prayers were said ; 
 
 And while, without, the gallant cricket trills 
 
 A challenge to the solemn whippoorwills, 
 
 And, filing on the chorus with his glee, 
 
 The katydid whets all the harmony 
 
 To feather-edge of incoherent song, 
 
 We drop asleep, and peacefully along 
 
 The current of our dreams we glide away 
 
 To the dim harbor of another day, 
 
A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 273 
 
 Where brown toil waits for us, and where labor 
 
 stands 
 To welcome us with rough and horny hands. 
 
 And who will mock the rude, unpolished ways 
 That swayed us in the good old-fashioned days 
 When labor wore the badge of manhood, set 
 Upon his tawny brow in pearls of sweat ? 
 Who dares to-day to turn a scornful eye 
 On labor in his swarthy majesty? 
 Or wreathe about his lips the sneer of pride 
 
 ! Where brawny toil stands towering at his side ? 
 
 i By industry alone we gauge the worth 
 Of all the richer nations of the earth; 
 And side by side with honesty and toil 
 Prosperity walks round the furrowed soil 
 That belts the world, and o er the ocean ledge 
 Tilts up the horn of plenty on its edge. 
 
 I Tis not the subject fawning to the king, 
 
 j Tis not the citizen, low cowering 
 Before the throne of state. Twas God s intent 
 
 , Each man should be a king a president ; 
 
 I And while through human veins the blood of pride 
 Shall ebb and flow in Labor s rolling tide, 
 The brow of toil shall wear the diadem, 
 And justice gleaming there, the central gem, 
 Shall radiate the time when we shall see 
 Each man rewarded as his works shall be. 
 Thank God for this bright promise ! Lift the voice 
 Till all the waiting multitudes rejoice; 
 
274 A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 
 
 Reach out across the sea and clap your hands 
 Till voices waken out of foreign lands 
 To join the song, while listening Heaven waits 
 To roll an answering anthem through the gates. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
"A thynge of wytchencreft an idle dreme. 
 
the Song s sake; even so: 
 Humor it, and let it go 
 All untamed and wild of wing 
 Leave it ever truanting. 
 
 Be its night elusive! Lo, 
 For the Song s sake even so. 
 Yield it but an car as kind 
 As thou perkest to the tvind. 
 
 Who will name us what the seas 
 Have sung on for centuries? 
 For the Song s sake! Even so 
 Sing, O Seas! and Breezes, blow! 
 
 Sing! or Wave or Wind or Bird 
 Sing! nor ever afterward 
 Clear thy meaning to us No! 
 For the Song s sake. Even so. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 KRUNG King of the Spirks 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 The Queen Second Consort to Krung 
 SPRAIVOLL The Tune-Fool 
 
 AMPHINE Prince Son of Krung 
 
 DWAINIE A Princess of the Wunks 
 
 JUCKLET A Dwarf of the Spirks 
 
 CREECH and 
 
 GRITCHFANG Nightmares 
 
 Counselors, Courtiers, Heralds, etc. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 ACT I 
 
 PLACE THE FLYING ISLANDS 
 
 SCENE I. Spirkland. Time, Moondawn. Interior 
 Court of KRUNG. A vast, pendant star burns 
 dimly in dome above throne. CRESTILLOMEEM 
 discovered languidly reclining at foot of empty 
 throne, an overturned goblet lying near, as 
 though just drained. The Queen, in seeming 
 dazed, ecstatic state, raptly gazing upward, lis 
 tening. Swarming forms and features in air 
 above, seen eeriely coming and going, blend- 
 ing and intermingling in domed ceiling-spaces 
 of court. Weird music. Mystic, luminous, beau 
 tiful faces detached from swarm, float singly 
 forward, tremulously, and in succession, 
 poising in mid-air and chanting. 
 
 FIRST FACE 
 
 And who hath known her like as 7 
 Have known her? since the envying sky 
 279 
 
280 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Filched from her cheeks its morning hue, 
 And from her eyes its glory, too, 
 Of dazzling shine and diamond-dew. 
 
 SECOND FACE 
 
 7 knew her long and long before 
 High JEo loosed her palm and thought : 
 "What awful splendor have I wrought 
 To dazzle earth and Heaven, too !" 
 
 THIRD FACE 
 
 I knew her long ere Night was o er 
 Ere ^Eo yet conjectured what 
 To fashion Day of ay, before 
 He sprinkled stars across the floor 
 Of dark, and swept that form of mine, 
 E en as a fleck of blinded shine, 
 Back to the black where light was not. 
 
 FOURTH FACE 
 
 Ere day was dreamt, I saw her face 
 Lift from some starry hiding-place 
 Where our old moon was kneeling while 
 She lit its features with her smile. 
 
 FIFTH FACE 
 
 I knew her while these islands yet 
 Were nestlings ere they feathered wing, 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 281 
 
 Or e en could gape with them or get 
 
 Apoise the laziest-ambling breeze, 
 
 Or cheep, chirp out, or anything! 
 
 When Time crooned rhymes of nurseries 
 
 Above them nodded, dozed and slept, 
 
 And knew it not, till, wakening, 
 
 The morning stars agreed to sing 
 
 And Heaven s first tender dews were wept. 
 
 SIXTH FACE 
 
 I knew her when the jealous hands 
 Of Angels set her sculptured form 
 Upon a pedestal of storm 
 And let her to this land with strands 
 Of twisted lightnings. 
 
 SEVENTH FACE 
 
 And I heard 
 
 Her voice ere she could tone a word 
 Of any but the Seraph-tongue. 
 And O sad-sweeter than all sung- 
 Or word-said things ! to hear her say, 
 Between the tears she dashed away : 
 "Lo, launched from the offended sight 
 Of JEol anguish infinite 
 Is ours, O Sisterhood of Sin! 
 Yet is thy service mine by right, 
 And, sweet as I may rule it, thus 
 
282 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Shall Sin s myrrh-savor taste to us 
 Sin s Empress let my reign begin !" 
 
 CHORUS OF SWARMING FACES 
 
 We follow thee forever on! 
 
 Through darkest night and dimmest dawn ; 
 
 Through storm and calm through shower and 
 shine, 
 
 Hear thou our voices answering thine: 
 We follow craving but to be 
 Thy followers. We follow thee 
 We follow, follow, follow thee! 
 
 We follow ever on and on 
 
 O er hill and hollow, brake and lawn ; 
 
 Through gruesome vale and dread ravine 
 
 Where light of day is never seen. 
 We waver not in loyalty, 
 Unfaltering we follow thee 
 We follow, follow, follow thee! 
 
 We follow ever on and on! 
 The shroud of night around us drawn, 
 Though wet with mists, is wild-ashine 
 With stars to light that path of thine; 
 
 The glowworms, too, befriend us we 
 Shall fail not as we follow thee. 
 We follow, follow, follow thee! 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 283 
 
 We follow ever on and on. 
 
 The notched reeds we pipe upon 
 
 Are pithed with music, keener blown 
 
 And blither where thou leadest lone 
 Glad pangs of its ecstatic glee 
 Shall reach thee as we follow thee. 
 We follow, follow, follow thee ! 
 
 We follow ever on and on: 
 
 We know the ways thy feet have gone, 
 
 The grass is greener, and the bloom 
 
 Of roses richer in perfume 
 
 And the birds of every blooming tree 
 Sing sweeter as we follow thee. 
 We follow, follow, follow thee! 
 
 We follow ever on and on; 
 
 For wheresoever thou hast gone 
 
 We hasten joyous, knowing there 
 
 Is sweeter sin than otherwhere 
 
 Leave still its latest cup, that we 
 May drain it as we follow thee. 
 We follow, follow, follow thee! 
 
 [Throughout final stanzas, faces in foreground and 
 forms in background slowly vanish, and voices 
 gradually fail to sheer silence. CRESTILLO- 
 MEEM rises and wistfully gazes and listens; 
 then, evidently regaining wonted self, looks to 
 be assured of being wholly alone then speaks .] 
 
284 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 The Throne is throwing wide its gilded arms 
 
 To welcome me. The Throne of Krung ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Leap up, ye lazy echoes, and laugh loud! 
 
 For I, Crestillomeem, the Queen ha ! ha ! 
 
 Do fling my richest mirth into your mouths 
 
 That ye may fatten ripe with mockery ! 
 
 I marvel what the kingdom would become 
 
 Were I not here to nurse it like a babe 
 
 And dandle it above the reach and clutch 
 
 Of intermeddlers in the royal line 
 
 And their attendant serfs. Ho! Jucklet, ho! 
 
 Tis time my knarled warp of nice anatomy 
 
 Were here, to weave us on upon our mesh 
 
 Of silken villanies. Ho! Jucklet, ho! 
 
 [Lifts secret door in pave and drops a star-bud 
 through opening. Enter JUCKLET from below.] 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Spang sprit! my gracious Queen! but thou hast 
 
 scorched 
 
 My left ear to a cinder ! and my head 
 Rings like a ding-dong on the coast of death ! 
 For, patient hate ! thy hasty signal burst 
 Full in my face as hitherward I came ! 
 But though my lug be fried to crisp, and my 
 Singed wig stinks like a little sun-stewed Wunk, 
 I stretch my fragrant presence at thy feet 
 And kiss thy sandal with a blistered lip. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 285 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Hold ! rare-done fool, lest I may bid the cook 
 
 To bake thee brown ! How fares the King by this ? 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Safe couched midmost his lordly hoard of books, 
 
 I left him sleeping like a quinsied babe 
 
 Next the guest-chamber of a poor man s house: 
 
 But ere I came away, to rest mine ears, 
 
 I salved his welded lids, uncorked his nose, 
 
 And o er the odorous blossom of his lips 
 
 Re-squeezed the tinctured sponge, and felt his pulse 
 
 Come staggering back to regularity. 
 
 And four hours hence his Highness will awake 
 
 And Peace will take a nap ! 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 H a ! What mean you ? 
 JUCKLET [Ominously] 
 
 I mean that he suspects our knaveries. 
 Some covert spy is burrowed in the court 
 Nay, and I pray thee startle not aloud, 
 But mute thy very heart in its out-throb, 
 And let the blanching of thy cheeks but be 
 A whispering sort of pallor! 
 
286 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 A spy ? Here ? 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Ay, here and haply even now. And one 
 Whose unseen eye seems ever focused keen 
 Upon our action, and whose hungering ear 
 Eats every crumb of counsel that we drop 
 In these our secret interviews ! For he 
 The King through all his talking-sleep to-day 
 Hath jabbered of intrigue, conspiracy 
 Of treachery and hate in fellowship, 
 With dire designs upon his royal bulk, 
 To oust it from the Throne. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 He spake my name ? 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 O Queen, he speaks not ever but thy name 
 
 Makes melody of every sentence. Yea, 
 
 He thinks thee even true to him as thou 
 
 Art fickle, false and subtle! O how blind 
 
 And lame, and deaf and dumb, and worn and weak, 
 
 And faint, and sick, and all-commodious 
 
 His dear love is ! In sooth, O wifely one, 
 
 Thy malleable spouse doth mind me of 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 287 
 
 That pliant hero of the bald old catch 
 
 "The Lovely Husband." Shall I wreak the thing? 
 
 [Sings with much affected gravity and grimace] 
 
 O a lovely husband he was known, 
 
 He loved his wife and her a-lone; 
 
 She reaped the harvest he had sown; 
 
 She ate the meat; he picked the bone. 
 With mixed admirers every size, 
 She smiled on each without disguise ; 
 This lovely husband closed his eyes 
 Lest he might take her by surprise. 
 
 [Aside, exclamatory} 
 Chorious uproarious ! 
 
 [Then pantomime as though pulling at bell-rope 
 
 singing in pent, explosive utterance] 
 Trot! 
 
 Run! 
 
 Wasn t he a handy hubby? 
 
 What 
 Fun 
 
 She could plot and plan! 
 Not 
 
 One 
 
 Other such a dandy hubby 
 As this lovely man! 
 
288 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Or talk or tune, wilt thou wind up thy tongue 
 Nor let it tangle in a knot of words ! 
 What said the King? 
 
 JUCKLET [With recovered reverence} 
 
 He said : "Crestillomeem 
 O that she knew this thick distress of mine! 
 Her counsel would anoint me and her voice 
 Would flow in limpid wisdom o er my woes 
 And, like a love-balm, lave my secret grief 
 And lull my sleepless heart!" [Aside] And so 
 
 went on, 
 
 Struggling all maudlin in the wrangled web 
 That well-nigh hath cocooned him! 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Did he yield 
 
 No hint of this mysterious distress 
 He needs must hold sequestered from his Queen? 
 What said he in his talking-sleep by which 
 Some clue were gained of how and when and 
 
 whence 
 His trouble came? 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 In one strange phase he spake 
 As though some sprited lady talked with him. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 289 
 
 Full courteously he said: "In woman s guise 
 
 Thou comest, yet I think thou art, in sooth, 
 
 But woman in thy form. Thy words are strange 
 
 And leave me mystified. I feel the truth 
 
 Of all thou hast declared, and yet so vague 
 
 And shadow-like thy meaning is to me, 
 
 I know not how to act to ward the blow 
 
 Thou sayest is hanging o er me even now." 
 
 And then, with open hands held pleadingly, 
 
 He asked, "Who is my foe?" And o er his face 
 
 A sudden pallor flashed, like death itself, 
 
 As though, if answer had been given, it 
 
 Had fallen like a curse. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 I ll stake my soul 
 
 Thrice over in the grinning teeth of doom, 
 Tis Dwainie of the Wunks who peeks and peers 
 With those fine eyes of hers in our affairs 
 And carries Krung, in some disguise, these hints 
 Of our intent ! See thou that silence falls 
 Forever on her lips, and that the sight 
 She wastes upon our secret action blurs 
 With gray and grisly scum that shall for aye 
 Conceal us from her gaze while she writhes blind 
 And fangless as the fat worms of the grave ! 
 Here ! take this tuft of downy druze, and when 
 Thou comest on her, fronting full and fair, 
 Say "Sherzham!" thrice, and fluff it in her face. 
 
290 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Thou knowest scanty magic, O my Queen, 
 
 But all thou dost is fairly excellent 
 
 An this charm work, thou shalt have fuller faith 
 
 Than still I must withhold. 
 
 [Takes charm, with extravagant salutation] 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Thou gibing knave ! 
 
 Thou thing ! Dost dare to name my sorcery 
 As any trifling gift? Behold what might 
 Be thine an thy deserving wavered not 
 In stable and abiding service to 
 Thy Queen! 
 
 [She presses suddenly her palm upon his eyes, then 
 lifts her softly opening hand upward, his gaze 
 following, where, slowly shaping in the air 
 above them, appears semblance or counter- 
 self of CRESTILLOMEEM, clothed in most ra 
 diant youth, her maiden-face bent downward 
 to a moonlit sward, where kneels a lover-knight 
 flawless in manly symmetry and princely 
 beauty, yet none other than the counter-self 
 of JUCKLET, eeriely and with strange siveetness 
 singing, to some curiously tinkling instrument, 
 the praises of its queenly mistress: JUCKLET 
 and CRESTILLOMEEM transfixed below tran 
 cedly gazing on their mystic selves above.] 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 291 
 SEMBLANCE OF JUCKLET [Sings] 
 
 Crestillomeem ! 
 
 Crestillomeem! 
 
 Soul of my slumber! Dream of my dream! 
 Moonlight may fall not as goldenly fair 
 As falls the gold of thine opulent hair 
 Nay, nor the starlight as dazzlingly gleam 
 As gleam thine eyes, Meema Crestillomeem! 
 Star of the skies, Meema 
 
 Crestillomeem ! 
 
 SEMBLANCE OF CRESTILLOMEEM [Sings] 
 
 O Prince divine! 
 
 Prince divine! 
 
 Tempt thou me not with that sweet voice of thine! 
 Though my proud brow bear the blaze of a crown, 
 Lo, at thy feet must its glory bow down, 
 That from the dust thou mayest lift me to shine 
 Heaven 3 d in thy heart s rapture, O Prince divine! 
 Queen of thy love ever, 
 
 O Prince divine! 
 
 SEMBLANCE OF JUCKLET [Sings] 
 
 Crestillomeem I 
 
 Crestillomeem ! 
 
 Our life shall flow as a musical stream 
 Windingly placidly on it shall wend, 
 
 
292 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Marged with mazhoora-bloom banks without end 
 Word-birds shall call thee and dreamily scream, 
 "Where dost thou cruise, Meema Crestillomeemf 
 Whither away, Meema? 
 
 Crestillomeem!" 
 
 Duo 
 
 [Vision and voices gradually failing away} 
 
 Crestillomeem! 
 
 Crestillomeem ! 
 
 Soul of my slumber! Dream of my dream! 
 Star of Love s light, Meema Crestillomeem! 
 Crescent of Night, Meema! 
 
 Crestillomeem ! 
 
 [With song, vision likewise fails utterly} 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 [To JUCKLET, still trancedly staring upward} 
 
 How now, thou clabber-brained spudge! 
 Thou squelk ! thou 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Nay, O Queen! contort me not 
 To more condensed littleness than now 
 My shamed frame incurreth on itself, 
 
 I 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 293 
 
 Seeing what might fare with it, didst thou will 
 
 Kindly to nip it with thy magic here 
 
 And leave it living in that form i the air, 
 
 Forever pranking o er the daisied sward 
 
 In wake of sandal-prints that dint the dews 
 
 As lightly as, in thy late maidenhood, 
 
 Thine own must needs have done in flighting from 
 
 The dread encroachments of the King. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Nay peace ! 
 JUCKLET 
 
 So be it, O sweet Mystic. But I crave 
 
 One service of thy magic yet. Amphine! 
 
 Breed me some special, damned philter for 
 
 Amphine the fair Amphine ! to chuck it him, 
 
 Some serenade-tide, in a sodden slug 
 
 O pastry, twixt the door-crack and a screech 
 
 O rusty hinges. Hey! Amphine, the fair! 
 
 And let me, too, elect his doom, O Queen ! 
 
 Listed against thee, he, too, doubtless hath 
 
 Been favored with an outline of our scheme. 
 
 And I would kick my soul all over hell 
 
 If I might juggle his fine figure up 
 
 In such a shape as mine! 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Then this : When thou 
 Canst come upon him bent above a flower, 
 
294 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Or any blooming thing, and thou, arear, 
 
 Shalt reach it first and, thwartwise, touch it fair, 
 
 And with thy knuckle flick him on the knee, 
 
 Then his fine form will shrink and shrivel up 
 
 As warty as a toad s so hideous, 
 
 Thine own shall seem a marvel of rare grace ! 
 
 Though idly speak st thou of my mystic skill, 
 
 Twas that which won the King for me ; twas that 
 
 Bereft him of his daughter ere we had 
 
 Been wedded yet a haed : She strangely went 
 
 Astray one moonset from the palace-steps 
 
 She went nor yet returned. Was it not strange ? 
 
 She would be wedded to an alien prince 
 
 The morrow midnight to a prince whose sire 
 
 I once knew, in lost hours of lute and song, 
 
 When he was but a prince / but a mouth 
 
 For him to lift up sippingly and drain 
 
 To lees most ultimate of stammering sobs 
 
 And maudlin wanderings of blinded breath. 
 
 JUCKLET [Aside] 
 
 Twigg-brebblets! but her Majesty hath speech 
 That doth be juice all metaphor to drip 
 And spray and mist of sweetness! 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM [Confusedly] 
 
 Where was I? 
 
 O, ay ! The princess went she strangely went ! 
 E en as I deemed her lover-princeling would 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 295 
 
 As strangely go, were she not soon restored. 
 As so he did: That airy penalty 
 The jocund Fates provide our love-lorn wights 
 In this glad island : So for thrice three nights 
 They spun the prince his line and marked him pay 
 It out (despite all warnings of his doom) 
 In fast and sleepless search for her and then 
 They tripped his fumbling feet and he fell UP ! 
 Up! as tis writ sheer past Heaven s flinching 
 
 walls 
 
 And topmost cornices. Up up and on! 
 And, it is grimly guessed of those who thus 
 For such a term bemoan an absent love, 
 And so fall w/>wise, they must needs fall on 
 And on and on and on and on and on! 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Quahh! but the prince s holden breath 
 Must ache his throat by this ! But, O my Queen, 
 What of the princess? and 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 The princess? Ay 
 
 The princess ! Ay, she went she strangely went ! 
 And when the dainty vagrant came not back 
 Both sire and son in apprehensive throes 
 Of royal grief the very Throne befogged 
 In sighs and tears ! when all hope waned at last, 
 
296 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 And all the spies of Spirkland, in her quest, 
 
 Came straggling empty-handed home again, 
 
 Why, then the wise King sleeved his rainy eyes 
 
 And sagely thought the pretty princess had 
 
 Strayed to the island s edge and tumbled off. 
 
 I could have set his mind at ease on that 
 
 I could have told him, yea, she tumbled off 
 
 I tumbled her! and tumbled her so plump, 
 
 She tumbled in an under-island, then 
 
 Just slow-unmooring from our own and poised 
 
 For unknown voyagings of flight afar 
 
 And all remote of latitudes of ours. 
 
 Ay, into that land I tumbled her from which 
 
 But one charm known to art can tumble her 
 
 Back into this, and that charm (guilt be praised!) 
 
 Is lodged not in the wit nor the desire 
 
 Of my rare lore. 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Thereinasmuch find joy! 
 But dost thou know that rumors flutter now 
 Among thy subjects of thy sorceries? 
 The art being banned, thou knowest ; or, unhoused, 
 Is unleashed pitilessly by the grim, 
 Facetious body of the dridular 
 Upon the one who fain had loosed the curse 
 On others. An my counsel be worth aught, 
 Then have a care thy spells do not revert 
 Upon thyself, nor yet mine own poor hulk 
 O f earsomeness ! 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 297 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Ha! ha! No vaguest need 
 Of apprehension there! While Krung remains 
 
 [She abruptly pauses startled first, then listening 
 curiously and with awed interest. Voice of ex 
 quisite melodiousness and fervor heard sing 
 ing.] 
 
 VOICE 
 
 When kings are kings, and kings are men 
 
 And the lonesome rain is raining ! 
 O who shall rule from the red throne then, 
 And who shall covet the scepter when 
 
 When the winds are all complaining? 
 
 When men are men, and men are kings 
 And the lonesome rain is raining! 
 O who shall list as the minstrel sings 
 Of the crown s fiat, or the signet-ring s, 
 
 When the winds are all complaining? 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Whence flows such sweetness, and what voice is 
 that? 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 The voice of Spraivoll, an mine ears be whet 
 And honed o late honeyed memories 
 
298 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Behaunting the deserted purlieus of 
 The court. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 And who is Spraivoll, and what song 
 Is that besung so blinding exquisite 
 Of cadenced mystery? 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Spraivoll O Queen, 
 
 Spraivoll The Tune-Fool is she fitly named 
 By those who meet her ere the day long wanes 
 And naught but janiteering sparsely frets 
 The cushioned silences and stagnant dusts 
 Indifferently resuscitated by 
 The drowsy varlets in mock servitude 
 Of so refurbishing the royal halls : 
 She cometh, alien, from Wunkland so 
 Hath she deposed to divers questioners 
 Who have been smitten of her voice as rich 
 In melody as she is poor in mind. 
 She hath been roosting, pitied of the hinds 
 And scullions, round about the palace here 
 For half a node. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 And pray, where is she perched 
 This wild-bird woman with her wondrous throat? 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 299 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Under some dingy cornice, like enough 
 
 Though wild-bird she is not, being plumed in, 
 
 Not feathers, but one fustianed stole the like 
 
 Of which so shameth her fair face one needs 
 
 Must swear some lusty oaths, but that they shape 
 
 Themselves full gentlewise in mildest prayer : 
 
 Not wild-bird; nay, nor woman though, in truth, 
 
 She ith a licensed idiot, and drifts 
 
 About, as restless and as useless, too, 
 
 As any lazy breeze in summer-time. 
 
 I ll call her forth to greet your Majesty. 
 
 Ho ! Spraivoll ! Ho ! my twittering birdster, flit 
 
 Thou hither. 
 
 [Enter SPRAIVOLL from behind group of statuary 
 singing} 
 
 SPRAIVOLL 
 
 Ting-aling ! Ling-ting ! Tingle-tee ! 
 The moon spins round and round for me ! 
 Wind it up with a golden key. 
 Ting-aling! Ling-ting! Tingle-tee! 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Who art thou, and what the strange 
 Elusive beauty and intent of thy 
 
300 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Sweet song? What singest thou, vague, mystic- 
 bird 
 What doth The Tune-Fool sing? Ay, sing me what. 
 
 SPRAIVOLL [Singing} 
 
 What sings the breene on the wertling-vine, 
 And the tweck on the bamner-stem? 
 
 Their song, to me, is the same as mine, 
 As mine is the same to them to them 
 As mine is the same to them. 
 
 In star-starved glooms where the plustre looms 
 
 With its slender boughs above, 
 Their song sprays down with the fragrant 
 
 blooms, 
 
 And the song they sing is love is love 
 And the song they sing is love. 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Your Majesty may be surprised somewhat, 
 But Spraivoll can not talk, her only mode 
 Of speech is melody ; and thou might st put 
 The dowered fool a thousand queries, and, 
 In like return, receive a thousand songs, 
 All set to differing tunes as full of naught 
 As space is full of emptiness. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 A fool? 
 And with a gift so all-divine! A fool? 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 301 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Ay, warranted ! The Flying Islands all 
 Might flock in mighty counsel molt, and shake 
 Their loosened feathers, and sort every tuft, 
 Nor ever most minutely quarry there 
 One other Spraivoll, itching with her voice 
 Such favored spot of cuticle as she 
 Alone selects here in our blissful realm. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Out, jester, on thy cumbrous wordiness ! 
 
 Come hither, Tune-Fool, and be not afraid, 
 
 For I like fools so well I married one : 
 
 And since thou art a Queen of fools, and he 
 
 A King, why, I ve a mind to bring ye two 
 
 Together in some wise. Canst use thy song 
 
 All times in such entrancing spirit one 
 
 Who lists must so needs list, e en though the song 
 
 Go on unceasingly indefinite? 
 
 SPRAIVOLL [Singing] 
 
 If one should ask me for a song, 
 Then I should answer, and my tongue 
 
 Would twitter, trill and troll along 
 Until the song were done. 
 
 Or should one ask me for my tongue, 
 And I should answer with a song, 
 
 I d trill it till the song were sung, 
 And troll it all along. 
 
302 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Thou art indeed a fool, and one, I think, 
 
 To serve my present purposes. Give ear. 
 
 And Jucklet, thou, go to the King and bide 
 
 His waking: then repeat these words: "The Queen 
 
 Impatiently awaits his Majesty, 
 
 And craves his presence in the Tower of Stars, 
 
 That she may there express full tenderly 
 
 Her great solicitude. And then, end thus, 
 
 "So much she bade, and drooped her glowing face 
 
 Deep in the showerings of her golden hair, 
 
 And with a flashing gesture of her arm 
 
 Turned all the moonlight pallid, saying Haste!" 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 And would it not be well to hang a pearl 
 Or twain upon thy silken lashes? 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 Go! 
 
 JUCKLET [Exit, singing] 
 
 This lovely husband s loyal breast 
 Heaved only as she might suggest, 
 To every whimsy she expressed 
 He proudly bowed and acquiesced. 
 
 He plotted with her, blithe and gay 
 
 In no flirtation said her nay, 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 303 
 
 He even took her to the play, 
 Excused himself and came away. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM [To SpraivoU] 
 
 Now, Tune-Fool, junior, let me theme thee for 
 A song: An Empress once, with angel in 
 Her face and devil in her heart, had wish 
 To breed confusion to her sovereign lord, 
 And work the downfall of his haughty son 
 The issue of a former marriage who 
 Bellowsed her hatred to the whitest heat, 
 For that her own son, by a former lord, 
 Was born a hideous dwarf, and reared aside 
 From the sire s knowing or his princely own 
 That none, in sooth, might ever chance to guess 
 The hapless mother of the hapless child. 
 The Fiends that scar her thus, protect her still 
 With outward beauty of both face and form. 
 It so is written, and so must remain 
 Till magic greater than their own is found 
 To hurl against her. So is she secure 
 And proof above all fear. Now, listen well! 
 Her present lord is haunted with a dream, 
 That he is soon to pass, and so prepares 
 (All havoc hath been wrangled with the drugs!) 
 The Throne for the ascension of the son, 
 His cursed heir, who still doth baffle all 
 Her arts against him, e en as though he were 
 Protected by a skill beyond her own. 
 
304 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Soh ! she, the Queen, doth rule the King in all 
 Save this affectionate perversity 
 Of favor for the son whom he would raise 
 To his own place. And but for this the King 
 Long since had tasted death and kissed his fate 
 As one might kiss a bride ! But so his Queen 
 Must needs withhold, not deal, the final blow, 
 She yet doth bind him, spelled, still trusting her ; 
 And, by her craft and wanton flatteries, 
 Doth sway his love to every purpose but 
 The one most coveted. And for this end 
 She would make use of thee ; and if thou dost 
 Her will, as her good pleasure shall direct, 
 Why, thou shalt sing at court, in silken tire, 
 Thy brow bound with wild diamonds, and thy hair 
 Sown with such gems as laugh hysteric lights 
 From glittering quespar, guenk and plennocynth, 
 Ay, even panoplied as might the fair 
 Form of a very princess be, thy voice 
 Shall woo the echoes of the listening Throne. 
 
 SPRAIVOLL [Crooning abstractedly] 
 
 And O shall one high brother of the air, 
 
 In deeps of space shall he have dream as fair? 
 
 And shall that dream be this? In some strange 
 
 place 
 
 Of long-lost lands he finds her waiting face 
 Comes marveling upon it, unaware, 
 Set moonwise in the midnight of her hair, 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 305 
 
 And is behaunted with old nights of May, 
 
 So his glad lips do purl a roundelay 
 
 Purloined from the echo-triller s beak, 
 
 Seen keenly notching at some star s blanch cheek 
 
 With its ecstatic twitterings, through dusk 
 
 And sheen of dewy boughs of bloom and musk. 
 
 For him, Love, light again the eyes of her 
 
 That show nor tears nor laughter nor surprise 
 
 For him undim their glamour and the blur 
 
 Of dreams drawn from the depths of deepest skies. 
 
 He doth not know if any lily blows 
 
 As fair of feature, nor of any rose. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM [Aside] 
 
 O this weird woman! she doth drug mine ears 
 With her uncanny sumptuousness of song! 
 [To Spraivoll] Nay, nay ! Give o er thy tuneful 
 
 maunderings 
 
 And mark me further, Tune-Fool ay, and well : 
 At present doth the King lie in a sleep 
 Drug-wrought and deep as death the after-phase 
 Of an unconscious state, in which each act 
 Of his throughout his waking hours is so 
 Rehearsed, in manner, motion, deed and word, 
 Her spies (the Queen s) that watch him, serving 
 
 there 
 
 As guardians o er his royal slumbers, may 
 Inform her of her lord s most secret thought. 
 And lo, her plans have ripened even now 
 Till, should he come upon this Throne to-night, 
 
306 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Where eagerly his counselors will bide 
 His coming, she, the Queen, hath reason to 
 Suspect her long-designed purposes 
 May fall in jeopardy; but if he fail, 
 Through any means, to lend his presence there, 
 Then, by a wheedled mandate, is his Queen 
 Empowered with all Sovereignty to reign 
 And work the royal purposes instead. 
 Therefore, the Queen hath set an interview 
 A conference to be holden with the King, 
 Which is ordained to fall on noon to-night, 
 Twelve star-twirls ere the nick the Throne con 
 venes. 
 
 And with her thou shalt go, and bide in wait 
 Until she signal thee to sing ; and then 
 Shalt thou so work upon his mellow mood 
 With that un-Spirkly magic of thy voice 
 So all bedaze his waking thought with dreams, 
 The Queen may, all unnoticed, slip away, 
 And leave thee singing to a throneless King. 
 
 SPRAIVOLL [Singing] 
 
 And who shall sing for the haughty son 
 While the good King droops his head ? 
 
 And will he dream, when the song is done, 
 That a princess fair lies dead? 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 The haughty son hath found his "Song" sweet 
 curse ! 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 307 
 
 And may she sing his everlasting dirge ! 
 
 She comes from that near-floating land of thine, 
 
 Naming herself a princess of that realm 
 
 So strangely peopled we would fain evade 
 
 All mergence, and remain as strange to them 
 
 As they to us. No less this Dwainie hath 
 
 Most sinuously writhed and lithed her way 
 
 Into court favor here hath glidden past 
 
 The King s encharmed sight and sleeked herself 
 
 Within the very altars of his house 
 
 His line his blood his very \\le\AMPHINE! 
 
 Not any Spirkland gentlemaiden might 
 
 Aspire so high as she hath dared to dare ! 
 
 For she, with her fair skin and finer ways, 
 
 And beauty second only to the Queen s, 
 
 Hath caught the Prince betwixt her mellow palms 
 
 And stroked him flutterless. Didst ever thou 
 
 In thy land hear of Dwainie of the Wunksf 
 
 SPRAIVOLL [Singing} 
 
 Ay, Dwainie! My Dwainie! 
 
 The lurloo ever sings, 
 A tremor in his flossy crest 
 
 And in his glossy wings. 
 And Dwainie! My Dwainie! 
 
 The winno-welvers call ; 
 But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 
 
 And answers not at all. 
 
 The teeper twitters Dwainie ! 
 
 The tcheucker on his spray 
 
308 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Teeters up and down the wind 
 
 And will not fly away : 
 And Dwainie! My Dwainie! 
 
 The drowsy oovers drawl; 
 But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 
 
 And answers not at all. 
 
 O Dwainie! My Dwainie! 
 
 The breezes hold their breath 
 The stars are pale as blossoms, 
 
 And the night as still as death : 
 And Dwainie! My Dwainie! 
 
 The fainting echoes fall ; 
 But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 
 
 And answers not at all. 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM 
 
 A melody ecstatic! and thy words, 
 Although so meaningless, seem something more 
 A vague and shadowy something, eerie-like, 
 That maketh one to shiver over-chilled 
 With curious, creeping sweetnesses of pain 
 And catching breaths that flutter tremulous 
 With sighs that dry the throat out icily. 
 But save thy music ! Come ! that I may make 
 Thee ready for thy royal auditor. [Exeunt] 
 
 END ACT I 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE I. A garden of KRUNG S Palace, screened 
 from the moon with netted glenk-vines and 
 blooming zhoomer-boughs, all glimmeringly 
 lighted with star-Hakes. An arbor, near which 
 is a table spread with a repast two seats, 
 drawn either side. A playing fountain, at 
 marge of which AMPIIINE sits thrumming a 
 trentoraine. 
 
 AMPHINE [Improvising] 
 
 Ah, help me ! but her face and brow 
 Are lovelier than lilies are 
 Beneath the light of moon and star 
 That smile as they are smiling now 
 White lilies in a pallid swoon 
 Of sweetest white beneath the moon 
 White lilies in a flood of bright 
 Pure lucidness of liquid light 
 Cascading down some plenilune 
 When all the azure overhead 
 309 
 
310 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Blooms like a dazzling daisy-bed. 
 So luminous her face and brow, 
 The luster of their glory, shed 
 In memory, even, blinds me now. 
 
 [Plaintively addressing instrument} 
 
 O warbling strand of silver, where, O where 
 Hast thou unraveled that sweet voice of thine 
 And left its silken murmurs quavering 
 In limp thrills of delight ? O golden wire, 
 Where hast thou spilled thy precious twinker- 
 
 ings? 
 
 What thirsty ear hath drained thy melody, 
 And left me but a wild, delirious drop 
 To tincture all my soul with vain desire ? 
 
 [Improvising] 
 
 Her face her brow her hair unfurled ! 
 
 And O the oval chin below, 
 
 Carved, like a cunning cameo, 
 
 With one exquisite dimple, swirled 
 
 With swimming shine and shade, and whirled 
 
 The daintiest vortex poets know 
 
 The sweetest whirlpool ever twirled 
 
 By Cupid s finger-tip, and so, 
 
 The deadliest maelstrom in the world. 
 
 [Pauses Enter unperceived, DWAINIE, behind, in 
 upper bower] 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 311 
 AMPHINE [Again addressing instrument} 
 
 O Trentoraine ! how like an emptied vase 
 
 Thou art whose clustering blooms of song have 
 
 drooped 
 
 And faded, one by one, and fallen away 
 And left to me but dry and tuneless stems 
 And crisp and withered tendrils of a voice 
 Whose thrilling tone, now like a throttled sound, 
 Lies stifled, faint, and gasping all in vain 
 For utterance. 
 
 [Again improvising} 
 
 And O mad wars of blinding blurs 
 And flashings of lance-blades of light, 
 Whet glitteringly athwart the sight 
 That dares confront those eyes of hers ! 
 Let any dewdrop soak the hue 
 Of any violet through and through, 
 And then be colorless and dull, 
 Compared with eyes so beautiful! 
 I swear ye that her eyes be bright 
 As noonday, yet as dark as night 
 As bright as be the burnished bars 
 Of rainbows set in sunny skies, 
 And yet as deep and dark, her eyes, 
 And lustrous black as blown-out stars. 
 
 [Pauses DWAINIE still unperceived, radiantly 
 smiling and wafting kisses down from trellis- 
 window above} 
 
312 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 AMPHINE [Again to instrument } 
 
 O empty husk of song! 
 If deep within my heart the music thou 
 Hast stored away might find an issuance, 
 A fount of limpid laughter would leap up 
 And gurgle from my lips, and all the winds 
 Would revel with it, riotous with joy; 
 And Dwainie, in her beauty, would lean o er 
 The battlements of night, and, like the moon, 
 The glory of her face would light the world 
 For I would sing of loveo 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 And she would hear, 
 And, reaching overhead among the stars, 
 Would scatter them like daisies at thy feet. 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 O voice, where art thou floating on the air?- 
 
 Seraph-soul, where art thou hovering? 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 1 hover in the zephyr of thy sighs, 
 
 And tremble lest thy love for me shall fail 
 To buoy me thus forever on the breath 
 Of such a dream as Heaven envies. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 313 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Ah! 
 
 [Turning, discovers DWAINIE she still -feigning 
 invisibility, while he, with lifted eyes and wist 
 ful gaze, preludes with instrument then 
 sings.] 
 
 Linger, my Dwainie ! Dwainie, lily-fair, 
 Stay yet thy step upon the casement-stair 
 Poised be thy slipper-tip as is the tine 
 Of some still star. Ah, Dwainie Dwainie mine, 
 Yet linger linger there! 
 
 Thy face, O Dwainie, lily-pure and fair, 
 Gleams i the dusk, as in thy dusky hair 
 The moony zhoomer glimmers, or the shine 
 Of thy swift smile. Ah, Dwainie Dwainie mine, 
 Yet linger linger there ! 
 
 With lifted wrist, whereround the laughing air 
 Hath blown a mist of lawn and clasped it there, 
 Waft finger-thipt adieus that spray the wine 
 Of thy waste kisses toward me, Dwainie mine 
 Yet linger linger there ! 
 
 What unloosed splendor is there may compare 
 With thy hand s unfurled glory, anywhere? 
 What glint of dazzling dew or jewel fine 
 
314 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 May mate thine eyes? Ah, Dwainie Dwainie 
 mine! 
 
 Yet linger linger there ! 
 
 My soul confronts thee : On thy brow and hair 
 It lays its tenderness like palms of prayer 
 It touches sacredly those lips of thine 
 And swoons across thy spirit, Dwainie mine, 
 The while thou lingerest there. 
 
 [Drops trentoraine, and, with open arms, gazes 
 yearningly on DWAINIE] 
 
 DWAINIE [Raptly] 
 Thy words do wing my being dovewise ! 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Then, 
 
 Thou lovest! O my homing dove, veer down 
 And nestle in the warm home of my breast ! 
 So empty are mine arms, so full my heart, 
 The one must hold thee, or the other burst. 
 
 DWAINIE [Throwing herself in his embrace} 
 
 s own hand methinks hath flung me here : 
 O hold me that He may not pluck me back ! 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 So closely will I hold thee that not e en 
 The hand of death shall separate us. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 315 
 DWAINIE 
 
 So 
 
 May sweet death find us, then, that, woven thus 
 In the corolla of a ripe caress, 
 We may drop lightly, like twin plustre-buds, 
 On Heaven s star-strewn lawn. 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 So do I pray. 
 But tell me, tender heart, an thou dost love, 
 Where hast thou loitered for so long? for thou 
 Didst promise tryst here with me earlier by 
 Some several layodemes which I have told 
 Full chafingly against my finger-tips 
 Till the full complement, save three, are ranged 
 Thy pitiless accusers, claiming, each, 
 So many as their joined number be 
 Shalt thou so many times lift up thy lips 
 For mine s most lingering forgiveness. 
 So, save thee, O my Sweet ! and rest thee, I 
 Have ordered merl and viands to be brought 
 For our refreshment here, where, thus alone, 
 I may sip words with thee as well as wine. 
 Why hast thou kept me so athirst? Why, I 
 Am jealous of the flattered solitudes 
 In which thou walkest. [They sit at table} 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Nay, I will not tell, 
 Since, an I yielded, countless questions, like 
 
316 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 In idlest worth, would waste our interview 
 In speculations vain. Let this suffice : 
 I stayed to talk with one whom, long ago, 
 I met and knew, and grew to love, forsooth, 
 In dreamy Wunkland. Talked of mellow nights, 
 And long, long hours of golden olden times 
 When girlish happiness locked hands with me 
 And we went spinning round, with naked feet 
 In swaths of bruised roses ankle-deep ; 
 When laughter rang unsilenced, unrebuked, 
 And prayers went unremembered, oozing clean 
 From the drowsed memory, as from the eyes 
 The pure, sweet mother-face that bent above 
 Glimmered and wavered, blurred, bent closer still 
 A timeless instant, like a shadowy flame, 
 Then flickered tremulously o er the brow 
 And went out in a kiss. 
 
 AMPHINE [Kissing her} 
 
 Not like to this! 
 
 O blessed lips whose kiss alone may be 
 Sweeter than their sweet speech ! Speak on, and say 
 Of what else talked thou and thy friend ? 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 We talked 
 
 Of all the past, ah me ! and all the friends 
 That now await my coming. And we talked 
 Of O so many things so many things 
 That I but blend them all with dreams of when, 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 317 
 
 With thy warm hand clasped close in this of mine, 
 
 We cross the floating bridge that soon again 
 
 Will span the all-unfathomable gulfs 
 
 Of nether air betwixt this isle of strife 
 
 And my most glorious realm of changeless peace, 
 
 Where summer night reigns ever and the moon 
 
 Hangs ever ripe and lush with radiance 
 
 Above a land where roses float on wings 
 
 And fan their fragrance out so lavishly 
 
 That Heaven hath hint of it, and oft therefrom 
 
 Sends down to us across the odorous seas 
 
 Strange argosies of interchanging bud 
 
 And blossom, spice and balm. Sweet sweet 
 
 Beyond all art and wit of uttering. 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 O Empress of my listening Soul, speak on, 
 And tell me all of that rare land of thine ! 
 For even though I reigned a peerless king 
 Within mine own, methinks I could fling down 
 My scepter, signet, crown and royal might, 
 And so fare down the thorned path of life 
 If at its dwindling end my feet might touch 
 Upon the shores of such a land as thou 
 Dost paint for me thy realm ! Tell on of it 
 And tell me if thy sister-woman there 
 Is like to thee Yet nay! for an thou didst, 
 These eyes would lose all speech of sight 
 And call not back to thine their utter love. 
 But tell me of thy brothers. Are they great, 
 
318 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 And can they grapple ^Eo s arguments 
 Beyond our skill? or wrest a purpose from 
 The pink side of the moon at Darsten-tide ? 
 Or cipher out the problem of blind stars, 
 That ever still do safely grope their way 
 Among the thronging constellations? 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Ay! 
 
 Ay, they have leaped all earthland barriers 
 
 In mine own isle of wisdom-working Wunks : 
 
 Twas Wunkland s son that voyaged round the 
 
 moon 
 
 And moored his bark within the molten bays 
 Of bubbling silver : And twas Wunkland s son 
 That talked with Mars unbuckled Saturn s belt 
 And tightened it in squeezure of such facts 
 Therefrom as even he dare not disclose 
 In full till all his followers, as himself, 
 Have grown them wings, and gat them beaks and 
 
 claws, 
 
 With plumage all bescienced to withstand 
 All tensest flames glaze-throated, too, and lung d 
 To swallow fiercest-spurted jets and cores 
 Of embered and unquenchable white heat : 
 Twas Wunkland s son that alchemized the dews 
 And bred all colored grasses that he wist 
 Divorced the airs and mists and caught the trick 
 Of azure-tinting earth as well as sky: 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 319 
 
 Twas Wunkland s son that bent the rainbow 
 
 straight 
 
 And walked it like a street, and so returned 
 To tell us it was made of hammered shine, 
 Inlaid with strips of selvage from the sun 
 And burnished with the rust of rotten stars: 
 Twas Wunkland s son that comprehended first 
 All grosser things, and took our worlds apart 
 And oiled their works with theories that clicked 
 In glib articulation with the pulse 
 And palpitation of the systemed facts. 
 And, circling ever round the farthest reach 
 Of the remotest welkin of all truths, 
 We stint not our investigations to 
 Our worlds only, but query still beyond. 
 For now our goolores say, below these isles 
 A million million miles, are other worlds 
 Not like to ours, but round, as bubbles are, 
 And, like them, ever reeling on through space, 
 And anchorless through all eternity; 
 Not like to ours, for our isles, as they note, 
 Are living things that fly about at night, 
 And soar above and cling, throughout the day, 
 Like bats, beneath the bent sills of the skies : 
 And I myself have heard, at dawn of moon, 
 A liquid music filtered through my dreams, 
 As though twere myriads of sweet voices, pent 
 In some o erhanging realm, had spilled themselves 
 In streams of melody that trickled through 
 The chinks and crannies of a crystal pave. 
 
320 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Until the wasted juice of harmony, 
 
 Slow-leaking o er my senses, laved my soul 
 
 In ecstacy divine : And afferhaiks, 
 
 Who scour our coasts on missions for the King, 
 
 Declare our island s shape is like the zhibb s 
 
 When lolling in a trance upon the air 
 
 With open wings upslant and motionless. 
 
 O such a land it is so all complete 
 
 In all wise inhabitants, and knowledge, lore, 
 
 Arts, sciences, perfected government 
 
 And kingly wisdom, worth and majesty 
 
 And Art ineffably above all else: 
 
 The art of the Romancer, fabulous 
 
 Beyond the miracles of strangest fact; 
 
 The art of Poesy, the sanest soul 
 
 Is made mad with its uttering ; the art 
 
 Of Music, words may not e en whimper what 
 
 The jewel-sounds of song yield to the sense ; 
 
 And, last, the art of Knowing what to Know, 
 
 And how to zoon straight toward it like a bee, 
 
 Draining or song or poem as it brims 
 
 And overruns with raciest spirit-dew. 
 
 And, after, chaos all to sense like thine, 
 
 Till there, translated, thou shalt know as I. . . . 
 
 So furnished forth in all things lovable 
 
 Is my Land- Wondrous ay, and thine to be, 
 
 O Amphine, love of mine, it lacks but thy 
 
 Sweet presence to make it a paradise ! 
 
 [Takes up trentoraine ] 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 321 
 
 And shall I tell thee of the home that waits 
 For thy glad coming, Amphine ? Listen, then ! 
 
 CHANT-RECITATIVE 
 
 A palace veiled in a glimmering dusk; 
 
 Warm breaths of a tropic air, 
 Drugged with the odorous marzhoo s musk 
 
 And the sumptuous cyncotwaire 
 Where the trembling hands of the lilwing s leaves 
 
 The winds caress and fawn, 
 While the dreamy starlight idly weaves 
 
 Designs for the damask lawn. 
 
 Densed in the depths of a dim eclipse 
 
 Of palms, in a flowery space, 
 A fountain leaps from the marble lips 
 
 Of a girl, with a golden vase 
 Held atip on a curving wrist, 
 
 Drinking the drops that glance 
 Laughingly in the glittering mist 
 
 Of her crystal utterance. 
 
 Archways looped o er blooming walks 
 
 That lead through gleaming halls ; 
 And balconies where the word-bird talks 
 
 To the tittering waterfalls : 
 And casements, gauzed with the filmy sheen 
 
 Of a lace that sifts the sight 
 Through a ghost of bloom on the haunted screen 
 
 That drips with the dews of light. 
 
322 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Weird, pale shapes of sculptured stone, 
 
 With marble nymphs agaze 
 Ever in fonts of amber, sown 
 
 With seeds of gold and sprays 
 Of emerald mosses, ever drowned, 
 
 Where glimpses of shell and gem 
 Peer from the depths, as round and round 
 
 The nautilus nods at them. 
 
 Faces blurred in a mazy dance, 
 
 With a music, wild and sweet, 
 Spinning the threads of the mad romance 
 
 That tangles the waltzers feet: 
 Twining arms, and warm, swift thrills 
 
 That pulse to the melody, 
 Till the soul of the dancer dips and fills 
 
 In the wells of ecstacy. 
 
 Eyes that melt in a quivering ore 
 
 Of love, and the molten kiss 
 Jetted forth of the hearts that pour 
 
 Their blood in the molds of bliss. 
 Till, worn to a languor slumber-deep, 
 
 The soul of the dreamer lifts 
 A silken sail on the gulfs of sleep, 
 
 And into the darkness drifts. 
 
 [The instrument falls from her hand AM*HINE, in 
 stress of passionate delight, embraces her.] 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 323 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Thou art not all of earth, O angel one ! 
 Nor do I far miswonder me an thou 
 Hast peered above the very walls of Heaven ! 
 What hast thou seen there ? Didst on yEo bask 
 Thine eyes and clothe Him with new splendorings ? 
 And strove He to fling back as bright a smile 
 As thine, the while He beckoned thee within ? 
 And, tell me, didst thou meet an angel there 
 A-linger at the gates, nor entering 
 Till I, her brother, joined her? 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Why, hast thou 
 
 A sister dead ? Truth, I have heard of one 
 Long lost to thee not dead? 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Of her I speak, 
 
 And dead, although we know not certainly, 
 We moan us ever it must needs be death 
 Only could hold her from us such long term 
 Of changeless yearning for her glad return. 
 She strayed away from us long, long ago. 
 O and our memories ! Her wondering eyes 
 That seemed as though they ever looked on things 
 We might not see as haply so they did, 
 
324 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 For she went from us, all so suddenly 
 So strangely vanished, leaving never trace 
 Of her outgoing, that I ofttimes think 
 Her rapt eyes fell along some certain patH 
 Of special glory paven for her feet, 
 And fashioned of yo s supreme desire 
 That she might bend her steps therein and so 
 Reach Him again, unseen of our mere eyes. 
 My sweet, sweet sister ! lost to brother sire 
 And, to her heart, one dearer than all else, 
 Her lover lost indeed ! 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Nay, do not grieve 
 
 Thee thus, O loving heart ! Thy sister yet 
 May come to thee in some glad way the Fates 
 Are fashioning the while thy tear-drops fall ! 
 So calm thee, while I speak of thine own self. 
 For I have listened to a whistling bird 
 That pipes of waiting danger. Didst thou note 
 No strange behavior of thy sire of late ? 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Ay, he is silent, and he walks as one 
 
 In some fixed melancholy, or as one 
 
 Half waking. Even his worshiped books seem 
 
 now 
 But things on shelves. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 325 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 And doth he counsel not 
 With thee in any wise pertaining to 
 His ailings, or of matters looking toward 
 His future purposes or his intents 
 Regarding thine own future fortunings 
 And his desires and interests therein? 
 What bearing hath he shown of late toward thee 
 By which thou might st beframe some estimate 
 Of his mind s placid flow or turbulent? 
 And hath he not so spoken thee at times 
 Thou hast been wildered of his words, or grieved 
 Of his strange manner? 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Once he stayed me on 
 
 The palace-stair and whispered, "Lo, my son, 
 Thy young reign draweth nigh prepare!" So 
 
 passed 
 And vanished as a wraith, so wan he was ! 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 And didst thou ever reason on this thing, 
 Nor ask thyself what dims thy father s eye 
 And makes a brooding shadow of his form? 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Why, there s ? household rumor that he dreams 
 Death fareth ever at his side, and soon 
 
326 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Shall signal him away. But Jucklet saith 
 Crestillomeem hath said the leeches say 
 There is no cause for serious concern ; 
 And thus am I assured tis nothing more 
 Than childish fancy of mine aging sire, 
 And so, as now, I laugh, full reverently, 
 And marvel, as I mark his shuffling gait, 
 And his bestrangered air and murmurous lips, 
 As by he glideth to and fro, ha ! ha ! 
 Ho ! ho ! I laugh me many, many times 
 Mind, thou, tis reverently I laugh ha! ha! 
 And wonder, as he glideth ghostly-wise, 
 If ever 7 shall waver as I walk, 
 And stumble o er my beard, and knit my brows, 
 And o er the dull mosaics of the pave 
 Play chequers with mine eyes ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 DWAINIE [Aside] 
 
 How dare- 
 How dare I tell him ? Yet I must I must ! 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Why, art thou, too, grown childish, that thou canst 
 Find thee waste pleasure talking to thyself 
 And staring f rowningly with eyes whose smiles 
 I need so much ? 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Nay, rather say, their tears, 
 Poor thoughtless Prince ! [Aside] (My magic 
 even now 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 327 
 
 Forecasts his kingly sire s near happening 
 Of nameless hurt and ache and awful stress 
 Of agony supreme, when he shall stare 
 The stark truth in the face!) 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 What meanest thou? 
 DWAINIE 
 
 What mean I but thy welfare ? Why, I mean, 
 One hour agone, the Queen, thy mother 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Nay, 
 Say only "Queen" ! 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 The Queen, one hour agone 
 As so I learned from source I need not say 
 Sent message craving audience with the King 
 At noon to-night, within the Tower of Stars. 
 Thou knowest, only brief space following 
 The time of her pent session thereso set 
 In secret with the King alone, the Throne 
 Is set, too, to convene ; and that the King 
 Hath lent his seal unto a mandate that, 
 Should he withhold his presence there, the Queen 
 Shall be empowered to preside to reign 
 
328 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Solely endowed to work the royal will 
 
 In lieu of the good King. Now, therefore, I 
 
 Have been advised that she, the Queen, by craft 
 
 Connives to hold him absent purposely, 
 
 That she may claim the vacancy for what 
 
 Covert design I know not, but I know 
 
 It augurs peril to you both, as to 
 
 The Throne s own perpetuity. [Aside] (Again 
 
 My magic gives me vision terrible : 
 
 The Sorceress legions balk mine own. The King 
 
 Still hers, yet wavering. O save the King, 
 
 Thou ^Eo! Render him to us!) 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 I feel 
 
 Thou speakest truth : and yet how know st thou 
 this? 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Ask me not that; my lips are welded close. 
 
 And, more, since I have dared to speak, and thou 
 
 To listen, Jucklet is accessory, 
 
 And even now is plotting for thy fall. 
 
 But, Passion of my Soul! think not of me, 
 
 For nothing but sheer rnagic may avail 
 
 To work me harm ; but look thou to thyself ! 
 
 For thou art blameless cause of all the hate 
 
 That rankleth in the bosom of the Queen. 
 
 So have thine eyes tins! umbered ever, that 
 
 No step may steal behind thee for in this 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 329 
 
 Unlooked-of way thine enemy will come: 
 This much I know, but for what fell intent 
 Dare not surmise. So look thou, night and day, 
 That none may skulk upon thee in this wise 
 Of dastardly attack. [Aside} (Ha! Sorceress ! 
 Thou palest, tossing wild and wantonly 
 The smothering golden tempest of thy hair. 
 What! lying eyes! ye dare to utter tears? 
 Help! help! Yield us the King!) 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 And thou, O sweet ! 
 
 How art thou guarded and what shield is thine 
 Of safety? 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Fear not thou for me at all. 
 Possessed am I of wondrous sorcery 
 The gift of Holy Magi at my birth : 
 Mine enemy must front me in assault 
 And must with mummery of speech assail, 
 And I will know him in first utterance 
 And so may thus disarm him, though he be 
 A giant thrice in vasty form and force. 
 
 [Singing heard] 
 
 But, list! what wandering minstrel cometh here 
 In the young night? 
 
 VOICE [In distance singing] 
 
330 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 The drowsy eyes of the stars grow dim; 
 The ivamboo roosts on the rainbow s rim, 
 
 And the moon is a ghost of shine: 
 The soothing song of the crule is done, 
 But the song of love is a soother one, 
 
 And the song of love is mine. 
 Then, wake! O wake! 
 For the sweet song s sake. 
 
 Nor let my heart 
 With the morning break! 
 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Some serenader! Hist! 
 What meaneth he so early, and what thus 
 Within the palace garden-close ? Quick ; here ! 
 He neareth ! Soh ! Let us conceal ourselves 
 And mark his action, wholly unobserved. 
 
 [AMPHINE and DWAINIE enter bower} 
 VOICE [Drawing nearer} 
 
 The mist of the morning, chill and gray, 
 Wraps the night in a shroud of spray; 
 
 The sun is a crimson blot: 
 The moon fades fast, and the stars take wing; 
 The comet s tail is a fleeting thing 
 
 But the tale of love is not. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Then, wake! wake! 
 For the sweet song s sake, 
 
 Nor let my heart 
 With the morning break! 
 
 [Enter JUCKLET] 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Eexl what a sumptuous darkness is the Night- 
 How rich and deep and suave and velvety 
 Its lovely blackness to a soul like mine! 
 Ah, Night ! thou densest of all mysteries 
 Thou eeriest of unfathomable delights, 
 Whose soundless sheer inscrutability 
 Is fascination s own ethereal self, 
 Unseen, and yet embodied palpable, 
 An essence, yet a form of stableness 
 That stays me weighs me, as a giant palm 
 Were laid on either shoulder. Peace ! I cease 
 Even to strive to grope one further pace, 
 But stand uncovered and with lifted face. 
 
 but a glamour of inward light 
 
 Hath smitten the eyes of my soul to-night ! 
 Groping here in the garden-land, 
 
 1 feel my fancy s outheld hand 
 Touch the rim of a realm that seems 
 Like an isle of bloom in a sea of dreams: 
 I stand mazed, dazed and alone alone ! 
 My heart beats on in an undertone, 
 
 And I lean and listen long, and long, 
 
 331 
 
332 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 And I hold my breath as I hear again 
 The chords of a long-dead trentoraine 
 And the wraith of an old love-song. 
 Low to myself am I whispering: 
 
 Glad am I, and the Night knows why 
 Glad am I that the dream came by 
 And found me here as of old when I 
 Was a ruler and a king. 
 
 DWAINIE [To Amphine] 
 
 What gentle little monster is this dwarf 
 Surely not Jucklet of the court ? 
 
 AMPHINE [Ironically] 
 
 Ay, ay! 
 
 But he ll ungentle an thy woman s-heart 
 Yield him but space. Listen : he mouths again. 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 It was an age ago an age 
 
 Turned down in life like a folded page. 
 
 See where the volume falls apart, 
 
 And the faded book-mark tis my heart, 
 
 Nor mine alone, but another knit 
 
 So cunningly in the love of it 
 
 That you must look, with a shaking head, 
 
 Nor know the quick one from the dead. 
 
 Ah ! what a broad and sea-like lawn 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 333 
 
 Is the field of love they bloom upon ! 
 
 Waves of its violet-velvet grass 
 
 Billowing, with the winds that pass, 
 
 And breaking in a snow-white foam 
 
 Of lily-crests on the shores of home. 
 
 Low to myself am I whispering: 
 
 Glad am I, and the Night knoivs ivhy 
 Glad am I that the dream came by 
 And found me here as of old when I 
 Was a ruler and a king. 
 
 [Abruptly breaking into impassioned vocal burst] 
 SONG 
 
 Fold me away in your arms, O Night 
 Night, my Night, with your rich black 
 
 hair ! 
 
 Tumble it down till my yearning sight 
 And my unkissed lips are hidden quite 
 And my heart is havened there, 
 Under that mystical dark despair 
 Under your rich black hair. 
 
 Oft have I looked in your eyes, O Night 
 Night, my Night, with your rich black 
 
 hair ! \ 
 
 Looked in your eyes till my face waned white 
 And my heart laid hold of a mad delight 
 That moaned as I held it there 
 
 Under the deeps of that dark despair 
 Under your rich black hair. 
 
334 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Just for a kiss of your mouth, O Night 
 Night, my Night, with your rich black 
 
 hair! 
 
 Lo! will I wait as a dead man might 
 Wait for the Judgment s dawning light, 
 With my lips in a frozen prayer 
 Under this lovable dark despair 
 Under your rich black hair. 
 
 [With swift change to mood of utter gaiety} 
 
 Ho ! ho ! what will my dainty mistress say 
 
 When I shall stand knee-deep in the wet grass 
 
 Beneath her lattice, and with upturned eyes 
 
 And tongue out-lolling like the clapper of 
 
 A bell, outpour her that? I wonder now 
 
 If she will not put up her finger thus, 
 
 And say, "Hist ! heart of mine ! the angels call 
 
 To thee !" Ho ! ho ! Or will her blushing face 
 
 Light up her dim boudoir and, from her glass, 
 
 Flare back to her a flame upsprouting from 
 
 The hot-cored socket of a soul whose light 
 
 She thought long since had guttered out ? Ho ! ho ! 
 
 Or, haply, will she chastely bend above 
 
 A Parian phantomette, with head atip 
 
 And twinkling fingers dusting down the dews 
 
 That glitter on the tarapyzma-vines 
 
 That riot round her casement gathering 
 
 Lush blooms to pelt me with while I below 
 
 All winkingly await the fragrant shower? 
 
 Ho! ho! how jolly is this thing of love! 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 335 
 
 But how much richer, rarer, jollier 
 
 Than all the loves is this rare love of mine ! 
 
 Why, my sweet Princess doth not even dream 
 
 I am her lover, for, to here confess, 
 
 I have a way of wooing all mine own, 
 
 And waste scant speech in creamy compliment 
 
 And courtesies all gaumed with winy words. 
 
 In sooth, I do not woo at all I win! 
 
 How is it now the old duet doth glide 
 
 Itself full ripplingly adown the grooves 
 
 Of its quaint melody? And whoso, by 
 
 The bye, or by the way, or for the nonce, 
 
 Or, eke ye, per adventure, ever durst 
 
 Render a duet singly but myself? 
 
 [Singing with grotesque mimicry of two voices] 
 JUCKLET S OSTENSIBLE DUET 
 
 How is it you woo? and now answer me true, 
 
 How is it you woo and you win? 
 Why, to answer you true, -the first thing that you 
 do 
 
 Is to simply, my dearest begin. 
 
 But how can I begin to woo or to win 
 When I don t know a Win from a Woo? 
 
 Why, cover your chin with your fan or your fin. 
 And I ll introduce them to you. 
 
336 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 But what if it drew from my parents a view 
 
 With, my own in no manner akin ? 
 No matter! your mew shall be first of the two, 
 
 So I hasten to usher them in. 
 
 Nay, stay ! Shall I grin at the Woo or the Win ? 
 
 And what will he do if I do? 
 Why, the Woo will begin with "How pleasant it s 
 been !" 
 
 And the Win with "Delighted with you!" 
 
 Then supposing he grew very dear to my view 
 I m speaking, you know, of the Win ? 
 
 Why, then, you should do what he wanted you to, 
 And now is the time to begin. 
 
 The time to begin? O then usher him in 
 Let him say what he wants me to do. 
 
 He is here. He s a twin of yourself, / am "Win," 
 And you are, my darling, my "Woo" ! 
 
 [Capering and courtesying to feigned audience} 
 
 That song I call most sensible nonsense ; 
 And if the fair and peerless Dwainie were 
 But here, with that sweet voice of hers, to take 
 The part of "Woo," I d be the happiest "Win" 
 On this side of futurity ! Ho ! ho ! 
 
 DWAINIE [Aside to AMPHINE] 
 What means he? 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 337 
 AMPHINE 
 
 Why, he means that throatless head 
 Of his needs further chucking down betwixt 
 His cloven shoulders ! 
 
 [Starting forward Dwainie detaining him] 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Nay, thou shalt not stir ! 
 See ! now the monster hath discovered our 
 Repast. Hold ! Let us mark him further. 
 
 JUCKLET [Archly eying viands] 
 
 What! 
 
 A roasted wheffle and a toe-spiced whum, 
 Tricked with a larvey and a gherghgling s tail ! 
 And, sprit me ! wine enough to swim them in ! 
 Now I should like to put a question to 
 The guests; but as there are none, I direct 
 Aline interrogatory to the host. [Bowing to va 
 cancy] 
 
 Am I behind time? Then I can but trust 
 My tardy coming may be overlooked 
 In my most active effort to regain 
 A gracious tolerance by service now : 
 Directing rapt attention to the fact 
 That I have brought mine appetite along, 
 
338 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 I can but feel, ho ! ho ! that further words 
 Would be a waste of speech. 
 
 [Sits at table pours out wine, drinks and eats 
 voraciously} 
 
 There was a time 
 
 When I was rather backward in my ways 
 In courtly company (as though, forsooth, 
 I felt not, from my very birth, the swish 
 Of royal blood along my veins, though bred 
 Amongst the treacled scullions and the thralls 
 I shot from, like a cork, in youthful years, 
 Into court favor by my wit s sheer stress 
 Of fomentation. Pah! the stench o toil!) 
 Ay, somehow, as I think, I ve all outgrown 
 That coarse, nice age, wherein one makes a meal 
 Of two estardles and a fork cf soup. 
 Hey! sanaloo! Lest my starved stomach stand 
 Awe-stricken and aghast, with mouth agape 
 Before the rich profusion of this feast, 
 I lubricate it with a glass of merl 
 And coax it on to more familiar terms 
 Of fellowship with those delectables. 
 [Pours wine and holds up goblet with mock courtl\ 
 
 ness] 
 
 Mine host! Thou of the viewless presence and 
 Hush-haunted lip : Thy most imperial, 
 Ethereal, and immaterial health! 
 Live till the sun dries up, and comb thy cares 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 339 
 
 With star-prongs till the comets fizzle out 
 And fade away and fail and are no more ! 
 
 [Drains and refills goblet] 
 And, if thou wilt permit me to observe, 
 The gleaming shaft of spirit in this wine 
 Goes whistling to its mark, and full and fair 
 Zipps to the target-center of my soul ! 
 Why, now am I the veriest gentleman 
 That ever buttered woman with a smile, 
 And let her melt and run and drip and ooze 
 All over and around a wanton heart ! 
 And if my mistress bent above me now, 
 In all my hideous deformity, 
 I think she would look over, as it were, 
 The hump upon my back, and so forget 
 The kinks and knuckles of my crooked legs, 
 In this enchanting smile, she needs must leap, 
 Love-dazzled, and fall faint and fluttering 
 Within these yawning, all-devouring arms 
 Of mine! Ho! ho! And yet Crestillomeem 
 Would have me blight my dainty Dwainie with 
 This feather from the Devil s wing! But I 
 Am far too full of craft to spoil the eyes 
 That yet shall pour their love like nectar out 
 Into mine own, and I am far too deep 
 For royal wit to wade my purposes. 
 
 DWAINIE [To AMPHINE] 
 What can he mean? 
 
340 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 AMPHINE [Chafing in suppressed frenzy} 
 
 Ha ! to rush forward and 
 Tear out his tongue and slap it in his face! 
 
 DWAINIE \To AMPHINE] 
 Nay, nay ! Hist what he saith ! 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 How big a fool 
 How all magnificent an idiot 
 Would I be to blight her (my peerless one! 
 My very soul s soul!) as Crestillomeem 
 Doth instigate me to, for her hate s sake 
 And inward jealousy, as well, belike! 
 Wouldst have my Dwainie blinded to my charms 
 For charms, good sooth, were every several flaw 
 Of my malformed outer-self, compared 
 With that his Handsomeness the Prince Amphine 
 Shalt change to at a breath of my pufl d cheek, 
 E en were it weedy-bearded at the time 
 With such a stubble as a huntsman well 
 Might lose his spaniel in! Ho! ho! Ho! ho! 
 I fear me, O my coy Crestillomeem, 
 Thine ancient coquetry doth challenge still 
 Thine own vain admiration overmuch! 
 7 to crush her? when thou, as certainly, 
 Hast armed me to smite down the only bar 
 That lies betwixt her love and mine ? Ho ! ho ! 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 341 
 
 Hey ! but the revel I shall riot in 
 
 Above the beauteous Prince, instantuously 
 
 Made all abhorrent as a reptiled bulk! 
 
 Ho ! ho ! my princely wooer of the fair 
 
 Rare lady of mine own superior choice ! 
 
 Pah! but my very maginings of him 
 
 Refined to that shamed, sickening shape, 
 
 Do so beloathe me of him there be qualms 
 
 Expostulating in my forum now ! 
 
 Ho ! what unprincifying properties 
 
 Of medication hath her Majesty 
 
 Put in my tender charge ! Ho ! ho ! Ho ! ho ! 
 
 Ah, Dwainie! sweetest sweet! what shock to 
 
 thee? 
 
 I wonder when she sees the human toad 
 Squat at her feet and cock his filmy eyes 
 Upon her and croak love, if she will not 
 Call me to tweezer him with two long sticks 
 And toss him from her path. O ho ! Ho ! ho ! 
 Hell bend him o er some blossom quick, that I 
 May have one brother in the flesh ! 
 
 [Nods drowsily] 
 DWAINIE [To AMPHINE] 
 
 Ha! See! 
 
 He groweth drunken. Soli! Bide yet a spell 
 And I will vex him with my sorcery : 
 Then shall we hence, for lo, the node when all 
 Our sublest arts and strategies must needs 
 
342 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Be quickened into acts and swift results. 
 Now bide thou here, and in mute silence mark 
 The righteous penalty that hath accrued 
 Upon that dwarfed monster. 
 
 [She stands, still in concealment from the dwarf, 
 her tense gaze fixed upon him as though in 
 mute and painful act of incantation. JUCKLET 
 affected drowsily yawns and mumbles inco 
 herently stretches, and gradually sinks at full 
 length on the sward. DWAINIE moves for 
 ward AMPHINE, following, is about to set 
 foot contemptuously on sleeper s breast, but is 
 caught and held away by DWAINIE, who impe 
 riously waves him back, and still, in pantomime, 
 commanding, bids him turn and hide his face 
 AMPHINE obeying as though unable to do 
 otherwise. Dwainie then unbinds her hair, and 
 throwing it all forward covering her face and 
 bending till it trails the ground, she lifts to the 
 knee her dress, and so walks backzvard in a cir 
 cle round the sleeping JUCKLET, crooning to her 
 self an incoherent song. Then pausing, letting 
 fall her gown, and rising to full stature, waves 
 her hands above the sleeper s face, and runs to 
 AMPHINE, who turns about and gazes on her 
 with new wonderment.] 
 
 DWAINIE [To AMPHINE] 
 
 Now shalt thou 
 Look on such scaith as thou hath never dreamed. 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 343 
 
 [As she speaks, half averting her face as with mel 
 ancholy apprehension, chorus of lugubrious 
 voices heard chanting discordantly} 
 
 VOICES 
 
 When the fat moon smiles, 
 And the comets kiss, 
 
 And the elves of Spirkland flit 
 The Whanghoo twunkers 
 A tune like this, 
 
 And the Nightmares champ the bit. 
 
 [As chorus dies away, a comet, freighted with 
 weird shapes, dips from the night and trails 
 near JUCKLET S sleeping figure, while with at 
 tendant goblin-forms, two Nightmares, CREECH 
 and GRITCHFANG, alight. The comet kisses, 
 switches its tail and disappears, while the two 
 goblins hover buzzingly over JUCKLET, who 
 starts wide-eyed and stares fixedly at them, 
 with horribly contorted features.} 
 
 CREECH [To GRITCHFANG] 
 
 Buzz! 
 
 Buzz! 
 
 Buzz! 
 
 Buzz! 
 
 Flutter your wings like your grandmother does! 
 Tuck in your chin and wheel over and whir-r-r 
 
344 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Like a dickerbug fast in the web of the wtihrr! 
 Reel out your tongue, and untangle your toes 
 And rattle your claws o er the bridge of his nose; 
 Tickle his ears with your feathers and fuzz, 
 And keep up a hum like your grandmother does ! 
 
 [JUCKLET moans and clutches at air convulsively} 
 AMPHINE [Shuddering } 
 
 Most gruesome sight! See how the poor worm 
 
 writhes ! 
 How must he suffer! 
 
 DWAINIE 
 
 Ay, but good is meant 
 A far voice sings it so. 
 
 GRITCHFANG [To CREECH] 
 
 Let me dive deep in his nostriline caves 
 And keep an eye out as to how he behaves : 
 Fasten him down while I put him to rack 
 And don t let him flop from the flat of his back ! 
 [Shrinks to minute size, while goblin attendants 
 pluck from shrubbery a great lily-shaped flower 
 which they invert funnel-wise, with small end 
 at sleeper s nostrils, hoisting GRITCHFANG in 
 at top and jostling shape downward gradually 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 345 
 
 from sight, and removing flower, voice of 
 GRITCHFANG continues gleefully from within 
 sleeper s head] 
 
 Ho ! I have bored through the floor of his brains, 
 And set them all writhing with torturous pains; 
 And I shriek out the prayer, as I whistle and whiz, 
 I may be the nightmare that my grandmother is ! 
 [Reappears, through reversal of flower method, as 
 suming former shape, crosses to CREECH, and, 
 joining, the twain dance on sleeper s stomach 
 in broken time to duo] 
 
 Duo 
 
 Whing! 
 
 Whang! 
 
 So our ancestors sang! 
 And they guzzled hot blood and blew up with a 
 
 bang! 
 
 But they ever tenaciously clung to the rule 
 To only blow up in the hull of a fool 
 To fizz and explode like a cast-iron toad 
 In the cavernous depths where his victuals were 
 
 stowed 
 
 When chances were ripest and thickest and best 
 To burst every buttonhole out of his vest ! 
 
 [They pause, float high above., and fusing together 
 into a great square iron weight drop 
 heavily on chest of sleeper, who moans pite- 
 ously.] 
 
346 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 AMPHINE [Hiding his face] 
 
 Ah ! take me hence ! 
 
 [DWAINIE leads him off, looking backivard as she 
 goes and waving her hands imploringly to 
 CREECH and GRITCHFANG, reassuming former 
 shapes, in ecstasies of insane delight] 
 
 CREECH [To GRITCHFANG] 
 Zipp! 
 
 Zipp! 
 
 Zipp! 
 
 Zipp! 
 
 Sting his tongue raw and unravel his lip I 
 Grope, on the right, down his windpipe, and squeeze 
 His liver as dry as a petrified wheeze ! 
 [GRITCHFANG as before shrinks and disappears 
 
 at sleeper s mouth] 
 
 Throttle his heart till he s black in the face, 
 And bury it down in some desolate place 
 Where only remorse in pent agony lives 
 To dread the advice that your grandmother gives ! 
 
 [The sleeper struggles contortedly, while voice of 
 GRITCHFANG calls from within] 
 
 GRITCHFANG 
 
 Ho-ho ! I have clambered the rungs of his ribs 
 And beriddled his lungs into tatters and dribs; 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 347 
 
 And I turn up the tube of his heart like a hose 
 And squirt all the blood to the end of his nose ! 
 I stamp on his stomach and caper and prance, 
 With my tail tossing round like a boomerang-lance ! 
 And thus may success ever crown my intent 
 To wander the ways that my grandmother went ! 
 
 [Reappears, falls hysterically in CREECH S out 
 stretched arms. Then dance and duo.} 
 
 Duo 
 Whing! 
 
 Whung! 
 
 So our ancestors sung! 
 And they snorted and pawed, and they hissed and 
 
 they stung, 
 
 Taking special terrific delight in their work 
 On the fools that they found in the lands of the 
 
 Spirk. 
 
 And each little grain of their powders of pain 
 They scraped up and pestled again and again 
 Mixed in quadruple doses for gluttons and sots, 
 Till they strangled their dreams with gung-jibbrous 
 knots ! 
 
 {The comet again trails past, upon which the Night 
 mares leap and disappear. JUCKLET staggers 
 to his feet and glares frenziedly around then 
 starts for opposite exit of comet is there sud 
 denly confronted with fiend-faces in the air, 
 bewhiskered with ragged purplish -flames that 
 
348 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Hare audibly and huskily in abrupt alternating 
 chill gasps and hot welterings of wind. He 
 starts back from them, reels and falls prostrate^ 
 groveling terrifiedly in the dust, and chattering, 
 with eerie music accompanying his broken ut 
 terance.] 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 yEo! JEoi ;EO! 
 
 Thou dost all things know 
 
 Waving all claims of mine to dare to pray, 
 Save that I needs must: Lo, 
 
 What may I pray for? Yea, 
 
 I have not any way, 
 An Thou gainsayest me a tolerance so. 
 
 I dare not pray 
 
 Forgiveness too great 
 
 My vast o ertoppling weight 
 
 Of sinning; nor can I 
 
 Pray my 
 
 Poor soul unscourged to go. 
 Frame Thou my prayer, yo! 
 
 What may I pray for? Dare 
 I shape a prayer, 
 In sooth, 
 For any canceled joy 
 
 Of my mad youth, 
 
 Or any bliss my sin s stress did destroy? 
 What may I pray for What? 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 349 
 
 That the wild clusters of forget-me-not 
 
 And mignonette 
 
 And violet 
 Be out of childhood brought, 
 
 And in mine hard heart set 
 A-blooming now as then? 
 
 With all their petals yet 
 Bediamonded with dews 
 Their sweet, sweet scent let loose 
 Full sumptuously again! 
 
 What may I pray, 
 
 For the poor hutched cot 
 Where death sate squat 
 Midst my first memories? Lo! 
 My mother s face (they, whispering, told me 
 
 so) 
 
 That face! so pinchedly 
 It blanched up, as they lifted me 
 Its frozen eyelids would 
 Not part, nor could 
 
 Be ever wetted open with warm tears. 
 . . . Who hears 
 The prayers for all dead-mother-sakes, JEol 
 
 Leastwise one mercy: May 
 
 I not have leave to pray 
 
 All self to pass away 
 
 Forgetful of all needs mine own 
 Neglectful of all creeds; alone, 
 
350 THE FLYING ISLANDS O F THE NIGHT 
 
 Stand fronting Thy high throne and say: 
 
 To Thee, 
 O Infinite, I pray 
 
 Shield Thou mine enemy! 
 
 {Music throughout supplication gradually softens 
 and sweetens into utter gentleness, with scene 
 slow-fading into densest night.} 
 
 END ACT II 
 
From a photograph taken when twenty- 
 two years old 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE I. Court of KRUNO Royal Ministers, 
 Counselors, etc., in session. CRESTILLOMEEM, 
 in full blazonry of regal attire, presiding. She 
 signals a Herald at her left, who steps for 
 ward. Blare of trumpets, greeted with om 
 inous murmurings within, blent with tumult 
 from without. 
 
 HERALD 
 
 Hist, ho! Ay, ay! Ay, ay! Her Majesty, 
 The All-Glorious and Ever-Gracious Queen, 
 Crestillomeem, to her most loyal, leal 
 And right devoted subjects, greeting sends 
 Proclaiming, in the absence of the King, 
 Her royal presence 
 
 [Voice of Herald fails abruptly utterly. A 
 breathless hush falls sudden on the court. A 
 sense oppressive ominous affects the throng. 
 Weird music heard of unseen instruments.] 
 
 HERALD [Huskily striving to be heard] 
 
 Hist, ho! Ay, ay! Ay, ay! Her Majesty, 
 351 
 
352 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 The All-Glorious and Ever-Gracious Queen, 
 Crestillomeem 
 
 [The Queen gasps, and clutches at Herald, mutely 
 signing him to silence, her staring eyes fixed on 
 a shadowy figure, mistily developing before her 
 into wraith-like form and likeness of The 
 Tune-Fool, SPRAIVOLL. The shape evidently 
 invisible and voiceless to all senses but the 
 Queen s wavers vaporishly to and fro before 
 her, moaning and crooning in infinitely sweet- 
 sad minor cadences a mystic song.] 
 
 WRAITH-SONG OF SPRAIVOLL 
 
 I will not hear the dying word 
 Of any friend, nor stroke the wing 
 
 Of any little wounded bird. 
 
 . . . Love is the deadest thing! 
 
 I wist not if I see the smile 
 
 Of prince or wight, in court or lane. 
 
 I only know that afterwhile 
 He will not smile again. 
 
 The summer blossom, at my feet, 
 Swims backward, drowning in the grass. 
 
 7 will not stay to name it sweet 
 Sink out! and let me pass! 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 353 
 
 / have no mind to feel the touch 
 
 Of gentle hands on brow and hair. 
 
 The lack of this once pained me much, 
 And so I have a care. 
 
 Dead weeds, and husky-rustling leaves 
 That beat the dead boughs zuhere ye cling. 
 
 And old dead nests beneath the eaves 
 Love is the deadest thing! 
 
 Ah! once I fared not all alone; 
 
 And once no matter, rain or snow! 
 The stars of summer ever shone 
 
 Because I loved him so! 
 
 With always tremblings in his hands, 
 
 And always blushes unaware, 
 And always ripples down the strands 
 
 Of his long yellow hair. 
 
 I needs must weep a little space, 
 
 Remembering his laughing eyes 
 And curving lip, and lifted face 
 
 Of rapture and surprise. 
 
 joy is dead in every part, 
 And life and hope; and so I sing: 
 
 In all the graveyard of my heart 
 Love is the deadest thing! 
 
356 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 GUARD 
 
 O Queen, tis he who cries "Conspiracy !" 
 And who incites the mob without with cries 
 Of "Plot!" and "Treason!" 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM [Starting ] 
 
 Ha ! Can this be true ? 
 I ll not believe it ! Jucklet is my fool, 
 But not so vast a fool that he would tempt 
 His gracious Sovereign s ire. [To Guards] Let 
 him be freed ! 
 
 [Then to JUCKLET, with mock service] 
 Stand hither, O my Fool ! 
 
 JUCKLET [To Queen] 
 
 What! I, thy fool? 
 
 Ho! ho! Thy fool? ho! ho! Why, thou art 
 mine ! 
 
 [Confusion cries of "Strike down the traitor!" 
 JUCKLET* wrenching himself from grasp of 
 officers] 
 
 Back, all of ye ! I have not waded hell 
 That I should fear your puny enmity ! 
 Here will I give ye proof of all I say! 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 357 
 
 {Presses toward throne, wedging his op posers left 
 and right CRESTILLOMEEM sits as though 
 stricken speechless pallid, waving him back 
 JUCKLET, fairly fronting her, with folded arms 
 then to throng continues.} 
 
 Lo! do I here defy her to lift up 
 
 Her voice and say that Jucklet speaks a lie. 
 
 [At sign of Queen, Officers, unperceived by JUCK 
 LET, close warily behind him.} 
 
 And, further I pronounce the document 
 That craven Herald there holds in his hand 
 A forgery a trick and dare the Queen, 
 Here in my listening presence, to command 
 Its further utterance! 
 
 CRESTILLOMEEM [Wildly rising} 
 
 Hold, hireling ! Fool ! 
 The Queen thou dost in thy mad boasts insult 
 Shall utter first thy doom! 
 
 [JUCKLET, seized from behind by Guards, is hurled 
 face upward on the dais at her feet, while a 
 minion, with drawn sword pressed close against 
 his breast, stands over him.} 
 
 Ere we proceed 
 
 With graver matters, let this demon-knave 
 Be sent back home to hell. 
 
358 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 [With awful stress of ire, form quivering, eyes 
 glittering and features twitched and ashen] 
 
 Give me the sword, 
 
 The insult hath been mine so even shall 
 The vengeance be ! 
 
 [As CRESTILLOMEEM seizes sword and bends for 
 ward to strike, JUCKLET, with superhuman ef 
 fort, frees his hand, and, with a sudden mo 
 tion and an incoherent muttering, nings object 
 in his assailant s face, CRESTILLOMEEM stag 
 gers backward, dropping sword, and, with arms 
 tossed aloft, shrieks, totters and falls prone 
 upon the pave. In confusion following JUCK- 
 LET mysteriously vanishes; and as the bewil 
 dered Courtiers lift the fallen Queen, a clear, 
 piercing voice of thrilling sweetness is heard 
 singing.] 
 
 VOICE 
 
 The pride of noon must wither soon 
 The dusk of death must fall; 
 
 Yet out of darkest night the moon 
 Shall blossom over all! 
 
 [For an instant a dense cloud envelops empty throne 
 then gradually lifts, discovering therein 
 KRUNG seated, in royal panoply and state, with 
 JUCKLET in act of presenting scepter to him. 
 Blare of trumpets, and chorus of Courtiers, 
 Ministers, Heralds, etc.} 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 359 
 CHORUS 
 
 All hail! Long live the King! 
 KRUNG [To throng, with grave salutation] 
 
 Through yo s own great providence, and 
 
 through 
 
 The intervention of an angel whom 
 I long had deemed forever lost to me, 
 Once more your favored Sovereign, do I greet 
 And tender you my blessing, O most good 
 And faith-abiding subjects of my realm! 
 In common, too, with your long-suffering King, 
 Have ye long suffered, blamelessly as he : 
 Now, therefore, know ye all what, until late, 
 He knew not of himself, and with him share 
 The rapturous assurance that is his, 
 That, for all time to come, are we restored 
 To the old glory and most regal pride 
 And opulence and splendor of our realm. 
 
 [Turning with pained features to the strangely 
 stricken Queen] 
 
 There have been, as ye needs must know, 
 
 strange spells 
 
 And wicked sorceries at work within 
 The very dais boundaries of the Throne. 
 Lo ! then, behold your harrier and mine, 
 And with me grieve for the self-ruined Queen 
 
360 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Who grovels at my feet, blind, speechless, and 
 So stricken with a curse herself designed 
 Should light upon Hope s fairest minister. 
 
 [Motions attendants, who lead away CRESTILLO- 
 MEEM the King gazing after her, overmas 
 tered with stress of his emotions. He leans 
 heavily on throne, as though oblivious to all 
 surroundings, and, shaping into speech his 
 varying thought, as in a trance, speaks as 
 though witless of both utterance and auditor.] 
 
 I loved her. Why? I never knew. Perhaps 
 Because her face was fair; perhaps because 
 Her eyes were blue and wore a weary air ; 
 Perhaps . . . perhaps because her limpid face 
 Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein 
 The dimples found no place to anchor and 
 Abide : perhaps because her tresses beat 
 A froth of gold about her throat, and poured 
 In splendor to the feet that ever seemed 
 Afloat. Perhaps because of that wild way 
 Her sudden laughter overleapt propriety ; 
 Or who will say ? perhaps the way she wept. 
 Ho ! have ye seen the swollen heart of summer 
 Tempest, o er the plain, with throbs of thunder 
 Burst apart and drench the earth with rain? She 
 Wept like that. And to recall, with one wild 
 
 glance 
 Of memory, our last love-parting tears 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 361 
 
 And all. ... It thrills and maddens me ! And 
 
 yet 
 
 My dreams will hold her, flushed from lifted brow 
 To finger-tips, with passion s ripest kisses 
 Crushed and mangled on her lips. . . . O 
 
 woman! while 
 
 Your face was fair, and heart was pure, and lips 
 Were true, and hope as golden as your hair, 
 I should have strangled you! 
 
 [As KRUNG, ceasing to speak, piteously lifts his 
 face, SPRAIVOLL all suddenly appears, in space 
 left vacant by the Queen, and, kneeling, kisses 
 the King s hand. He bends in tenderness, 
 kissing her brow then lifts and seats her at 
 his side. Speaks then to throng.] 
 
 Good Subjects Lords: 
 Behold in this sweet woman here my child, 
 Whom, years agone, the cold, despicable 
 Crestillomeem by baleful, wicked arts 
 And gruesome spells and fearsome witcheries 
 Did spirit off to some strange otherland, 
 Where, happily, a Wunkland Princess found 
 Her, and undid the spell by sorcery 
 More potent ay, Divine, since it works naught 
 But good the gift of yEo, to right wrong. 
 This magic dower the Wunkland Princess hath 
 Enlisted in our restoration here, 
 In secret service, till this joyful hour 
 Of our complete deliverance. Even thus. 
 I o, let the peerless Princess now appear ! 
 
362 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 [He lifts scepter, and a gust of melody, divinely 
 beautiful, sweeps through the court. The star 
 above the throne loosens and drops slowly 
 downward, bursting like a bubble on the scep 
 ter-tip, and, issuing therefrom, AMPHINE and 
 DWAINIE, hand in hand, kneel at the feet of 
 KRUNG, who bends above them with his bless 
 ing, while JUCKLET capers wildly round the 
 group.] 
 
 JUCKLET 
 
 Ho! ho! but I could shriek for very joy! 
 And though my recent rival, fair Amphine, 
 Doth even now bend o er a blossom, I, 
 Besprit me! have no lingering desire 
 To meddle with it, though with but one eye 
 I slept the while she backward walked around 
 Me in the garden. 
 
 [AMPHINE dubiously smiles JUCKLET blinks and 
 leers and DWAINIE bites her finger.} 
 
 KRUNG 
 
 Peace! good Jucklet! Peace! 
 For this is not a time for any jest. 
 Though the old order of our realm hath been 
 Restored, and though restored my very life 
 Though I have found a daughter, I have lost 
 
THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 363 
 
 A son for Dwainie, with her sorcery, 
 Will, on the morrow, carry him away. 
 Tis yo s largess, as our love is His, 
 And our abiding trust and gratefulness. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY A SKETCH 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY A SKETCH 
 
 On an early day in a memorable October, Reuben 
 A. Riley and his wife, Elizabeth Marine Riley, re 
 joiced over the birth of their second son. They 
 called him James Whitcomb. This was in a shady 
 little street in the shady little town of Greenfield, 
 which is in the county of Hancock and the state of 
 Indiana. The young James found a brother and a 
 sister waiting to greet him John Andrew and Mar 
 tha Celestia, and afterward came Elva May Mrs. 
 Henry Eitel Alexander Humbolt and Mary Eliza 
 beth, who, of all, alone lives to see this collection of 
 her brother s poems. 
 
 James Whitcomb was a slender lad, with corn-silk 
 hair and wide blue eyes. He was shy and timid, not 
 strong physically, dreading, the cold of winter, and 
 avoiding the rougher sports of his playmates. And 
 yet he was full of the spirit of youth, a spirit that 
 manifested itself in the performance of many in 
 genious pranks. His every-day life was that of the 
 average boy in the average country town of that day, 
 but his home influences were exceptional. His 
 father, who became a captain of cavalry in the Civil 
 War, was a lawyer of ability and an orator of more 
 367 
 
368 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 than local distinction. His mother was a woman of 
 rare strength of character combined with deep sym 
 pathy and a clear understanding. Together, they 
 made home a place to remember with thankful 
 heart. When James was twenty years old, the death 
 of his mother made a profound impression on him, 
 an impression that has influenced much of his verse 
 and has remained with him always. 
 
 At an early age he was sent to school and, "then 
 sent back again," to use his own words. He was 
 restive under what he called the "iron discipline." 
 A number of years ago, he spoke of these early edu 
 cational beginnings in phrases so picturesque and so 
 characteristic that they are quoted in full : 
 
 "My first teacher was a little old woman, rosy and 
 roly-poly, who looked as though she might have 
 just come tumbling out of a fairy story, so lovable 
 was she and so jolly and so amiable. She kept 
 school in her little Dame-Trot kind of dwelling 
 of three rooms, with a porch in the rear, like a 
 bracket on the wall, which was part of the play 
 ground of her scholars/ for in those days pupils 
 were called scholars by their affectionate teachers. 
 Among the twelve or fifteen boys and girls who 
 were there I remember particularly a little lame boy, 
 who always got the first ride in the locust-tree swing 
 during recess. 
 
 "This first teacher of mine was a mother to all 
 her scholars/ and in every way looked after their 
 comfort, especially when certain little ones grew 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 369 
 
 drowsy. I was often, with others, carried to the sit 
 ting-room and left to slumber on a small made-down 
 pallet on the floor. She would sometimes take three 
 or four of us together ; and I recall how a playmate 
 and I, having been admonished into silence, grew 
 deeply interested in watching a spare old man who 
 sat at a window with its shade drawn down. After 
 a while we became accustomed to this odd sight and 
 would laugh, and talk in whispers and give imita 
 tions, as we sat in a low sewing-chair, of the little 
 old pendulating blind man at the window. Well, the 
 old man was the gentle teacher s charge, and for this 
 reason, possibly, her life had become an heroic one, 
 caring for her helpless husband who, quietly con 
 tent, waited always at the window for his sight to 
 come back to him. And doubtless it is to-day, as 
 he sits at another casement and sees not only his 
 earthly friends, but all the friends of the Eternal 
 Home, with the smiling, loyal, loving little woman 
 forever at his side. 
 
 "She was the kindliest of souls even when con 
 strained to punish us. After a Whipping she invari 
 ably took me into the little kitchen and gave me two 
 great white slabs of bread cemented together with 
 layers of butter and jam. As she always whipped me 
 with the same slender switch she used for a pointer, 
 and cried over every lick, you will have an idea how 
 much punishment I could stand. When I was old 
 enough to be lifted by the ears out of my seat that 
 office was performed by a pedagogue whom I prom- 
 
370 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 ised to whip sure, if he d just wait till I got big 
 enough/ He is still waiting! 
 
 "There was but one book at school in which I 
 found the slightest interest, McGuffey s old 
 leather-bound Reader. It was the tallest book 
 known, and to the boys of my size it was a matter of 
 eternal wonder how I could belong to the big class 
 in that reader. When we were to read the death of 
 Little Nell/ I would run away, for I knew it would 
 make me cry, that the other boys would laugh at 
 me, and the whole thing would become ridiculous. 
 I couldn t bear that. A later teacher, Captain 
 Lee O. Harris, came to understand me with 
 thorough sympathy, took compassion on my weak 
 nesses and encouraged me to read the best literature. 
 He understood that he couldn t get numbers into my 
 head. You couldn t tamp them in ! History I also 
 disliked as a dry thing without juice, and dates 
 melted out of my memory as speedily as tin-foil on 
 a red-hot stove. But I always was ready to declaim 
 and took natively to anything dramatic or theatrical. 
 Captain Harris encouraged me in recitation and 
 reading and had ever the sweet spirit of a com 
 panion rather than the manner of an instructor." 
 
 But if there was "only one book at school in which 
 he found the slightest interest," he had before that 
 time displayed an affection for a book simply as 
 such and not for any printed word it might contain. 
 And this, after all, is the true book-lover s love. 
 Speaking of this incident and he likes to refer to it 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 371 
 
 as his "first literary recollection," he says: "Long 
 before I was old enough to read I remember buying 
 a book at an old auctioneer s shop in Greenfield. I 
 can not imagine what prophetic impulse took pos 
 session of me and made me forego the ginger cakes 
 and the candy that usually took every cent of my 
 youthful income. The slender little volume must 
 have cost all of twenty-five cents ! It was Francis 
 Quarks Divine Emblems, a neat little affair about 
 the size of a pocket Testament. I carried it around 
 with me all day long, delighted with the very feel 
 of it 
 
 " What have you got there, Bub ? some one 
 would ask. A book/ I would reply. What kind of 
 a book? Toetry-book. Poetry! would be the 
 amused exclamation. Can you read poetry? and, 
 embarrassed, I d shake my head and make my es 
 cape, but I held on to the beloved little volume." 
 
 Every boy has an early determination a first one 
 to follow some ennobling profession, once he has 
 come to man s estate, such as being a policeman or a 
 performer on the high trapeze. The poet would not 
 have been the "People s Laureate," but the Green 
 field baker, had his fairy godmother granted his boy- 
 wish. For to his childish mind it "seemed the acme 
 of delight," using again his own happy expression, 
 "to manufacture those snowy loaves of bread, those 
 delicious tarts, those toothsome bon-bons. And then 
 to own them all, to keep them in store, to watch 
 over and guardedly exhibit. The thought of getting 
 
372 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 money for them was to me a sacrilege. Sell them ? 
 No indeed. Eat em eat em, by tray loads and 
 dray loads ! It was a great wonder to me why the 
 pale-faced baker in our town did not eat all his good 
 things. This I determined to do when I became 
 owner of such a grand establishment. Yes, sir. I 
 would have a glorious feast. Maybe I d have Tom 
 and Harry and perhaps little Kate and Florry in to 
 help us once in a while. The thought of these play 
 mates as grown-up folks didn t appeal to me. I 
 was but a child, with wide-open eyes, a healthy appe 
 tite and a wondering mind. That was all. But I 
 have the same sweet tooth to-day, and every time I 
 pass a confectioner s shop, I think of the big baker 
 of our town, and Tom and Harry and the youngsters 
 all." 
 
 As a child, he often went with his father to the 
 court-house where the lawyers and clerks playfully 
 called him "Judge Wick." Here as a privileged 
 character he met and mingled with the country folk 
 who came to sue and be sued, and thus early the 
 dialect, the native speech, the quaint expressions of 
 his "own people" were made familiar to him, and 
 took firm root in the fresh soil of his young memory. 
 At about this time, he made his first poetic attempt 
 in a valentine which he gave to his mother. Not 
 only did he write the verse, but he drew a sketch to 
 accompany it, greatly to his mother s delight, who, 
 according to the best authority, gave the young poet 
 "three big cookies and didn t spank me for two 
 
JAMES WHIT COME RILEY 
 
 373 
 
 weeks. This was my earliest literary encourage 
 ment." 
 
 Shortly after his sixteenth birthday, young Riley 
 turned his back on the little schoolhouse and for 
 a time wandered through the different fields of art, 
 indulging a slender talent for painting until he 
 thought he was destined for the brush and palette, 
 and then making merry with various musical instru 
 ments, the banjo, the guitar, the violin, until finally 
 he appeared as bass drummer in a brass band. "In 
 a few weeks/ he says, "I had beat myself into the 
 more enviable position of snare drummer. Then I 
 wanted to travel with a circus, and dangle my legs 
 before admiring thousands over the back seat of a 
 Golden Chariot. In a dearth of comic songs for the 
 banjo and guitar, I had written two or three myself, 
 and the idea took possession of me that I might be 
 a clown, introduced as a character-song-maii and the 
 composer of my own ballads. 
 
 My father was thinking of something else, how 
 ever, and one day I found myself with a five-ought 
 paint brush under the eaves of an old frame house 
 that drank paint by the bucketful, learning to be a 
 painter. Finally, I graduated as a house, sign and 
 ornamental painter, and for two summers traveled 
 about with a small company of young fellows calling 
 ourselves The Graphics/ who covered all the barns 
 and fences in the state with advertisements." 
 
 At another time his young man s fancy saw at 
 tractive possibilities in the village print-shop, and 
 
374 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 later his ambition was diverted to acting, encouraged 
 by the good times he had in the theatricals of the 
 Adelphian Society of Greenfield. "In my dreamy 
 way," he afterward said, "I did a little of a number 
 of things fairly well sang, played the guitar and 
 violin, acted, painted signs and wrote poetry. My 
 father did not encourage my verse-making for he 
 thought it too visionary, and being a visionary him 
 self, he believed he understood the dangers of fol 
 lowing the promptings of the poetic temperament. I 
 doubted if anything would come of the verse-writing 
 myself. At this time it is easy to picture my father, 
 a lawyer of ability, regarding me, nonplused, as the 
 worst case he had ever had. He wanted me to do 
 something practical, besides being ambitious for me 
 to follow in his footsteps, and at last persuaded me 
 to settle down and read law in his office. This I 
 really tried to do conscientiously, but finding that 
 political economy and Blackstone did not rhyme and 
 that the study of law was unbearable, I slipped out 
 of the office one summer afternoon, when all out 
 doors called imperiously, shook the last dusty prem 
 ise from my head and was away. 
 
 "The immediate instigator of my flight was a 
 traveling medicine man who appealed to me for this 
 reason : My health was bad, very bad, as bad as I 
 was. Our doctor had advised me to travel, but how 
 could I travel without money? The medicine man 
 needed an assistant and I plucked up courage to ask 
 
JAMES WHIT COME RILEY 375 
 
 if I could join the party and paint advertisements 
 for him. 
 
 "I rode out of town with that glittering cavalcade 
 without saying good-by to any one, and though my 
 patron was not a diplomaed doctor, as I found out, 
 he was a man of excellent habits, and the whole com 
 pany was made up of good straight boys, jolly 
 chirping vagabonds like myself. It was delightful 
 to bowl over the country in that way. I laughed 
 all the time. Miles and miles of somber landscape 
 were made bright with merry song, and when the 
 sun shone and all the golden summer lay spread out 
 before us, it was glorious just to drift on through 
 it like a wisp of thistle-down, careless of how, or 
 when, or where the wind should anchor us. There s 
 a tang of gipsy blood in my veins that pants for the 
 sun and the air/ 
 
 "My duty proper was the manipulation of two 
 blackboards, swung at the sides of the wagon during 
 our street lecture and concert. These boards were 
 alternately embellished with colored drawings illus 
 trative of the manifold virtues of the nostrum 
 vended. Sometimes I assisted the musical olio with 
 dialect recitations and character sketches from the 
 back step of the wagon. These selections in the 
 main originated from incidents and experiences 
 along the route, and were composed on dull Sundays 
 in lonesome little towns where even the church bells 
 seemed to bark at us." 
 
376 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 On his return to Greenfield after this delightful 
 but profitless tour he became the local editor of his 
 home paper and in a few months "strangled the 
 little thing into a change of ownership." The new 
 proprietor transferred him to the literary depart 
 ment and the latter, not knowing what else to put in 
 the space allotted him, filled it with verse. But 
 there was not room in his department for all he pro 
 duced, so he began, timidly, to offer his poetic wares 
 in foreign markets. The editor of The Indianapolis 
 Mirror accepted two or three shorter verses but 
 in doing so suggested that in the future he try 
 prose. Being but an humble beginner, Riley hark- 
 ened to the advice, whereupon the editor made a 
 further suggestion; this time that he try poetry 
 again. The D anbury (Connecticut) News, then at 
 the height of its humorous reputation, accepted a 
 contribution shortly after The Mirror episode and 
 Mr. McGeechy, its managing editor, wrote the 
 young poet a graceful note of congratulation. Com 
 menting on these parlous times, Mr. Riley once 
 wrote, "It is strange how little a thing sometimes 
 makes or unmakes a fellow. In these dark days I 
 should have been content with the twinkle of the 
 tiniest star, but even this light was withheld from 
 me. Just then came the letter from McGeechy ; and 
 about the same time, arrived my first check, a pay 
 ment from Hearth and Home for a contribution 
 called A Destiny (now A Dreamer in A Child 
 World). The letter was signed, Editor* and unless 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 377 
 
 sent by an assistant it must have come from Ik 
 Marvel himself, God bless him! I thought my 
 fortune made. Almost immediately I sent off an 
 other contribution, whereupon to my dismay came 
 this reply : The management has decided to discon 
 tinue the publication and hopes that you will find 
 a market for your worthy work elsewhere. Then 
 followed dark days indeed, until finally, inspired by 
 my old teacher and comrade, Captain Lee O. Harris, 
 I sent some of my poems to Longfellow, who re 
 plied in his kind and gentle manner with the sub 
 stantial encouragement for which I had long 
 thirsted." 
 
 Not long after this Mr. Riley formed a connection 
 with The Anderson (Indiana) Democrat and con 
 tributed verse and locals in more than generous 
 quantities. He was happy in this work and had be 
 gun to feel that at last he was making progress 
 when evil fortune knocked at his door and, con 
 spiring with circumstances and a friend or two, in 
 duced the young poet to devise what afterward 
 seemed to him the gravest of mistakes, the Poe- 
 poem hoax. He was then writing for an audience 
 of county papers and never dreamed that this 
 whimsical bit of fooling would be carried beyond 
 such boundaries. It was suggested by these circum 
 stances. He was inwardly distressed by the belief 
 that his failure to get the magazines to accept his 
 verse was due to his obscurity, while outwardly he 
 was harrassed to desperation by the junior editor of 
 
378 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 the rival paper who jeered daily at his poetical pre 
 tensions. So, to prove that editors would praise 
 from a known source what they did not hesitate to 
 condemn from one unknown, and to silence his nag 
 ging contemporary, he wrote Leonainie in the style 
 of Poe, concocting a story, to accompany the poem, 
 setting forth how Poe came to write it and how all 
 these years it had been lost to view. In a few 
 words Mr. Riley relates the incident and then dis 
 misses it. "I studied Poe s methods. He seemed 
 to have a theory, rather misty to be sure, about the 
 use of "m s" and "n s" and mellifluous vowels and 
 sonorous words. I remember that I was a long time 
 in evolving the name Leonainie, but at length the 
 verses were finished and ready for trial. 
 
 "A friend, the editor of The Kokomo Dispatch, 
 undertook the launching of the hoax in his paper; 
 he did this with great editorial gusto while, at the 
 same time, I attacked the authenticity of the poem 
 in The Democrat. That diverted all possible sus 
 picion from me. The hoax succeeded far too well, 
 for what had started as a boyish prank became a 
 literary discussion nation-wide, and the necessary 
 expose had to be made. I was appalled at the re 
 sult. The press assailed me furiously, and even my 
 own paper dismissed me because I had given the 
 discovery to a rival." 
 
 Dreary and disheartening days followed this 
 tragic event, days in which the young poet found 
 no present help, nor future hope. But over in In- 
 
JAMES WHIT COMB RILEY 379 
 
 dianapolis, twenty miles away, happier circum 
 stances were shaping themselves. Judge E. B. 
 Martindale, editor and proprietor of The Indian 
 apolis Journal, had been attracted by certain poems 
 in various papers over the state and at the very time 
 that the poet was ready to confess himself beaten, 
 the judge wrote: "Come over to Indianapolis and 
 we ll give you a place on The Journal" Mr. Riley 
 went. That was the turning point, and though the 
 skies were not always clear, nor the way easy, still 
 from that time it was ever an ascending journey. 
 As soon as he was comfortably settled in his new 
 position, the first of the Benj. F. Johnson poems 
 made its appearance. These dialect verses were 
 introduced with editorial comment as coming from 
 an old Boone county farmer, and their reception 
 was so cordial, so enthusiastic, indeed, that the busi 
 ness manager of The Journal, Mr. George C. Hitt, 
 privately published them in pamphlet form and sold 
 the first edition of one thousand copies in local 
 bookstores, and over The Journal office counter. 
 This marked an epoch in the young poet s progress 
 and was the beginning of a friendship between him 
 and Mr. Hitt that has never known interruption. 
 This first edition of The Old Szvimmin Hole and 
 Leven More Poems has since become extremely 
 rare and now commands a high premium. A sec 
 ond edition was promptly issued by a local book 
 dealer, whose successors, The Bowen-Merrill Com 
 pany now The Bobbs-Merrill Company have 
 
380 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 continued, practically without interruption, to pub 
 lish Mr. Riley s work. 
 
 The call to read from the public platform had 
 by this time become so insistent that Mr. Riley could 
 no longer resist it, although modesty and shyness 
 fought the battle for privacy. He tells briefly and 
 in his own inimitable fashion of these trying experi 
 ences. "In boyhood I had been vividly impressed 
 with Dickens success in reading from his own 
 works and dreamed that some day I might follow 
 his example. At first I read at Sunday-school en 
 tertainments and later, on special occasions such as 
 Memorial Days and Fourth of Julys. At last 
 I mustered up sufficient courage to read in a city 
 theater, where, despite the conspiracy of a rainy 
 night and a circus, I got encouragement enough to 
 lead me to extend my efforts. And so, my native 
 state and then the country at large were called upon 
 to bear with me and I think 1 visited every se 
 questered spot north or south particularly dis 
 tinguished for poor railroad connections. At dif 
 ferent times, I shared the program with Mark 
 Twain, Robert J. Burdette and George Cable, and 
 for a while my gentlest and cheeriest of friends, 
 Bill Nye, joined with me and made the dusty de 
 tested travel almost a delight. We were constantly 
 playing practical jokes on each other or indulging 
 in some mischievous banter before the audience. 
 On one occasion, Mr. Nye, coming before the foot 
 lights for a word of general introduction, said, 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 381 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, the entertainment to-night 
 is of a dual nature. Mr. Riley and I will speak al 
 ternately. First I come out and talk until I get 
 tired, then Mr. Riley comes out and talks until you 
 get tired ! And thus the trips went merrily enough 
 at times and besides I learned to know in Bill Nye 
 a man blessed with as noble and heroic a heart as 
 ever beat. But the making of trains, which were all 
 in conspiracy to outwit me, schedule or no schedule, 
 and the rush and tyrannical pressure of inviolable 
 engagements, some hundred to a season and from 
 Boston to San Francisco, were a distress to my 
 soul. I am glad that s over with. Imagine your 
 self on a crowded day-long excursion ; imagine that 
 you had to ride all the way on the platform of the 
 car ; then imagine that you had to ride all the way 
 back on the same platform ; and lastly, try to imag 
 ine how you would feel if you did that every day of 
 your life, and you will then get a glimmer a faint 
 glimmer of how one feels after traveling about on 
 a reading or lecturing tour. 
 
 "All this time I had been writing whenever there 
 was any strength left in me. I could not resist the 
 inclination to write. It was what I most enjoyed 
 doing. And so I wrote, laboriously ever, more 
 often using the rubber end of the pencil than the 
 point. 
 
 "In my readings I had an opportunity to study 
 and find out for myself what the public wants, and 
 afterward I would endeavor to use the knowledge 
 
382 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 gained in my writing. The public desires nothing 
 but what is absolutely natural, and so perfectly nat 
 ural as to be fairly artless. It can not tolerate af 
 fectation, and it takes little interest in the classical 
 production. It demands simple sentiments that come 
 direct from the heart. While on the lecture plat 
 form I watched the effect that my readings had on 
 the audience very closely and whenever anybody left 
 the hall I knew that my recitation was at fault and 
 tried to find out why. Once a man and his wife 
 made an exit while I was giving The Happy Little 
 Cripple a recitation I had prepared with par 
 ticular enthusiasm and satisfaction. It fulfilled, as 
 few poems do, all the requirements of length, climax 
 and those many necessary features for a recitation. 
 The subject was a theme of real pathos, beautified 
 by the cheer and optimism of the little sufferer. 
 Consequently when this couple left the hall I was 
 very anxious to know the reason and asked a friend 
 to find out. He learned that they had a little hunch 
 back child of their own. After this experience I 
 never used that recitation again. On the other 
 hand, it often required a long time for me to 
 realize that the public would enjoy a poem which, 
 because of some blind impulse, I thought unsuita 
 ble. Once a man said to me, Why don t you re 
 cite When the Frost Is on the Punkinf The use 
 of it had never occurred to me for I thought it 
 wouldn t go/ He persuaded me to try it and it 
 became one of my most favored recitations. Thus, 
 I learned to judge and value -my verses by their 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 383 
 
 effect upon the public. Occasionally, at first, I had 
 presumed to write over the heads of the audience, 
 consoling myself for the cool reception by think 
 ing my auditors were not of sufficient intellectual 
 height to appreciate my efforts. But after a time 
 it came home to me that I myself was at fault in 
 these failures, and then I disliked anything that 
 did not appeal to the public and learned to discrim 
 inate between that which did not ring true to the 
 hearts of my hearers and that which won them by 
 virtue of its simple truthfulness." 
 
 As a reader of his own poems, as a teller of 
 humorous stories, as a mimic, indeed as a finished 
 actor, Mr. Riley s gifts are rare and beyond ques- 
 tion. In a lecture on the Humorous Story, Mark / 
 Twain, referring to the story of the One Legged 
 Soldier and the different ways of telling it, once 
 said: 
 
 "It takes only a minute and a half to tell it in its \ 
 comic form; and isn t worth telling after all. Put | 
 into the humorous-story form, it takes ten minutes, 
 and is about the funniest thing I have ever listened 
 to as James Whitcomb Riley tells it. 
 
 "The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and 
 unconsciousness of Riley s old farmer are perfectly 
 simulated, and the result is a performance which 
 is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art 
 and fine and beautiful, and only a master can 
 compass it." 
 
 It was in 1883 that The Old Swimmin Hole 
 
384 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 and Leven More Poems first appeared in volume 
 form. Four years later, Mr. Riley made his initial 
 appearance before a New York City audience. The 
 entertainment was given in aid of an international 
 copyright law, and the country s most distinguished 
 men of letters took part in the program. It is prob 
 ably true that no one appearing at that time was less 
 known to the vast audience in Chickering Hall than 
 James Whitcomb Riley, but so great and so spon 
 taneous was the enthusiasm when he left the stage 
 after his contribution to the first day s program, that 
 the management immediately announced a place 
 would be made for Mr. Riley on the second and last 
 day s program. It was then that James Russell 
 Lowell introduced him in the following words : 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen : I have very great pleas 
 ure in presenting to you the next reader of this 
 afternoon, Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, of Indiana. 
 I confess, with no little chagrin and sense of my 
 own loss, that when yesterday afternoon, from this 
 platform, I presented him to a similar assemblage, 
 I was almost completely a stranger to his poems. 
 But since that time I have been looking into the 
 volumes that have come from his pen, and in them 
 I have discovered so much of high worth and ten 
 der quality that I deeply regret I had not long be 
 fore made acquaintance with his work. To-day, in 
 presenting Mr. Riley to you, I can say to you of 
 my own knowledge, that you are to have the pleas 
 ure of listening to the voice of a true poet." 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 385 
 
 Two years later a selection from his poems was 
 published in England under the title Old Fashioned 
 Roses and his international reputation was estab 
 lished. In his own country the people had already 
 conferred their highest degrees on him and now the 
 colleges and universities seats of conservatism 
 gave him scholastic recognition. Yale made him an 
 Honorary Master of Arts in 1902 ; in 1903, Wabash 
 and, a year later, the University of Pennsylvania 
 conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Letters, 
 and in 1907 Indiana University gave him his LL. D. 
 Still more recently the Academy of Arts and Letters 
 elected him to membership, and in 1912 awarded 
 him the gold medal for poetry. About this time a 
 yet dearer, more touching tribute came to him from 
 school children. On October 7, 1911, the schools of 
 Indiana and New York City celebrated his birthday 
 by special exercises, and one year later, the school 
 children of practically every section of the country 
 had programs in his honor. 
 
 As these distinguished honors came they found 
 him each time surprised anew and, though proud 
 that they who dwell in the high places of learning 
 should come in cap and gown to welcome him, yet 
 gently and sincerely protesting his own unworthi- 
 ness. And as they found him when they came so 
 have they left him. 
 
 Mr. Riley has lived in Indianapolis ever since 
 Judge Martindale invited him to join The Journal s 
 forces, and no one of her citizens is more devoted, 
 
386 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 while none is so universally loved and honored. 
 Everywhere he goes the tribute of quick recognition 
 and cheery greeting is paid him, and his home is the 
 shrine of every visiting Hoosier. High on a sward 
 of velvet grass stands a dignified middle-aged brick 
 house. A dwarfed stone wall, broken by an iron 
 gate, guards the front lawn, while in the rear an 
 old-fashioned garden revels in hollyhocks and wild 
 roses. Here among his books and his souvenirs 
 the poet spends his happy and contented days. To 
 reach this restful spot, the pilgrim must journey to 
 Lockerbie Street, a miniature thoroughfare half 
 hidden between two more commanding avenues. It 
 is little more than a lane, shaded, unpaved and from 
 end to end no longer than a five minutes walk, but 
 its fame is for all time. 
 
 "Such a dear little street it is, nestled away 
 From the noise of the city and heat of the day, 
 In cool shady coverts of whispering trees, 
 With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the 
 
 breeze 
 
 Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet 
 With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie Street !" 
 
 Mr. Riley has never married. He lives with de 
 voted, loyal and understanding friends, a part of 
 whose life he became many years ago. Kindly con 
 sideration, gentle affection, peace and order, all 
 that go to make home home, are found here bloom 
 ing with the hollyhocks and the wild roses. Every 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 387 
 
 day some visitor knocks for admittance and is not 
 denied ; every day sees the poet calling for some 
 companionable friend and driving with him through 
 the city s shaded streets or far out into the sur 
 rounding country. While he writes but little still 
 his days are full of activities and his life is ever 
 rounded with a song 
 
 "For no language could frame and no lips could re 
 peat 
 My rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie Street." 
 
NOTES 
 
I 
 
 4 t*i. - i ^ &*.- k - V"* 4 ^- 
 
 5^ 
 
NOTES 
 
 The earliest of Mr. Riley s poems are found in a 
 small time-stained note-book where the penman 
 ship contrasts sharply with the artistic neatness of 
 his writing of later years. The book contains twen 
 ty-four poems, each one bearing its date of composi 
 tion, and includes verses that he wrote when a mere 
 boy. The following appear in the body of this 
 volume: A Backward Look, Philiper Flash (hith 
 erto unpublished), To a Boy Whistling (not 
 hitherto printed) ., An Old Friend, A Poet s Wooing, 
 A Ballad. 
 
 P- 1 A BACKWARD LOOK 
 
 In the early note-book with the title, A Retro 
 spect, and the date August 7, 1870; shortly after 
 ward printed in The Greenfield Commercial (exact 
 date lost), and signed "Edyrn" ; published in a prose 
 sketch entitled The Gilded Roll in PIPES o PAN AT 
 ZEKESBURY 1888. The poem was revised prior 
 to each publication. The fourth stanza originally 
 ended with these four lines : 
 
 They got me to climb for the bluebird s nest 
 By telling me they d give me half the eggs, 
 
 And I got to the limb by tuggin my best 
 And fell to the ground and broke one of my legs, 
 391 
 
392 NOTES 
 
 The following stanza originally stood at the con 
 clusion of the poem but has subsequently been dis 
 carded : 
 
 Through the great thoroughfare of the phantom past 
 
 Went garnering here and there 
 These brittle baubles, too frail to last, 
 And which flying Time with its blighting blast 
 
 Is hurrying God knows where! 
 And Memory brought them all back again, 
 
 Slipped again in my mind, and leant down 
 And knocked the cigar stump out of my hand. 
 
 So I got up and walked back to town. 
 
 The references in this poem are true to the au 
 thor s own life. In it are mentioned two of his 
 boyhood companions, George Carr, later mayor 
 of Greenfield, and Alexander Skinner, always called 
 "Eck" because as a child he pronounced his nick 
 name, "Alec," in this manner. 
 
 St. 4, 1. 5 : "Doin sky-scrapers" : a child s term 
 for swinging very high; "whirlin round": the re 
 sult obtained by revolving the swing and then al 
 lowing it to unwind of its own accord. 
 
 The nom de plume "Edyrn," by which this poem 
 and others w r ere signed when first printed, is the 
 name of a knight in Geraint and Enid in Tenny 
 son s Idyls of the King. Mr. Riley fancied the 
 name on account of its strangeness. 
 
 p. 4 PHILIPER FLASH 
 
 In the early note-book with the date August 
 14, 1870; printed in The Greenfield Commercial, 
 September 8, 1870, signed "Edyrn" and dated Au 
 gust 29, 1870; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 These lines were written under the inspiration of 
 
NOTES 393 
 
 John G. Saxe, whose happy knack of artless rhym 
 ing Mr. Riley greatly admired, as 
 
 Young Peter Pyramus, I call him Peter, 
 Not for the sake of the rhyme or the meter, 
 But merely to make the name completer. 
 
 In accord with a once popular custom, a man s 
 character was often symbolized by his name, as in 
 this poem. Mr. Riley rejoices that such an irritat 
 ing artificiality is no longer in fashion. 
 
 p. 8 THE SAME OLD STORY 
 
 Printed in The Greenfield Commercial, Septem 
 ber 7, 1870, over the pen-name of "Edyrn" ; hitherto 
 unpublished in book form. This is doubtless the 
 first of his verse that found its way into print. 
 Lionel E. Rumrill accepted the contribution for the 
 Poet s Column of his paper, and its appearance was 
 a source of great satisfaction to Mr. Riley. Com 
 menting upon its publication he says "I read it over 
 and over again until the verses sounded strange to 
 me despite the fact that there is involved a perfect 
 wrangle of bad grammar." 
 
 Mr. Riley has allowed these early poems to stand 
 with their youthful imperfections. 
 
 p. 10 TO A BOY WHISTLING 
 
 In the early note-book with the date September 
 14-23, 1870 ; not hitherto printed. 
 
 p. 11 AN OLD FRIEND 
 
 In the early note-book with the title, Summer s 
 Return, dated March 22, 1871 ; later printed in The 
 
394 NOTES 
 
 Greenfield Commercial (exact date lost), signed 
 "Edyrn"; published in HOME FOLKS (Homestead 
 Edition) 1902, His PA S ROMANCE (Greenfield 
 Edition) 1903, SONGS OF SUMMER 1908, A SUM 
 MER S DAY AND OTHER POEMS 1911, THE LOCK 
 ERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 
 p. 12 WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING 
 
 Dated April 15, 1871 ; not hitherto printed. Mr. 
 Riley has made a deliberate use of both "o " and 
 "of" in this and other dialect poems. In this de 
 tail as in all others he has carefully followed the 
 dictates of spoken dialect as he has heard it. Vari 
 ous considerations control the pronunciation of the 
 preposition "of," among which are, the rapidity 
 with which it is spoken, the familiarity of the phrase 
 in which it occurs, and the stress given it. 
 
 p. 18 A POET S WOOING 
 
 As indicated by a fragment of the first five lines 
 in the early note-book, these verses were begun 
 prior to July 20, 1870, and were completed be 
 fore February 9, 1872, at which time they were 
 enclosed in a letter to the author s brother, John A. 
 Riley, and entitled The Bard and the Modern Miss; 
 first printed in The D anbury News (Conn.), Au 
 gust 8, 1874; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 The letter, full of youth s enthusiasm, containing 
 this poem and the next, Man s Devotion, follows : 
 
 Feb. 9th, 1872. 
 My dear Bro. 
 
 That little letter of yours came . . . and I reply with 
 like brevity Come to think, I don t believe you asked a 
 r^ply, but a comply for your letter only requested me to 
 send "that literary effort," so of course you ll consider you 
 
NOTES 395 
 
 are answered when you take its fragile support carefully 
 tenderly I may say from its Sarcophagus (its envelope, 
 you know, but I am used to soaring ) . . . You will 
 find I have sent you two Literary efforts " though the 
 newer may hardly be termed an effort for / done it with 
 the greatest of ease and avidity as "Young P " would say. 
 Of late I am startlingly prolific in composing, and, as you 
 hinted "Who knows, &c, &c." I could dispose of them like 
 brick so much per thousand. I think "The Bard and the 
 Modern Miss" contains pretty deep satire wade in and 
 see. 
 
 And say, Dear bro. you will sign Jay Whit, 
 
 Providing the papers will publish it. 
 
 And if they should refuse, let me down gently! I have 
 written with a pencil to make it as plain as possible to 
 you don t let them see my manuscript unless you sho d 
 endeavor to publish it in an illustrated paper you may 
 then submit my illustration to them 
 
 Yours obscurely, 
 
 Jim. 
 
 It was the practise of the author s brother to re 
 write the verses in his own neat hand, because they 
 were not very legibly or accurately spelled. Later, 
 Mr. Riley, in an effort to furnish copy that no 
 printer could mistake, and especially to insure the 
 perfect reproduction of his dialect, developed a 
 handwriting which resembles lettering and pos 
 sesses an artistic neatness. 
 
 The quotation from Tennyson at the head of the 
 poem is from Aitdley Court, 51, 52. 
 
 p. 20 MAN S DEVOTION 
 
 Enclosed in a letter to John A. Riley, Febru 
 ary 9, 1872; printed in The Indianapolis Mirror 
 March 31, 1872, signed "Jay Whit"; hitherto un 
 published in book form. The original MS. of these 
 verses, contained in the letter printed in the pre 
 vious note, was humorously illustrated by the au 
 thor. See facsimile at beginning of the Notes. He 
 
396 NOTES 
 
 wrote to his brother as follows when the latter, 
 after almost two months of persistence, finally got 
 the contribution accepted : 
 
 Dear Bro. SatUrday> [Apf 6 ] 
 
 You re a good fellow! I tell you I was very agreeably 
 surprised when I saw myself in The Mirror the other 
 morning I mean at that startling proof of "Man s Devo 
 tion" (A Complimentary pun this is meant for.) "When 
 at first you don t succeed you try, try again" now, had / 
 been declined I should have most certainly "wilted," 
 bereft of power to even demand the return of MS. I 
 don t know that I would now, for I think I have learned 
 a lesson hope so at least! I, of course, was sorry that 
 there were so many errors, but I console myself that they 
 are magnified thro my tears "but pshaw! I am grow 
 ing womanish ! I ll none of it!" 
 
 P. 23 A BALLAD 
 
 As indicated by a fragment of eight stanzas in 
 the early note-book, these verses were begun be 
 tween August 14 and 17, 1870; printed in The 
 Indianapolis Mirror, May n, 1872, signed "Jay 
 Whit"; published in HOME FOLKS 1900. These 
 verses were revised considerably before each publi 
 cation. Prior to their first appearance in print, the 
 writer sent them, with the following comment, to 
 his brother John who was to submit them to the 
 editor of The Indianapolis Mirror: 
 
 Home, Tuesday eve. [May 7, 1872.] 
 Dear Bro: 
 
 I have written this poem hastily for I am so busy but 
 I guess you can read it I will try and write the next in 
 ink and you may try the experiment whether printers 
 will receive such obscure H-le-o-griphicks (I don t know 
 how to spell it). 
 
 If you can t get this on the front page don t put it in 
 for / consider it the best thing I have ever written and I 
 
NOTES 397 
 
 want to see it occupy a front seat, or we ll let it stand till 
 one can be procured. It looks rather voluminous but 
 it s only eight verses longer than the last It will be the 
 more apt on that score (20) with two verses for good 
 measure! to fill the measure of the public eye 
 
 I d like you to try it for this week And feel em a 
 little on a prose sketch for instance "He has written 
 some sketches that / consider good not tiresome &c &c 
 but racy original with now and then a little spice of 
 poetry humor wit and quite "pathetic" occasionally 
 etc &c." understand? Try it and send me the result 
 in the inside pocket of my old new coat and I ll be yours 
 muchly. Jim. 
 
 P. S. Use your best endeavors to send it this week, and, 
 if published the poem I expect there will be some one 
 from Greenfield who would like to hand his name down 
 to posterity by having it said that he once bro t me from 
 the Renovator s a second-hand coat when I was too 
 poor to even thank him for his trouble! (Exit laughing.) 
 
 Jim. 
 
 In a letter to his brother, dated Greenfield, May 
 14, 1872, Mr. Riley referred to the "very unsatis 
 factory" printing of the ballad, which both his 
 brother and the printer had altered : 
 
 . . . I believe you have been a little hasty in condemn 
 ing "somersault" I quote Webster s unabridged: 
 
 "So m er-sault. 
 Som er-set." 
 
 He gives his preference, you see, to the above, tho either 
 is correct. That verse is weak, and I expect it makes me 
 "sicker" than you, but no matter "you can t make a silk 
 purse of a pig s ear" I do not expect "to beat a path 
 way on to wealth and fame," but let the explanation in 
 next week s Mirror be given as you spoke of. I will en 
 close the poem corrected as I would have it there is a 
 ponderous array of errors (typographical, I believe}. 
 The repetition of and I was aware of but I had thought 
 it of no consequence. 
 
 John, all the little articles, pronouns, etc., that have 
 become changed, were chief characteristics of ballad 
 style: I refer you to any ballad of Longfellow s, or any 
 
398 NOTES 
 
 good poet s It makes it simple, plain and natural, and I 
 wouldn t have had it changed for anything, in that par 
 ticular, excepting those ands you were right there I do 
 not know whether you or the printer changed the other 
 I regret that more than anything else. It hurts me more 
 that the poem was my favorite, and I had "built an airy 
 castle for it!" Well! enough! . . . 
 
 p. 27 THE OLD TIMES WERE THE BEST 
 
 Composed about June, 1872; first printed in The 
 High School Budget, Greenfield, June, 1899; hith 
 erto unpublished in book form. These verses were 
 written at Greenfield one evening during the course 
 of a pleasant gathering of youthful friends. Mr. 
 Riley absented himself from the party and returned 
 with these lines, which he gave to Miss Angy Wil 
 liams (Mrs. Charles Downing) proposing that she 
 set them to music. Later Mr. Barclay Walker, of 
 Indianapolis, followed the author s suggestion. 
 
 p. 28 A SUMMER AFTERNOON 
 
 Written previous to March, 1873 ; first printed in 
 The Danbury News, July n, 1874; signed "Jay 
 Whit" ; hitherto unpublished in book form. This 
 poem was originally called The Argonaut. Dr. 
 Silas B. McManus relates the following incident 
 concerning it: 
 
 In the spring of 1873, when I was reading medicine 
 in Warsaw, Riley was in town rilling an engagement 
 painting window signs. He was handy at this sort of 
 thing and did some nice jobs. About this time The War 
 saw Indianian printed some little things of mine, out of 
 charity, I suppose, or to encourage me or get rid of me. 
 One day Riley and I were talking about them while he 
 was painting a sign of a jewelry store. In a mild friend 
 ly way he was a trifle envious of my success in getting 
 into print, and I posed beside him as a person whose 
 literary standing was assured. 
 
NOTES 399 
 
 When he had made a marine blue period he took off his 
 apron and we went over to the hotel together to see a 
 little bit of rhyme which he said he had there. He wanted 
 my opinion and criticism on it, and as I had more opin 
 ion and criticism to give than anything else, I was will 
 ing to bestow it even on a sign painter. Riley read the 
 poem. It was called The Argonaut, and, inexperienced 
 as I was, I knew that only a poet and a genius could have 
 written it. I was unstinted in my praise, and I knew the 
 Hoosier poet was born and was only waiting the recog 
 nition of the public which in a few years it so mag 
 nificently gave. After this episode we became warm 
 friends, and an abiding and deep-rooted friendship was the 
 result. I have read about all he has ever written, but 
 nothing ever pleased me as much, no "reading" that I 
 have ever heard of his, pleased me as well as that little 
 poem, The Argonaut, read one raw spring day, up in a 
 cold room, by a curtainless window, in the Wright House. 
 
 p. 30 AT LAST 
 
 Printed in The Danbury News, February 25, 
 1874, signed "J ay Whit"; hitherto unpublished in 
 book form. 
 
 p. 32 FARMER WHIFFLE BACHELOR 
 
 First printed in The Greenfield News, Feb 
 ruary 28, 1874; published in GREEN FIELDS AND 
 RUNNING BROOKS 1892, LOVE LYRICS 1899, 
 Christy edition with the title, THE GIRL I LOVED 
 1910. This narrative poem originally was written 
 for recitation with no thought of publication. The 
 expression found in the last line, "a pair o license," 
 though unfamiliar to-day, was once, as Mr. Riley 
 testifies, a phrase heard not infrequently in Hoosier 
 dialect. The special edition of these verses, pub 
 lished in 1910, with the title, THE GIRL I LOVED, 
 was dedicated to the author s friend, Mr. John J. 
 Curtis. 
 
400 NOTES 
 
 AT NOEY S HOUSE 
 
 This was the next poem to appear in print, 
 printed in part by The D anbury News (Conn.)* 
 April 8, 1874, with the title, That Little Dorg. It 
 is included in A Child World in a later volume. 
 
 p. 40 MY JOLLY FRIEND S SECRET 
 
 First printed in The Danbury News, May 23, 
 1874; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
 p. 43 THE SPEEDING OF THE KING S SPITE 
 
 First printed in The Danbury News, July 18, 
 1874, with the title, An Oriental Idyl; published 
 in THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 1900, THE 
 LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. Originally the title was 
 followed by this quotation from Othello (Act i, Sc. 
 3, 1. 1 60), " Twas strange, twas passing strange." 
 The poem has been thoroughly revised since its 
 first publication, and stanzas 9 and 10 have been 
 added. The following stanza, inserted when the 
 poem was printed in The Indianapolis Journal, 
 December 26, 1877, was later omitted from the 
 text: 
 
 One bro t a bubble of molten pearls 
 
 Atwirl of the gleaming wands 
 Of a group of fairy dancing girls 
 
 With moonbeams in their hands; 
 And ever their eyes were upward flung, 
 
 And ever their laughing lips 
 Tangled the tune of the song they sung 
 
 As they kissed their finger-tips. 
 
 p. 49 JOB WORK 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis People, July 
 19, 1874 ; signed "Jay Whit" ; hitherto unpublished 
 in book form. 
 
NOTES 401 
 
 p. 51 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 First printed in The Danbury News, August 15, 
 1874, signed "Jay Whit" ; hitherto unpublished in 
 book form. 
 
 p. 53 PLAIN SERMONS 
 
 First printed in The Danbury News, August 22, 
 1874; signed "Jay Whit"; hitherto unpublished in 
 book form. 
 
 THE BEAR STORY 
 
 This skit, which was recited by Mr. Riley at a 
 social evening "for the little folks" in Roberts Park 
 M. E. Church, Indianapolis, October I, 1874, is in 
 cluded in A Child World in a later volume. 
 
 p. 54 "TRADIN JOE" 
 
 First printed in The Greenfield News, Decem 
 ber 2, 1874; published in POEMS HERE AT HOME 
 1893. In The Greenfield News the following dedica 
 tion was printed beneath the title: "To Will S. 
 Otwell in token of genial friendship and mellow re 
 membrances this is respectfully inscribed by the au 
 thor." About this time Mr. Otwell and Mr. Riley 
 were taking part together in small public entertain 
 ments. The poem was prepared for a recitation 
 with no thought of later publication, and it was 
 constructed to read as much like prose as possible. 
 Since its first appearance many minor changes have 
 been made. 
 
 In introducing this poem in his early lectures Mr. 
 Riley said : 
 
 However dialectic expression may have been abused, cer- 
 
402 NOTES 
 
 tain it is that in no expression is there better opportunity 
 for the reproduction of pure nature. In artlessness of 
 construction the dialectic poem may attain even higher ex 
 cellence than the more polished specimens of English. Its 
 great defect seems to be that as written or printed, the 
 real feeling it contains is overlooked by the reader in the 
 contemplation of its oddity That it is more widely copied 
 by the press than any other type of versification, I am in 
 clined to think, is the result of a superficial regard for its 
 general abandon rather than a wholesome recognition of 
 its real worth, which, though always more than half buried 
 in the debris of rhetoric, is the more precious when un 
 earthed. Hence it is that we are so tardy in admitting it 
 has any worth whatever, much less its very superior worth 
 of character and truthfulness to life. 
 
 And now, before leaving a theme which, to myself at 
 least, has for years been a source of infinite interest and 
 delight, I will ask you to bear with the narration of a story 
 from real life, in which I will depart from the original 
 form of the narration only as the rhythmical requirements 
 demand. 
 
 p. 59 DOT LEETLE BOY 
 
 Read at the Christmas entertainment of the Third 
 Presbyterian Church, Indianapolis, December 24, 
 1874; first printed in The Indianapolis People, 
 with the title, Karl Schronzs Christmas Story, 
 January I, 1876, signed "J a Y Whit"; published in 
 GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS 1892. This 
 poem was one of Mr. Riley s earliest recitations 
 and from the first one of his most popular num 
 bers. 
 
 p. 64 I SMOKE MY PIPE 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Saturday Her 
 ald, January 24, 1875, signed "J a Y Whit" ; published 
 in His PA S ROMANCE (Homestead Edition) 1908, 
 THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 
NOTES 403 
 
 THE DREAMER 
 
 This was the next poem to appear in print, pub 
 lished in Hearth and Home, April 10, 1875. It is 
 included in A Child World in a later volume. 
 
 p. 66 RED RIDING HOOD 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Saturday Her 
 ald, June 26, 1875, signed "Jay Whit" ; published in 
 HOME FOLKS 1900, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 
 p. 67 IF I KNEW WHAT POETS KNOW 
 
 Composed about August, 1875 ; printed in The 
 Indianapolis Journal, October 2, 1877 ; published in 
 AFTERWHILES 1887, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 This is one of the very few poems which Mr. Riley 
 composed rapidly. Ordinarily he worked late into 
 the night and was satisfied if he finished a couple 
 of lines that rang true. Often he continued the 
 work enthusiastically, and wrote, and interlined, 
 and erased, and rewrote, until at length perhaps a 
 third or fourth satisfactory line was added, where 
 upon he became dimly conscious that the light of 
 the morning sun was slanting through his window. 
 If I Knew What Poets Know was not composed 
 in the usual manner. "One forenoon when I was 
 studying law in my father s office," says Mr. Riley, 
 "I commenced writing this poem, but had great 
 difficulty in getting it under way. While thrum 
 ming abstractedly with my pencil, the condition of 
 my shoes attracted my attention, and I decided 
 to go immediately and get them half-soled. So 
 I got up, went to the door and down the stairway 
 into the street, making directly for the shoemaker s 
 across the way. I remember that the street was 
 muddy, and how my feet sank into the yielding 
 
404 NOTES 
 
 earth. When I reached the middle of the road, 
 I stopped, turned about, retraced my steps to the 
 office, sat down and then and there wrote the poem 
 rapidly to its conclusion. Of course, I did have 
 to labor at it. It didn t just make itself, and yet in a 
 very short time it was finished and I got the 
 shoes fixed in the afternoon." 
 
 p. 68 AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 
 
 Composed about August, 1875 ; printed in The 
 Indianapolis Journal, March 12, 1877; published in 
 PIPES o PAN 1888, AN OLD SWEETHEART (litho 
 graphic edition) 1891, LOVE LYRICS 1899, AN 
 OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE (Christy edition) 
 1902, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. The special 
 edition has the following dedication : 
 
 To GEORGE C. HITT 
 
 The beginning of whose steadfast friendship was marked 
 by the first publication of these verses which now, ex 
 panded by writer, honored by publisher and masterfully 
 graced by artist, seem to be a worthier symbol of the 
 author s grateful and affectionate regard for his earliest 
 friend. 
 
 The phrase "expanded by writer" refers to the 
 fact that for the special edition Mr. Riley wrote 
 seven new stanzas, numbers I, 2, 3, 9, 10, 13 and 14. 
 
 St. 3, 1. 3 ; the "churchwarden-stem" is a long 
 white clay pipe, a tobacco fancier s delight. 
 
 This poem was written when Mr. Riley was sup 
 posedly reading law in the office of his father, who 
 was ambitious that his son should follow the same 
 profession. During Captain Riley s absence in 
 court or elsewhere, while he thought the boy was 
 studying law, the latter would open the desk drawer, 
 
NOTES 405 
 
 take out the unfinished manuscript and work over 
 it. He did not realize then that in An Old Sweet 
 heart of Mine he had found a theme destined to 
 make an almost universal appeal. That these verses 
 were the result of the author s fancy and that he 
 had no particular person or instance in mind is the 
 answer Mr. Riley makes to a question very fre 
 quently asked. Another interrogation often made, 
 whether he has ever married, is answered in the 
 negative. Again, and strange to say, the identity of 
 the wife with the sweetheart is sometimes doubted, 
 as in the case of a man who wrote that he and sev 
 eral friends were of opinion that the wife and 
 sweetheart were separate characters, whereas their 
 wives believed them to be the same, and accused 
 the men of "having no sentiment." On the lower 
 margin of this letter Mr. Riley wrote in reply: 
 
 Dear Mister McGrew, 
 I am sorry for you 
 
 Whilst I m testifyin* agin you, 
 But the "wife" is wan part 
 Wid the "Owld Sweetheart" 
 
 An ye have no sintiment in you! 
 Yours for the love o love an glory be! 
 
 Jamesy O Riley. 
 Indianapolis, Ind. 
 Aug. 13 an bad luck to ye! 1903. 
 
 p. 73 SQUIRE HAWKINS S STORY 
 
 Composed about August, 1875 ; printed in The 
 Indianapolis Saturday Herald, February 9, 1878; 
 published in POEMS HERE AT HOME 1893, special 
 edition entitled A HOOSIER ROMANCE 1910. When 
 Mr. Riley was studying law in his father s office, 
 this poem was composed with the advice and consul 
 tation of his comrade, Jesse C. Millikan, to whom 
 
406 NOTES 
 
 the special edition was dedicated. It was prepared 
 originally for a recitation. When he first read the 
 verses in public, Mr. Riley did not claim them as 
 his own but left it to be inferred that they were 
 the work of another, since he thought the obscurity 
 of his name would discredit them. On the title- 
 page of the special edition of the poem the date 
 "1868" follows the title, indicating that the story 
 has its setting in the days immediately following 
 the War. The country squire, at that period, was a 
 character of kindly patriarchal influence in the 
 community, rendering justice according to sound 
 sense and often with a spice of humor. Mr. Riley 
 knew several at Greenfield, such as Squire Joseph 
 Wright, whom he says influenced him in develop 
 ing the character of Squire Hawkins. 
 
 p. 85 A COUNTRY PATHWAY 
 
 Sent to Benj. S. Parker August 31, 1875 ; printed 
 in The Indianapolis Journal, September 22, 1877; 
 published in GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS 
 1892, FARM RHYMES 1901, SONGS OF SUMMER 
 1908, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. Stanzas 3 
 to 9, inclusive, do not appear in the early version, 
 while the following stanza, not in the present text, 
 formerly followed the fourth stanza frona the last: 
 
 And spreads a glowing landscape at my feet, 
 An orchard and a vineyard, arm in arm, 
 
 Drawn on a ground of green and gold a sweet 
 Creation of a farm. 
 
 In addition to these alterations the body of the 
 text has been thoroughly revised since its early 
 composition. 
 
NOTES 407 
 
 p. 90 THE OLD GUITAR 
 
 Dated January 7, 1876; first printed in The 
 Indianapolis Sentinel, January 9, 1876; published 
 in HOME FOLKS 1900, SONGS OF HOME 1910, 
 THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 
 p. 92 "FRIDAY AFTERNOON" 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Sentinel, Jan 
 uary 30, 1876; published in His PA S ROMANCE 
 (Homestead Edition) 1908, special edition under 
 the title, OLD SCHOOLDAY ROMANCES 1909, THE 
 LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. Stanzas 6, 7, 8, 10, n 
 and 14 were added when the poem was published in 
 book form. The body of the text has been revised 
 throughout. Stanza 9 originally stood as follows: 
 
 An "Essay of the Science 
 
 Of Trigonometry," 
 And "Cataline s Defiance," 
 
 And may be two or three 
 Short dialogues, and punny, 
 
 And a little boy in blue 
 Winds up with something funny 
 
 Like "Cock-a-doodle-doo !" 
 
 When the verses were first written the following 
 stanza, now omitted, closed the poem : 
 
 O! happy hearts and faces, 
 
 On that great day s review, 
 Will you all be in the places 
 
 That were assigned to you? 
 Will you conquer life s disasters 
 
 And with golden harps atune, 
 Wait the signal of the Master 
 
 On that Endless Afternoon? 
 
408 NOTES 
 
 These verses are true to the author s own experi 
 ences. Dr. William Morris Pierson, to whom the 
 poem is dedicated, was a school comrade of the 
 author during the years 1868-70. John Lacy was 
 the "watchful master" of this period. The "Golden 
 Wreath" song-book and the recitations were used 
 time out of mind as described. 
 
 p. 97 "JOHNSON S BOY" 
 
 Printed in The Hancock Democrat (Greenfield, 
 Indiana), February 10, 1876, signed "Jay Whit"; 
 hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
 p. 99 HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Sentinel, Feb 
 ruary 20, 1876, under the title, Beautiful Hands; 
 published in a prose sketch, The Gilded* Roll, in 
 PIPES o" PAN 1888, His PA S ROMANCE 1903, 
 SONGS OF HOME 1910, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
 1911. 
 
 p. 101 NATURAL PERVERSITIES 
 
 Printed in The Indianapolis Sentinel, March 26, 
 1876, with the title, Lusus Naturae; published in 
 ARMAZINDY 1894, SONGS OF HOME 1910. 
 
 p. 104 THE SILENT VICTORS 
 
 Read May 30, 1876, at Newcastle, Indiana; last 
 eight stanzas printed in The Newcastle Mercury, 
 June I, 1876; poem entire printed with the title, 
 The Bivouac of the Dead in The Anderson Demo 
 crat, June i, 1877; published in ARMAZINDY 1894, 
 THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. On May 30, 1878, 
 the author read the poem at the Decoration Day ex- 
 
NOTES 409 
 
 ercises held at Crown Hill Cemetery, Indianapolis. 
 Since then, the dedication to his friend and literary 
 comrade, Major Charles L. Holstein, has been 
 added, and many changes made in the text. The 
 following stanza, which ended the first section in 
 the early version, is omitted from the later : 
 
 And lives that bound themselves in strongest chain 
 Were severed, and the broken links of love 
 
 In fragments now must evermore remain 
 Until rejoined above. 
 
 Stanza 4 of Section 2 formerly read as follows : 
 
 The noisy hum of industry and thrift 
 
 That marks the newer day that peace has blessed, 
 Can give no hope the hero s head to lift 
 
 Out of its dreamless rest. 
 
 Mr. Riley wrote this poem when studying law in 
 the office of his father, who had been a captain in 
 the Union Army. The stirring echoes of the Civil 
 War were still reverberating through the land at 
 that time, and Captain Riley, who was a natural 
 orator, was called for on repeated occasions to 
 make patriotic speeches. Doubtless the fervor of 
 this environment produced the poem. 
 
 The writer valued as an honor and encourage 
 ment the invitation to read the verses at the New 
 castle Decoration Day exercises in 1876, extended 
 through his friends, Benj. S. Parker and Judge 
 Eugene Bundy. In this incident is shown Mr. 
 Parker s early recognition of Mr. Riley s poetic 
 gift, and the kind of encouragement he tendered. 
 
 p. 110 SCRAPS 
 
 First printed in The Nezvcastle Mercury, June 
 8, 1876; hitherto unpublished in book form. The 
 
410 NOTES 
 
 editor of this paper was the author s friend, Benj. 
 S. Parker. 
 
 p. 112 AUGUST 
 
 Composed during- August, 1876; first printed 
 in The Indianapolis Journal, August 14, 1877; 
 published in GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS 
 1892, SONGS OF SUMMER 1908, THE LOCKERBIE 
 BOOK 1911. While writing this poem and several 
 others, the author availed himself of the counsel of 
 Captain Lee O. Harris, who had been his favorite 
 teacher. The reference recalls a significant incident 
 of the schoolroom, where Captain Harris once 
 "caught" the boy Riley reading a dime novel during 
 the study period. The latter had ingeniously fast 
 ened a rubber band to the book and this whisked it 
 quickly out of sight when the book was released by 
 his thumb. His teacher told him that if he was 
 so determined to read he would select his reading 
 for him, and promptly introduced him to his own 
 library and interested him in Dickens, Longfellow, 
 Tennyson and other standard authors. Captain 
 Harris wrote poetry himself, and so the two came 
 to have an intimate mutual interest. 
 
 p. 114 DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME 
 
 Dated September 5, 1876, first printed in The 
 Hancock Democrat, September 7, 1876; hitherto 
 unpublished in book form. These lines were writ 
 ten on the death of Hamilton J. Dunbar, a member 
 of the law firm of Dunbar and New, of Greenfield, 
 Indiana, who was a strong personality with keen 
 literary perceptions and appreciations. He was one 
 of the first to give Mr. Riley real encouragement in 
 his work^and the latter held him as an ideal. Judge 
 J. W. Lowe, of Kansas City, says of him : "I believe 
 
NOTES 411 
 
 he had the most brilliant intellect I ever met. He 
 was one of those rare creatures so seldom encoun 
 tered who walks tenderly by our side, reciprocates 
 our regards, and seems to comprehend and under 
 stand us thoroughly, and makes us feel that his soul 
 was created in the same mould. He was a brilliant 
 force in politics and was one of the most ready and 
 inspired orators to be found anywhere. I believed, 
 when I knew him, and believe still, that if he had 
 lived, by this time he would have been one of the 
 great leaders in our national life." Following his 
 death, a memorial meeting of the Hancock County 
 Bar Association was held in his honor, at which 
 time addresses were made by various members and 
 by visiting attorneys of distinction from the Indi 
 anapolis bar. On this occasion Mr. Riley read the 
 poem. 
 
 p. 116 IN THE DARK 
 
 Composed prior to November, 1876; first printed 
 in The Indianapolis Journal, March 16, 1877; 
 published in PIPES o PAN 1888, THE LOCKERBIE 
 BOOK 1911. The following stanzas completed the 
 poem in the original version but have since been 
 omitted : 
 
 I moan with a passionate yearning, 
 And a flood of hopes and fears 
 
 Flows o er the troubled spirit, 
 And ebbs in a tide of tears. 
 
 The gleam of a star through the window 
 
 Falls like a soothing touch; 
 And darkness wears to the dawning 
 
 For which I long so much. 
 
 The dawn when the sun shall ripen 
 
 The soul in its genial light, 
 And banish the tears like the dewdrops 
 
 That cling to the fruit at night. 
 
412 NOTES 
 
 In the fall of 1876, when Mr. Riley was much 
 discouraged in his literary ambitions and felt that 
 after all there might be no success or recognition 
 for his poetry, he wrote to Longfellow and enclosed 
 several of his poems, including this one written in a 
 style reminiscent of Longfellow s. The letter of en 
 couragement which he received in reply proved a 
 turning point in his life. He describes the effect 
 upon him in the following letter to Benj. S. Parker: 
 
 Greenfield, Ind., Nov. 6, 1876. 
 Dear Parker: 
 
 I m in a perfect hurricane of delight, and must erupt 
 to you, "O gentlest of my friends." I sent you a postal 
 recently stating my intention of addressing Longfellow 
 well his response to my letter lies open before me, and 
 as it is brief, I will quote it verbatim: 
 
 "Cambridge, Nov. 3d, 1876. 
 My dear Sir : 
 
 Not being in the habit of criticising the production of 
 others, I can not enter into any minute discussion of the 
 merits of the poems you send me. 
 
 I can only say in general terms, that I have read them 
 with great pleasure, and think they show the true poetic 
 faculty and insight. 
 
 The only criticism I shall make is on your use of the 
 word prone in the thirteenth line of "Destiny. Prone 
 means face-downward. You meant to say supine as the 
 context shows. 
 
 I return the printed pieces as you may want them for 
 future use, and am, My dear Sir, 
 
 With all good wishes, 
 
 Yours very truly 
 Henry W. Longfellow." 
 
 SHAKE! And let me thank you for the very great en 
 couragement I have received from you, and your genial 
 friendship from our first acquaintance. . . . 
 
 J. W. Riley. 
 
 The poem Destiny mentioned by Longfellow ap 
 pears in A CHILD-WORLD with the title of The 
 
NOTES 413 
 
 Dreamer. Other poems sent to Longfellow at 
 this time were // / Knew What Poets Know and 
 The Iron Horse. He returned the verses clipped 
 from newspapers, but retained the manuscript of 
 In the Dark. 
 
 p. 118 THE IRON HORSE 
 
 Written prior to November, 1876; dated July 
 u, 1878, first printed in The Indianapolis Jour 
 nal, July 13, 1878; published in GREEN FIELDS AND 
 RUNNING BROOKS 1892, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
 1911. This poem was enclosed in the letter to 
 Longfellow, mentioned in the previous note. It 
 was always a favorite of Mr. Riley. 
 
 p. 121 DEAD LEAVES 
 
 First printed in The Newcastle Mercury, No 
 vember 16, 1876, under the caption Three Sonnets 
 to Autumn, subtitled Morning, Evening, Night; 
 Morning (now entitled Dawn) and Night, hitherto 
 unpublished in book form; Evening (now entitled 
 Dusk) published in AFTERWHILES 1887, OLD- 
 FASHIONED ROSES 1888, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
 1911. 
 
 p. 123 OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS 
 
 Dated November 20, 1876, printed in The Han 
 cock Democrat, November 23, 1876; hitherto un 
 published in book form. Katie Beecher, infant 
 daughter of Frederick and California Beecher, died 
 at Greenfield, November 18, 1876. The public an 
 nouncement read : 
 
 She was a bright and promising child, and her loss 
 will be felt the keener that she was one of twin daughters, 
 
414 NOTES 
 
 upon whom was lavished the love and interest of the 
 fondest of parents. 
 
 p. 125 ONLY A DREAM 
 
 Dated November 23, 1876; hitherto unpublished, 
 p. 127 OUR LITTLE GIRL 
 
 First printed in The Hancock Democrat, De 
 cember 7, 1876 ; published in MORNING 1907, THE 
 LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. The Hancock Democrat 
 of December 7, 1876, contained the following no 
 tice : "DIED. Minnie, infant daughter of William 
 and Catherine Crider, Tuesday, Dec. 5, 1876, at 
 Franklin, Ind. In her last moments she said: O, 
 Dod, I tan t stan dis/ J: The tragic incident sug 
 gested a poem which Mr. Riley called Minnie. 
 Later, giving it the present title, he rearranged it, 
 placing the second stanza first and writing an en 
 tirely new stanza in place of the last, which was : 
 
 And yet she failed and faltered; 
 
 And though tears are in our eyes, 
 We smile to think her spirit 
 
 Went lisping to the skies; 
 For we know in Christ believing 
 
 Lips are ripest for His kiss, 
 When in simplest faith they murmur, 
 
 "O, Dod, I tan t stan dis." 
 
 p. 128 THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW 
 
 Quoted in Mr. Riley s letter of December 12, 
 1876, to Benj. S. Parker; printed in The Indian 
 apolis Journal, April 13, 1877; published in 
 RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD 1890, CHILD RHYMES 
 1898, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. The poem was 
 
NOTES 415 
 
 originally entitled The Funny Fellow. Lines 5 to 
 8, inclusive, of the second stanza were: 
 
 And to hear him snap the trigger 
 
 Of a pun, or crack a joke, 
 Would make you laugh and snigger 
 
 Till every button broke. 
 
 In the early version the following lines were in 
 serted between stanzas I and 2 : 
 
 He was meek as any Quaker 
 
 When it furthered fun s desire 
 Solemn as an undertaker 
 
 If occasion should require: 
 He could wreathe his rosy features 
 
 With a sorrowful belief, 
 And lead all weeping creatures 
 
 To the very tomb of Grief. 
 
 Mr. Riley s letter to Benj. S. Parker referring to 
 this poem is quoted in part as follows : 
 
 Greenfield, Ind. - - Dec. 12, 76. 
 My dear Parker: 
 
 ... I have illustrated a serio-humorous poem, and sent, 
 for inspection, to Scribner s. I m certain my illustrations 
 are as good as the average, found in Bric-a-Brac of that 
 Monthly both in design and drawing, and I tho t twould 
 be a good idea to combine both poet and artist as such 
 an article will be the more likely to attract the Editor s 
 attention don t you think so? I have heard nothing in 
 reply as yet. I addressed them, asking their patronage, 
 and backing my ability with my Longfellow letter so you 
 can imagine how anxiously I am awaiting their reply. In 
 the poem I sent are several little touches you would like I 
 am sure yet the poem as a whole is not deep by any 
 means. I quote the first two verses that you may see the 
 style, 
 
 [Quotation] 
 
 Well ! you must pardon my brevity, for I am very busy 
 sign painting I wonder am I destined to succeed T. Bu- 
 
416 NOTES 
 
 chanan Reid in that title "The Painter Poet/ Ha! Ha! 
 Ha ! I m sorry, too, I cannot come to you during the Holi 
 days nothing would please better, and as to pay I 
 wouldn t want it only your companionship. 
 
 Your friend, 
 J. W. Riley. 
 
 Scribner s Magazine did not publish the poem. 
 
 p. 131 SONG OF THE NEW YEAR 
 
 Dated January I, 1877, printed in The Indian 
 apolis Journal, January 10, 1877; hitherto unpub 
 lished in book form. 
 
 p. 133 A LETTER TO A FRIEND 
 
 Dated Greenfield, January n, 1877; hitherto 
 unpublished. The letter was addressed to Mrs. 
 Nellie Millikan Cooley, an old friend, who had 
 moved from Greenfield to Illinois. She and her 
 brother, Jesse Millikan, were among Mr. Riley s 
 earliest literary comrades and advisers, and from 
 the first had a firm faith in his ultimate success. 
 
 p. 134 LINES FOR AN ALBUM 
 
 These lines are found in an album belonging to 
 Miss Lizzie Harris, of Greenfield, Indiana, dated 
 January, 1877; hitherto unpublished. They were 
 written when Mr. Riley was visiting in the home 
 of Miss Harris s father, Captain Lee O. Harris. 
 
 Line 8 : The quotation is from Longfellow s The 
 Rainy Day. 
 
 p. 135 TO ANNIE 
 
 Written in Miss Annie Harris s album January 
 21, 1877; not hitherto printed. See preceding note, 
 referring to the inscription in her sister s album. 
 
NOTES: 41; 
 
 p. 136 FAME 
 
 First printed in The Earlhamite, the magazine 
 of Earlham College, February, 1877; published in 
 THE Boss GIRL 1885, AFTERWHILES 1887, OLD- 
 FASHIONED ROSES 1888, SKETCHES IN PROSE 
 1891, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. Of all his 
 poems, this was the favorite of the writer s father. 
 It won this significant public comment in The Rich 
 mond Telegram: 
 
 The February number of The Earlhamite is out, with 
 a table of contents of unusual excellence. The initial 
 paper is a poem by J. W. Riley (a Hoosier poet unknown 
 to fame), which betrays the touch of genius in every line. 
 
 p. 139 AN EMPTY NEST 
 
 Dated Greenfield, February 5, 1877, ^ rst printed 
 in The Indianapolis Journal, February 7, 1877; 
 published in MORNING 1907. The original version 
 of the poem ended in the following stanza which 
 was later omitted : 
 
 O weary, palpitating breast! 
 
 The friends we think are ours alone, 
 And cherish most, and love the best, 
 
 Will fly as soon as wings have grown, 
 And leave the heart an empty nest. 
 
 p. 140 MY FATHER S HALLS 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Journal, Feb 
 ruary 16, 1877, in the prose sketch, A Remarkable 
 Man; published in SKETCHES IN PROSE 1891. 
 An imitation of Cervantes. 
 
 p. 141 THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Journal, Feb 
 ruary 1 6, 1877, in the prose sketch, A Remarkable 
 
418 NOTES 
 
 Man; published in SKETCHES IN PROSE 1891. An 
 imitation of Thomas Moore. 
 
 p. 143 HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Journal with 
 the title, A Whisper, February 22, 1877; pub 
 lished in RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD 1890, SONGS OF 
 HOME 1910, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. As 
 indicated by a torn manuscript, the first two stanzas 
 given below, and at least one other, preceded stan 
 zas I and 2 in the original form of this poem, and 
 the remaining stanzas given below and two others, 
 too mutilated to read, completed it : 
 
 And gaily spangled days of shade and shine, 
 
 With evenings in costume 
 Of dusk and diamonds under veils divine 
 
 Of moonlight, with perfume 
 
 Of Locust blossoms dowering the sigh 
 
 Of drowsy breezes with a wealth that brings 
 
 So deft a memory its ghost flits by 
 Me now on odorous wings. 
 
 pictures creep 
 
 Past the proscenium Remembrance : 
 
 Two barefoot boys, on Mischief s Mission, leap 
 Over an orchard fence 
 
 And here a study from a summer noon, 
 Are clinging in a swinging tree-top s crown 
 
 Two hatless boys, drunk with the air of June, 
 Drawn on a golden ground; 
 
 And here another of an old schoolroom, 
 A rueful urchin cowers neath the rod 
 
 Could we rehearse it and enjoy the doom? 
 Give back my paper wad ! 
 
 Ah! Schoolboy chum, your victory it was 
 When deepest in disgrace, enthroned "the 
 Dunce" 
 
NOTES 419 
 
 Compelled to "stay in" two whole weeks because 
 You flogged, at recess, once, 
 
 The preacher s boy I loved you all the more, 
 
 If they be foolish, why this old heart warms 
 With holy fire the while with upturned gaze, 
 
 Grasping at Heaven with poor, palsied arms, 
 I bless the Good old Days. 
 
 Aye ! bless these memories of ours, old Chum ! 
 
 God keep them ever green while spared us, and 
 Like little children suffer us to come 
 
 Into the Perfect Land! 
 
 p. 144 JOHN WALSH 
 
 This poem was printed on the funeral announce 
 ment of John Walsh and dated Greenfield, Febru 
 ary 23, 1877; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 John Walsh was born in Limerick County, Ireland, 
 in the twenties of the last century and came to 
 America when a youth. When he reached Green 
 field he had just money enough to buy a maul to 
 use in splitting timber. He was lucky at every 
 thing he undertook, and was by turns a stock- 
 buyer, a butcher and finally a saloon-keeper. 
 He was conspicuous for the kindness of his heart 
 and for his open generosity. He died February 23, 
 1877. The verses were written to comfort his son 
 James, a friend of the author. 
 
 p. 146 ORLIE WILDE 
 
 Dated Anderson, April 18, 1877, first printed 
 in The Indianapolis Journal, April 19, 1877; pub 
 lished in ARMAZINDY 1894, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
 1911. Since its first appearance the poem has 
 
420 NOTES 
 
 been revised throughout. The following lines, 
 which formerly ended the poem, have been omitted : 
 
 He sadly smiled, and raised his head, 
 And in this vein continued : 
 "I said her voice s music well 
 Twas that indeed that broke the spell 
 Of my strange love, for listening Lo ! 
 She spoke bad grammar, don t you know- 
 As fisher maidens always do, 
 With golden hair and eyes of blue. 
 
 p. 154 THAT OTHER MAUD MULLER 
 
 First printed in The Anderson Democrat, April 
 27, 1877; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 The Cincinnati Commercial of December 26, 1877, 
 printed the verses in an article entitled The Lit 
 erary Doings of the Stuffed Club, a humorous 
 sketch of the first and only meeting of an organ 
 ization composed of "Larry, Jack and the Jay- 
 whoop" (Captain Lee O. Harris, Mr. J. M. Ander 
 son and Mr. Riley) : 
 
 The name was given by the Jay-whoop, who says, "Since 
 the public is to be the helpless victim of our atrocities, it 
 behooves us to employ a weapon that will buffet but not 
 bruise belt but not mangle knock down, but with a 
 certain modesty that produces annihilation " 
 
 As an encouragement to the venerated "John G. Whit- 
 taker" the Jay-whoop read the following little ballad. 
 .... [The verses follow.] 
 
 After listening to the poem that had fallen like a blight 
 upon the circle, the club next took up the pernicious habit 
 of pie eating, and Larry read an original poem, Joseph 
 Brown and the Mince Pie. 
 
 Then they rose, joined hands, sang a hymn, pronounced 
 a sad and solemn benison upon each other and folded their 
 ears like the members of other clubs, 
 
 "And silently stole away." 
 
NOTES 421 
 
 p. 156 A MAN OF MANY PARTS 
 
 Printed in The Anderson Democrat, May 7, 
 1877 ; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
 p. 158 THE FROG 
 
 First printed in The Anderson Democrat, May 
 18, 1877; published in ARMAZINDY 1894, THE 
 LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. In ARMAZINDY these 
 verses introduce a section called Make-Believe and 
 Child-Play. 
 
 p. 160 DEAD SELVES 
 
 Dated Anderson, May 21, 1877, first printed in 
 The Indianapolis Journal, May 22, 1877; published 
 in POEMS HERE AT HOME 1893, THE LOCKERBIE 
 BOOK 1911. 
 
 p. 163 A DREAM OF LONG AGO 
 
 Dated Anderson, May 28, 1877, fi rst printed in 
 The Indianapolis Journal, June I, 1877; hitherto 
 unpublished in book form. The fact that the mel 
 ody is reminiscent of Poe is significant, as it indi 
 cates what the writer was reading at the time. See 
 the note on Leonainie referring to p. 194. 
 
 p. 166 CRAQUEODOOM 
 
 First printed in The Anderson Democrat, June 
 i, 1877; published in NYE AND RILEY S RAILWAY 
 GUIDE 1888, THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 1900. In the latter book the verses are entitled 
 Spirk Troll-Derisive and appear in a section called 
 Spirk and Wunk Rhymes, Rounds and Catches. 
 The second stanza is there omitted and the lines 
 
422 NOTES 
 
 altered by several curious repetitions to enhance the 
 weirdness of the effect. 
 
 A questioning newspaper criticism of this poem 
 and Mr. Riley s reply are as follows : 
 
 The weird lines by the gifted J. W. Riley, of The An 
 derson Democrat, contain a mystery that we have tried 
 in vain for one solid hour to solve. What do they mean? 
 Will the author be kind enough to favor us with an ex 
 planation? He calls it Craqueodoom, but the meaning of 
 the title itself is as obscure as that of the poetry that 
 supplements it. We have read and reread it a score of 
 times and for the life of us we can t get an idea out of 
 it, only that it is the most weird piece of poetic thought 
 we have ever read. It reads like an effusion of some 
 poetic genius of the fabled age, in which "Mother Goose" 
 wrote her melodies. Kokomo Dispatch. 
 
 Although in endeavoring to reply to the above query I 
 feel that I place myself in rather a peculiar position, I 
 can but trust, in so doing, to escape the incessant storm of 
 inquiries hailed so piteously upon me since the appear 
 ance of the above mentioned poem or whatever it is. 
 
 As to its meaning if it has any I am as much in the 
 dark, and as badly worried over its incomprehensibility 
 as any one who may have inflicted himself with a reading 
 of it ; in fact, more so, for I have in my possession now 
 not less than a dozen of similar character; and when I 
 say they were only composed mechanically, and without 
 apparent exercise of my own thought, I find myself at 
 the threshold of a fact over which I can not pass. 
 
 I can only surmise that such effusions emanate from 
 long and arduous application a sort of poetic fungus 
 that springs from the decay of better effort. It bursts 
 into being of itself, and in that alone do I find consola 
 tion. 
 
 The process of such composition may furnish a curious 
 fact to many, yet I am assured every writer of either 
 poetry or music will confirm the experience I am about 
 to relate. 
 
 < After long labor at verse, you will find there comes a 
 time when everything you see or hear, touch, taste, or 
 smell, resolves itself into rhyme, and rattles away till 
 you can t rest. I mean this literally. The people you 
 
NOTES 423 
 
 meet upon the streets are so many disarranged rhymes, 
 and only need proper coupling. The boulders in the side 
 walks are jangled words. The crowd of corner loungers 
 is a mangled sonnet with a few lines lacking; the farmer 
 and his team an idyl of the road, perfected and complete 
 when he stops at the picture of a grocery and hitches to 
 an exclamation point. 
 
 This is my experience and at times the effect upon both 
 mind and body is exhausting in the extreme. I have 
 passed as many as three nights in succession without sleep 
 or at least without mental respite from this tireless some 
 thing which 
 
 "Beats time to nothing in my head 
 From some odd corner of the brain." 
 
 I walk, I run, I writhe and wrestle with it, but I can 
 not shake it off. I lie down to sleep, and all night long 
 it haunts me. Whole cantos of incoherent rhymes dance 
 before me, and so vividly at last, I seem to read them as 
 from a book. All this is without will power of my own 
 to guide or check; and then occurs a stage of repetition 
 when the matter becomes rhythmically tangible at least, 
 and shapes itself into a whole of sometimes a dozen 
 stanzas, and goes on repeating itself over and over till it 
 is printed indelibly on my mind. 
 
 This stage heralds sleep at last, from which I wake re 
 freshed and free from the toils of my strange persecutor; 
 but as I have just said, some senseless piece of rhyme is 
 printed on my mind and I go about repeating it as though 
 I had committed it from the pages of some book. I often 
 write these jingles afterward, though I believe I never 
 could forget a word of them. 
 
 This is the history of the Craqueodoom. This is the 
 history of the poem I give below \A Wrangdillion}. I have 
 theorized in vain. I went gravely to a doctor on one 
 occasion, and asked him seriously if he didn t think I was 
 crazy. His laconic reply that he "never saw a poet that 
 wasn t!" is not without its consolations. 
 
 p. 168 JUNE 
 
 Composed probably during June, 1877, as shown 
 by a note-book in the handwriting of Mr. Riley s 
 sister, Elva Riley Eitel; published in AFTER- 
 
424 NOTES 
 
 WHILES 1887, OLD-FASHIONED ROSES 1888, 
 FARM RHYMES 1901, SONGS OF SUMMER 1908, 
 DOWN AROUND THE RIVER AND OTHER POEMS 
 1911, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 
 p. 169 WASH LOWRY S REMINISCENCE 
 
 Printed in The Anderson Democrat, June 15, 
 1877 ; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
 p. 173 THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN 
 
 Printed in The Anderson Democrat, June 22 or 
 July 6, 1877, the issues of which dates have been 
 destroyed; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
 p. 175 PRIOR TO MISS BELLE S APPEARANCE 
 
 First printed in The Anderson Democrat, June 
 22 or July 6, 1877, the issues of which dates have 
 been destroyed, entitled Willie; published in 
 RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD 1890. Stanzas 2, 3, 4 and 
 6 composed the early version; stanza 4 originally 
 read: 
 
 Baby s a funnies feller! 
 
 Naint no hair on her head > 
 Is they, Charley? it s meller 
 Wite up there! I d sell her, 
 
 An buy one at wasn t so red 
 Wouldn t you, Charley? Nen we could play 
 An have most fun with him every day 
 Couldn t we, Charley? an have most fun. 
 Wisht they d a buyed a purtier one! 
 
 p. 178 WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR 
 
 Printed in The Anderson Democrat, June 22 or 
 July 6, 1877, the issues of which dates have been 
 destroyed; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
NOTES 425 
 
 p. 180 A WRANGDILLION 
 
 First printed in The Anderson Democrat, July 
 6, 1877 ; published in THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE 
 NIGHT 1900. In the latter the lines appear in a 
 section entitled Spirk and Wunk Rhymes, Rounds 
 and Catches, where the third stanza is omitted and 
 this chorus added : 
 
 Nay, nothing Nay, nothing affects him the least I 
 They may say he sings less like a bird than a beast 
 They may say that his song is both patchy and pieced < 
 That its worst may be his, but the best he has fleeced 
 From old dinky masters not only deceased 
 But damn d ere their dying, Yet nothing the least 
 Nothing affects him the least ! 
 
 See preceding note on Craqueodoom for comment 
 by Mr. Riley. 
 
 p. 182 GEORGE MULLEN S CONFESSION 
 
 First printed in The Anderson Democrat, July 
 13, 1877 ; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
 p. 191 "TIRED OUT" 
 
 First printed in The Anderson Democrat, July 
 20, 1877; hitherto unpublished in book form. Be 
 neath the title originally appeared this quotation 
 from a newspaper: 
 
 Pinned to the shawl of the drowned woman was a scrap 
 of paper on which was written simply the words, "Tired 
 Out." There was nothing else found upon the body that 
 might promise to lead to its identity. 
 
 p. 192 HARLIE 
 
 First printed in Tht Anderson Democrat, July 
 
426 NOTES 
 
 20, 1877 > Hitherto unpublished in book form. Harlie 
 was the infant son of Samuel and Louise Richards 
 and died July 17, 1877. Mrs. Richards, in an 
 article on Mr. Riley s days at Anderson published 
 in The Bookman, September, 1904, writes as fol 
 lows about the composition of this poem : 
 
 The death of Richards boy made upon Riley one of 
 the deep impressions of his life. For the first time he 
 found himself one of the bearers of a funeral bier; for 
 the first time he could not speak to his friend of what 
 was in his heart. But a few days later these lines, dedi 
 cated to a child and simply signed "R," appeared in the 
 town paper. 
 
 p. 193 SAY SOMETHING TO ME 
 
 Dated Anderson, August I, 1877, first printed 
 in The Indianapolis Journal, August 5, 1877 ; pub 
 lished in HOME FOLKS 1900, THE LOCKERBIE 
 BOOK 1911. The last three lines of the poem for 
 merly were: 
 
 And the whole world from above 
 I could fling down like the crown of a king 
 To nestle away in your love. 
 
 p. 194 LEONAINIE 
 
 First printed in The Kokomo Dispatch, August 2, 
 1877, signed "E. A. P." ; published in ARMAZINDY 
 1894, LOVE LYRICS 1899, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
 1911. The occasion of this poem was a county 
 newspaper hoax which to the astonishment and dis 
 comfort of its author grew to national proportions 
 and met with such success as to deceive the best 
 critics in America. Its perpetration was suggested 
 by the criticism of an editor on The Anderson Her 
 ald, who rather heartlessly advised Mr. Riley to 
 give up poetry and spoke disparagingly in the 
 
NOTES 427 
 
 paper and to him personally of his serious verse. 
 Annoyed by this man s criticism and by the re 
 turn of manuscripts from magazines, a circum 
 stance this editor cited to back up his opinion, Mr. 
 Riley devised a plan to win recognition in disguise. 
 This was to write a poem in imitation of a well- 
 known author and submit it to his unthinking critics 
 as a newly discovered manuscript. A friend, the 
 editor of The Kokomo Dispatch, undertook to 
 launch the hoax in his paper. Mr. Riley had pre 
 pared after much thought an elaborate introduction 
 which, however, the editor altered to make it the 
 more real. The original introductory story as re 
 produced by Mrs. Samuel Richards, wife of Mr. 
 Riley s artist comrade in Anderson, was as follows : 
 
 In the woods of Howard County, Indiana, a belated 
 hunter, whom the editor was to represent as himself, had 
 lost his way. A terrific storm broke forth, and as he 
 wandered about in the drenching rain and pitchy dark 
 ness, a faint light suddenly appeared in the distance. 
 Guided by its flickering, he made his way toward it, which 
 brought him to a cave-like opening in the side of a hill. 
 (The Kokomo editor claims there isn t a hill in Howard 
 County big enough for a prairie-dog to hide in.) 
 
 Upon peering into the cavern, he saw a misshapen, 
 hunchbacked dwarf preparing his evening meal over 
 some coals heaped together on the earth floor. The hunter 
 asked for shelter from the storm, which the gnome-like 
 creature only half granted. 
 
 In this hermit s room there was a three-legged stool and 
 a rickety table upon which was an old book. The hunter, 
 curiously turning over the leaves, espied on a fly-leaf the 
 lines of a poem, evidently written a long while ago, and 
 signed E. A. P. On being questioned, the little figure of 
 a man, hitherto as uncommunicative as a sphinx, sud 
 denly became alert, and told how it came to be written in 
 his grandfather s inn in Virginia. 
 
 The editor of The Kokomo Dispatch changed this 
 romantic introduction but left the remainder of the 
 
428 NOTES 
 
 story substantially as written by Mr. Riley, print 
 ing- it with the poem in his issue of August 2, 1877, 
 as follows : 
 
 POSTHUMOUS POETRY 
 
 A HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED POEM OF THE LAMENTED EDGAR 
 
 ALLAN POE WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF AN 
 
 OLD BOOK NOW IN POSSESSION OF A 
 
 GENTLEMEN OF THIS CITY 
 
 The following beautiful posthumous poem from the 
 gifted pen of the erratic poet, Edgar Allan Poe, we be 
 lieve has never before been published in any form, either 
 in any published collection of Poe s poems now extant, or 
 in any magazine or newspaper of any description; and 
 until the critics shall show conclusively to the contrary, The 
 Dispatch shall claim the honor of giving it to the world. 
 
 That the poem has never before been published, and that 
 it is a genuine production of the poet whom we claim to 
 be its author, we are satisfied from the circumstances 
 under which it came into our possession, after a thorough 
 investigation. Calling at the house of a gentleman of this 
 city the other day, on a business errand, our attention 
 was called to a poem written on the blank fly-leaf of an 
 old book.^ Handing us the book he observed that it (the 
 poem) might be good enough to publish, and that if we 
 thought so, to take it along. Noticing the initials E. A. P. 
 at the bottom of the poem, it struck us that possibly we 
 had ^run across a "bonanza," so to speak, and after read 
 ing it, we asked who its author was, when he related the 
 following bit of interesting reminiscence : He said he 
 did not know who the author was, only that he was a 
 young man, that is, he was a young man when he wrote 
 the lines referred to. He had never seen him himself, 
 but heard his grandfather, who gave him the book con 
 taining the verses, tell of the circumstances and the occa 
 sion by which he, the grandfather, came into possession 
 of the book. His grandparents kept a country hotel, a 
 sort of a wayside inn, in a small village called Chester 
 field, near Richmond, Va. One night, just before bed 
 time, a young man, who showed plainly the iiaarki of dis 
 sipation, rapped at the door and asked if he could stay 
 
NOTES 429 
 
 all night, and was shown to a room. This was the last 
 they saw of him. When they went to his room the next 
 morning to call him to breakfast he had gone away and 
 left the book, on the fly-leaf of which he had written the 
 lines given below. 
 
 Further than this our informant knew nothing, and be 
 ing an uneducated, illiterate man, it was quite natural 
 that he should allow the great literary treasure to go for 
 so many years unpublished. 
 
 That the above statement is true, and our discovery no 
 canard, we will take pleasure in satisfying any one who 
 cares to investigate the matter. The poem is written in 
 Roman characters, and is almost as legible as print itself, 
 although somewhat faded by the lapse of time. Another 
 peculiarity in the manuscript which we notice is that 
 it contains not the least sign of erasure or a single inter- 
 lineated word. We give the poem verbatim just as it 
 appears in the original. 
 
 The editor of The Anderson Herald fell an easy 
 victim to the hoax, and copying Leonainie from The 
 Kokomo Dispatch commented as follows : 
 
 We expect a rhapsody of jealous censure from the jing 
 ling editor of the sheet across the way, and shall wait 
 with the first anxiety ever experienced for the appear 
 ance of The Democrat. We look for an exhausting and 
 damning criticism from Riley, who will doubtless fail to 
 see "Leonainie s" apocryphal merit, and discover its ob 
 vious faults. As it is, we are led to believe Leonainie, 
 to quote from Riley, is a "superior quality of the poetical 
 fungus, which springs from the decay of better thoughts." 
 
 The "jingling editor," of course, rose to the oc 
 casion by reproducing the poem with copious com 
 ment, containing this "jealous censure": 
 
 We frankly admit that upon first reading the article, 
 we inwardly resolved not to be startled; in fact we in 
 wardly resolved to ignore it entirely; but a sense of jus 
 tice due if not to Poe, to the poemhas induced us to 
 let slip a few remarks. 
 
430 NOTES 
 
 We have given the matter not a little thought; and in 
 what we shall have to say regarding it, we will say with 
 purpose far superior to prejudicial motives, and with the 
 earnest effort of beating through the gloom a pathway to 
 the light of truth. 
 
 Passing the many assailable points of the story regard 
 ing the birth and late discovery of the poem, we will 
 briefly consider first Is Poe the author of it? 
 
 That a poem contains some literary excellence is no as 
 surance that its author is a genius known to fame, for 
 how many waifs of richest worth are now afloat upon the 
 literary sea whose authors are unknown, and whose name 
 less names have never marked the graves that hid their 
 value from the world; and in the present instance we 
 have no right to say, "This is Poe s work for who but 
 Poe could mold a name like Leonainic? and all that 
 sort of flighty flummery. Let us look deeper down, and 
 pierce below the glare and gurgle of the surface, and an 
 alyze it at its real worth. 
 
 Now we are ready to consider, Is the theme of the 
 poem one that Poe would have been likely to select? We 
 think not; for we have good authority showing that Poe 
 had a positive aversion to children, and especially to 
 babies. And then again, the thought embodied in the very 
 opening line is not new or at least the poet has before 
 expressed it where he speaks of that "rare and radiant 
 maiden whom the angels name Lenore," and a careful 
 analysis of the remainder of the stanza fails to discover 
 a single quality above mere change of form or trans 
 position. 
 
 The second verse will be a more difficult matter to con 
 test; for we find in it throughout not only Poe s peculiar 
 bent of thought, but new features of that weird facility 
 of attractively combining with the delicate and beautiful, 
 the dread and repulsive a power most rarely manifest, 
 and quite beyond the bounds of imitation. In fact, the 
 only flaw we find at which to pick, is the strange omission 
 of capitals beginning the personified words "joy" and 
 "doom." This, however, may be an error of the com 
 positor s, but not probably. 
 
 The third stanza drops again. True, it gives us some 
 new thoughts, but of very secondary worth compared with 
 the foregoing, and in such commonplace diction the Poe- 
 characteristic is almost directly lost. 
 
 The first line of the concluding stanza, although em 
 bodying a highly poetical idea, is not at all like Poe; but 
 
NOTES 431 
 
 rather so unlike, and for such weighty reasons we are al 
 most assured that the thought could not have emanated 
 with him. 
 
 It is a fact less known than remarkable that Poe 
 avoided the name of the Deity. Although he never tires 
 of angels and the heavenly cherubim, the word God seems 
 strangely ostracized. That this is true, one has but to 
 search his poems; and we feel we are safe in the asser 
 tion that in all that he has ever written the word God is 
 not mentioned twenty times. In further evidence of this 
 peculiar aversion of the poet s we quote his utterance, 
 "Oh, Heaven! oh, God! 
 
 How my heart beats in coupling these two words !" 
 The remainder of the concluding verse is mediocre till 
 the few lines that complete it and there again the Poe- 
 element is strongly marked. 
 
 To sum the poem as a whole we are at seme loss. It 
 most certainly contains rare attributes of grace and beauty ; 
 and although we have not the temerity to accuse the 
 gifted Poe of its authorship, for equal strength of reason 
 we can not deny that it is his production; but as for the 
 enthusiastic editor of The Dispatch, we are not inclined, 
 as yet, to the belief that he is wholly impervious to the 
 wiles of deception. 
 
 Thereupon the editor of The Herald congratu 
 lated himself on his predictions fulfilled. True to 
 our prognostication of last week," he said, "J. W. 
 Riley, editor of The Democrat, slashes into Leo- 
 nainie in a jealous manner." An entire column was 
 devoted to Mr. Riley s reception of the poem. 
 
 The author s own account of the writing of the 
 verses is contained in a letter, dated November 22, 
 1886, to C. B. Foote, a book collector, who had 
 come into possession of the old Ainsworth dic 
 tionary in which the poem had been transcribed in 
 facsimile of Poe s handwriting. Both the letter 
 and the dictionary are now in the possession of Mr. 
 Paul Lemperly, of Cleveland, Ohio. 
 
 Regarding the authorship of the poem, "Leonainie," I can 
 claim the poem only the autographic copy which your 
 
432 NOTES 
 
 letter describes its original, at least was executed (at 
 my instigation, and with equally boyish unconsciousness 
 of guilt) by an artist friend of mine, now wearing first 
 honors in the Art Schools of Munich [Samuel Richards]. 
 He did his work well, and was thus the author of the 
 best part of the poem. He worked then as he works now ; 
 straight from the heart. He had only a line or two of 
 Poe-facsimile to "inspire" from but some way the fellow 
 caught the spirit of the whole vocabulary from it, fur 
 nishing a result that many notable and most exacting 
 critics were bewildered by, as I myself saw tested many 
 times. 
 
 It is but just to all concerned, for the better understand 
 ing of the real facts of the case, to speak further, though 
 with you now I will be as brief as possible : The poem 
 was written about twelve years ago in the town of An 
 derson, Ind., while I was a very callow writer on The 
 Democrat, of that place; and, being rallied to desperation 
 over the weekly appearance of my namby-pamby verses, 
 by the editor of a rival sheet, I devised the Foe-poem 
 fraud simply to prove, if possible, that like critics of 
 verse would praise, from a notable source what they did 
 not hesitate to condemn, from an emanation opposite. By 
 correspondence (still preserved) the friendly editor of 
 a paper (The Kokomo, Ind., Dispatch still conducted by 
 same Ed.) assisted me in foisting the hoax on the public 
 through his columns this for reasons obvious ; while 
 to still further conceal the real authorship of the poem, 
 as soon as published with its editorial hurrah, I at 
 tacked its claimed worth and authenticity in my paper. 
 Then every one who knew me, knew, of course, I didn t 
 write a rhyme of it. And so it went and went and 
 kept on going till at last the necessary expose. Papers 
 everywhere lit into me friends read all this, and stood 
 aside went round the other way. The paper upon which 
 I gained the meager living that was mine excused me and 
 no other paper wanted such a man and wouldn t even let 
 me print a card of explanation not for weeks, while I 
 stood outside alone, and walked around the Court House 
 square at night, and through the drizzle and the rain 
 peered longingly at the dim light in the office where I 
 used to sleep, with a heart as hard and dark and obdurate 
 as the towel in the composing-room. All of which is 
 smiling material now, but then it was pathos from a-way 
 back! 
 
NOTES 433 
 
 p. 196 A TEST OF LOVE 
 
 First printed in The Anderson Democrat, August 
 3, 1877 ; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
 p. 198 FATHER WILLIAM 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Saturday Her 
 ald, September 22, 1877, dated Greenfield, Septem 
 ber, 1877, signed "Harrison Driley"; hitherto 
 unpublished in book form. In this parody Mr. Riley 
 wrote the questions and Captain Lee O. Harris the 
 answers. The verses suggest the days when the 
 former visited the latter at his home in Lewisville, 
 near Greenfield, and discussed literature and read 
 with him until far into the night. Lewis Carroll 
 was a favorite author on these evenings. 
 
 p. 200 WHAT THE WIND SAID 
 
 First printed in The Kokomo Dispatch a few days 
 prior to October 5, 1877 ; published in HOME FOLKS 
 1900, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 
 p. 207 MORTON 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Journal, No 
 vember 2, 1877, dated Indianapolis, November I ; 
 hitherto unpublished in book form. Oliver Perry 
 Morton, the "War Governor" of Indiana, was born 
 at Saulsbury, Indiana, August 4, 1823. In 1867 he 
 became a United States senator, and was appointed 
 minister to England in 1870, but declined the office. 
 He died in Indianapolis, November I, 1877. Mr. 
 Riley admired him exceedingly and was moved by 
 his speeches. 
 
434 NOTES 
 
 p. 209 AN AUTUMNAL EXTRAVAGANZA 
 
 Dated Greenfield, November i, 1877, first printed 
 in The Indianapolis Saturday Herald, November 3, 
 1877 ; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 
 p. 211 THE ROSE 
 
 Dated Greenfield, November 13, 1877, first print 
 ed in The Newcastle Mercury, December 6, 1877, 
 with the title, My Rose; published in GREEN FIELDS 
 AND RUNNING BROOKS 1892, LOVE LYRICS 1899, 
 RILEY ROSES 1909, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911, 
 THE ROSE 1913. 
 
 p. 213 THE MERMAN 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Saturday Her 
 ald, November 17, 1877; hitherto unpublished in 
 book form. The following comment appeared with 
 the publication of the poem : 
 
 A literary club is now wielding above the ducked head 
 of the community. Among the most extinguished mem 
 bers are the names of Alex. Black and J. W. Riley. At 
 the next meeting the former will read an original paper 
 of Floridian Lagoons, or the Wrecker s Roost; and the 
 latter will whet his voice on the following plagiarism from 
 Tennyson. [Cf. Tennyson s The Merman.] 
 
 p. 215 THE RAINY MORNING 
 
 Dated Marion, Indiana, November 22, 1877, first 
 printed in The Indianapolis Journal, November 
 24, 1877; published in MORNING 1907, SONGS OF 
 HOME 1910, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. The 
 following stanza originally stood in place of the 
 fourth : 
 
NOTES 435 
 
 I do not know that the sermon 
 
 Was meant for me alone, 
 Tho it seemed to me God spoke it 
 
 In the faintest undertone. 
 Yet this I know : when the spirit 
 
 Is draped in the gloom of sin, 
 That only the hand of the Master 
 
 Can let the sunshine in. 
 
 p. 216 
 
 WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE 
 
 Dated December 7, 1877; first printed in The 
 Indianapolis Journal, December 14, 1877; pub 
 lished in THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 1900, SONGS OF HOME 1910, THE LOCKERBIE 
 BOOK 1911. The poem has been revised through 
 out : the second stanza of the present version was 
 the first in the original; the second stanza in the 
 original read : 
 
 We are not always glad when we smile, 
 For the world is so heedless and gay 
 
 That our doubts and our fears, and our griefs and 
 
 our tears 
 
 Are lighter when hidden away. 
 And the touch of a frivolous hand 
 May oftener wound than caress, 
 
 And kisses that drip from the reveler s lip, 
 May oftener blister than bless. 
 
 p. 218 A SUMMER SUNRISE 
 
 Dated Greenfield, December 12, 1877, first print 
 ed in The Indianapolis Journal, December 21, 1877; 
 hitherto unpublished in book form. These lines ac 
 companied the poem : "After Lee O. Harris. As a 
 simple tribute to my early teacher and my truest 
 friend, this humble imitation is inscribed." 
 
436 NOTES 
 
 p. 220 DAS KRIST KINDEL 
 
 First printed with the title, A Dream of Christ 
 mas in The Indianapolis Journal, December 25, 
 1877 ; published in AFTERWHILES 1887, OLD- 
 FASHIONED ROSES 1888, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
 1911. The poem has been revised in minor details 
 since its early publication. 
 
 p. 225 AN OLD YEAR S ADDRESS 
 
 Dated 1878; hitherto unpublished. This bizarre 
 and extravagant nonsense verse was written 
 for Frank S. Hereth, Samuel B. Moffit and Ed 
 Yoe, passing acquaintances, who had it inscribed 
 and illustrated on cards to present to friends on 
 New-year s day. 
 
 p. 227 A NEW YEAR S PLAINT 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Journal, Jan 
 uary i, 1878; hitherto unpublished in book form. 
 The quotation at the beginning of the poem is from 
 In Memoriam, V, 9-12. 
 
 p. 230 LUTHER BENSON 
 
 First printed in The Kokomo Tribune, January 5, 
 1878; hitherto unpublished in book form. Luther 
 Benson, the famous temperance orator, was very 
 greatly admired by Mr. Riley for his oratorical 
 gifts and original force of expression. They were 
 lifelong friends. The subtitle of these verses, After 
 Reading His Autobiography, refers to his book, Fif 
 teen Years in Hell. 
 
 p. 232 DREAM 
 
 Dated February 15, 1878, in the note-book of Mr. 
 Riley s sister, Elva Riley Eitel; published in THE 
 
NOTES 437 
 
 FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 1891, LOVE 
 LYRICS 1899, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 
 p. 234 WHEN EVENING SHADOWS FALL 
 
 Enclosed in a letter, dated Greenfield, Febru 
 ary 25, 1878, to Miss Sarah G. Smith, of Kokomo, 
 now Mrs. W. D. Pratt, of Indianapolis ; hitherto 
 unpublished. Mr. Riley met Miss Smith in Feb 
 ruary, 1878, when he was visiting in the home of 
 Charles H. Philips, editor of The Kokomo Tribune. 
 After his initial appearance on the lecture plat 
 form at Kokomo, February 14, 1878, she wrote a 
 very complimentary press notice. It was in ap 
 preciation of this article in The Kokomo Tribune 
 and in pleasant memory of his visit to the Philips 
 home that he wrote When Evening Shadows Fall. 
 
 p. 236 YLLADMAR 
 
 Dated Greenfield March 15, 1878, first printed 
 in The Indianapolis Journal, March 16, 1878 ; pub 
 lished in His PA S ROMANCE (Homestead Edition) 
 1908, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. The name 
 was coined by Mr. Riley. 
 
 p. 238 A FANTASY 
 
 Dated April 20, 1878, first printed in the prose 
 sketch, An Adjustable Lunatic, in The Indianapolis 
 Journal, April 23, 1878; published in SKETCHES 
 IN PROSE 1891. 
 
 p. 242 A DREAM 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Saturday Her 
 ald, May n, 1878; hitherto unpublished. 
 
438 NOTES 
 
 p. 244 DREAMER, SAY 
 
 First printed with the title Alkazar, in The Indi 
 anapolis Saturday Herald, May n, 1878; published 
 in ARMAZINDY 1894, SONGS OF HOME 1910, THE 
 LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. The early version con 
 tained two more lines at the end of each stanza. 
 
 Stanza 1 : 
 
 Dreamer, say, will you dream for me 
 Of a land like this, and a foaming sea? 
 
 Stanza 2: 
 
 Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream 
 Of a tropic land of gloom and gleam? 
 
 Stanza 3: 
 
 Dreamer, dream of a land of love 
 
 When hearts grow ripe for the world above. 
 
 p. 246 BRYANT 
 
 Dated June 12, 1878, first printed in The In 
 dianapolis Journal, June 14, 1878; hitherto un 
 published in book form. At the time of his death, 
 William Cullen Bryant was the first of American 
 poets. Mr. Riley has always been fond of Bryant s 
 verse, and to-day one of his favorite poems is The 
 Planting of the Apple Tree. 
 
 p. 247 BABYHOOD 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Saturday Her 
 ald, June 15, 1878 ; published in PIPES o PAN 1888, 
 RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD 1890, SONGS o CHEER 
 1905, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. This poem has 
 always held a special place in the author s affections 
 and appeared on his business stationery in the early 
 eighties. 
 
NOTES 439 
 
 MAYMIE S STORY OF RED RIDING HOOD 
 
 These lines were the next to appear in print, 
 printed in The Indianapolis Saturday Herald, June 
 15, 1878. The poem is included in A Child World, 
 in a later volume. 
 
 p. 249 LIBERTY 
 
 Read at a Fourth of July celebration at New 
 castle, Indiana, in 1878; first printed in The New 
 castle Mercury, July 6, 1878 ; hitherto unpublished 
 in book form except the section referring to the In 
 dependence Bell, which was converted into The 
 Voice of Peace, and published in MORNING 1907, 
 THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. 
 
 p. 259 TOM VAN ARDEN 
 
 First printed in The Indianapolis Saturday Her 
 ald, July 6, 1878; published in GREEN FIELDS AND 
 RUNNING BROOKS 1892, LOVE LYRICS 1899, THE 
 LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911. The author had no definite 
 person in mind. 
 
 p. 263 T. C PHILIPS 
 
 Dated Greenfield, July 8, 1878; first printed in 
 The Kokomo Tribune, July 20, 1878; hitherto un 
 published in book form. Mr. Riley composed this 
 sonnet four days after the death of his venerable 
 friend and mentor, T. C. Philips, an editor of state 
 wide name and influence. As proprietor of The 
 Kokomo Tribune, he had welcomed Mr. Riley s con 
 tributions for The Home Department of that paper, 
 and on February 14 of the same year in which he 
 died, had introduced him to his first Kokomo au 
 dience. 
 
440 NOTES 
 
 p. 264 A DREAM UNFINISHED 
 
 Dated Greenfield, Indiana, July 30, 1878, first 
 printed in The Hancock Democrat, August i, 1878; 
 hitherto unpublished in book form. Miss Nellie 
 Millikan, later Mrs. George B. Cooley, was one of 
 Mr. Riley s early friends and among the very first 
 to express faith in the ultimate success of his 
 poetry. She died at Belleville, Illinois, July 27, 
 1878, and was buried at Greenfield. These verses 
 were written in her memory. 
 
 p. 267 A CHILD S HOME LONG AGO 
 
 Prepared for an Old Settlers Meeting at Oak 
 land, near Indianapolis, August 3, 1878 ; read also at 
 the first meeting of the Indiana Pioneer Society at 
 the old Indiana State Fair Grounds, October 2, 
 1878; first printed in The Indianapolis Saturday 
 Herald, August 10, 1878; with the title of The Old 
 Cabin; the section from 1. 27, p. 270, through the 
 last line, p. 272, published under the title of A 
 Child s Home Long Ago, in RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD 
 1890, THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 1911; the re 
 mainder of the poem hitherto unpublished in book 
 form. The section of this poem used in RHYMES 
 OF CHILDHOOD is introduced by the following lines, 
 now omitted: 
 
 Even as the gas flames flicker to and fro, 
 
 The Old Man s wavering fancies leap and glow, 
 
 "Each man rewarded as his works shall be/ was 
 a favorite sentiment of Mr. Riley s father. 
 
 "The description of the interior of a pioneer log 
 cabin," Mr. Riley once said in commenting on this 
 poem, "is as true to life as I could make it. I was 
 born in a log house, weather-boarded, and remem 
 ber it well, as also numerous other log houses. I 
 
NOTES 441 
 
 can not claim to be a pioneer, only that I knew many 
 in my youth, and from actuality I can testify to the 
 nobility of the type." 
 
 p. 275 THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 First printed in the Indianapolis Saturday Her 
 ald, August 24, 1878; published in THE FLYING 
 ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 1891, THE LOCKERBIE 
 BOOK 1911, THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT 
 (Franklin Booth edition) 1913. The Herald 
 printed this poem in the fourth number of the Re 
 spectfully Declined Papers of the Buzz Club, a 
 series of six prose sketches interspersed with poetry, 
 which Mr. Riley contributed at this period. The 
 poem was revised for the 1891 edition and again for 
 a later edition published in 1898. When it appeared 
 in book form in 1891, the introductory poem For 
 the Song s Sake, p. 277, and the Songs of the Seven 
 Faces, pp. 279-283, were first included. The latter 
 of these originally appeared in The Indianapolis 
 Journal, February 4, 1879, under the title, Of the 
 Whole World Mine. It was greatly altered to 
 meet the requirements of the larger poem. The 
 early version read : 
 
 OF THE WHOLE WORLD MINE 
 
 I KNEW you long and long before 
 God sprinkled stars upon the floor 
 Of Heaven, and swept this soul of mine 
 So far beyond the reach of thine. 
 Ere day was born I saw your face 
 Hid in some starry hiding-place, 
 Where our old moon was kneeling while 
 You lit its features with your smile. 
 I knew you while the earth was yet 
 A baby ere the helpless thing 
 Could cry, or crawl, or anything; 
 
442 NOTES 
 
 Nor ever will my soul forget 
 
 How drowsy time, low murmuring 
 
 A lullaby above it, kept 
 
 A-nodding, till he dozed, and slept, 
 And knew it not, till wakening, 
 The morning stars began to sing. 
 I knew you even as the hands 
 
 Of angels set your sculptured form 
 
 Upon a pedestal of storm, 
 And lowered you to earth with strands 
 Of twisted lightning. And I heard 
 Your voice ere you could speak a word 
 
 Of any but the angel tongue 
 I listened, and I heard you say 
 
 "Though Heaven sows our lives among 
 The worlds a million miles away 
 
 Each from the other, they will lean 
 Their tendrils nearer, day by day; 
 
 Till all the lands that intervene 
 Shall dwindle slowly till the space 
 Shall see them, vine-like, interlace 
 
 Caressingly, and climb, and twine, 
 
 Up trellises of summer-shine ; 
 
 And bud and burst in bloom divine." 
 You spoke and vanished ; and a stream 
 
 Of some strange rapture overran 
 My laughing lips, as in my dream 
 
 I sang as only angels can. 
 
 SONG 
 
 I follow you forever on! 
 
 Through darkest night and dimmest dawn; 
 
 Through storm and calm, through shower and 
 
 shine, 
 I hear your soul call back to mine. 
 
 I follow through the dusk the dew; 
 
 Through gleam and gloom I follow you. 
 
 I follow, follow, follow you. 
 
 I follow ever on and on, 
 O er hill and hollow, brake and lawn ; 
 Through rocky pass, and deep ravine 
 Where light of day is never seen. 
 
 I waver not my heart is true : 
 
 Unfaltering I follow you ; 
 
 I follow, follow, follow you. 
 
NOTES 443 
 
 I follow ever on and on! 
 The cloak of night around me drawn 
 Though wet with mist, is all besprent 
 With stars to light the way you went. 
 
 The moon smiles brighter on me through 
 
 The darkness as I follow you; 
 
 I follow, follow, follow you. 
 
 I follow ever on and on! 
 The pilgrim staff I lean upon 
 Is wrought of love, and it will lend 
 Me strength to journey to the end. 
 Though all the world I wander through 
 In empty quest, I follow you 
 I follow, follow, follow you. 
 
 I follow ever on and on: 
 I know the ways your feet have gone, 
 The grass is greener, and the bloom 
 Of roses richer in perfume. 
 
 And all the birds I listen to 
 
 Sing sweeter as I follow you, 
 
 I follow, follow, follow you. 
 
 I follow ever on and on: 
 For as the night fades into dawn, 
 So shall my vigil fade away, 
 And I will kiss your lips, and say: 
 
 Through life and death, and Heaven, too, 
 My eager feet will follow you 
 Will follow, follow, follow you 
 
 In Act I, the following did not appear until the 
 1891 edition: the apparition of the counter-self of 
 Crestillomeem and Jucklet, showing these two con 
 spirators as they might have been, with their re 
 marks preceding the following, p. 290 1. 2 to p. 293 
 1. 16 ; the description of Crestillomeem s method of 
 disposing of the princess and her lover, p. 294 1. 12 
 to p. 295 1. 18, p. 295 11. 20-22, and p. 296 11. 10-13; 
 Jucklet s description of Spraivoll, p. 298 11. 7-11, 14, 
 15, 19, p. 299 11. 2-6, p. 301 11. 1-7; and the last six 
 lines of Spraivoll s song, p. 300 11. 7-12. 
 
444 NOTES 
 
 Crestillomeem s conversation with Spraivoll, in 
 which she unfolds her plot against the King, p. 303 
 1. 3 to p. 304 1. 20 and p. 305 1. 13 to p. 306 1. 19, was 
 amplified for the 1891 edition, when Spraivoll s 
 weird crooning, p. 304 1. 21 to p. 305 1. 12, and the 
 Queen s remarks on Dwainie, p. 307 11. 3-13, were 
 first used. 
 
 The introductory lines to the song, A Lovely 
 Husband, p. 286 1. 18 to p. 287 1. 2, and the song it 
 self, p. 287 11. 3-14, p. 302 1. 15 to p. 303 1. 2, were 
 not included until the final edition. 
 
 In the 1891 edition the description of the King s 
 garden at the beginning of Act II, p. 309, was ex 
 panded and a new improvised song by Amphine, p. 
 309 1. I to p. 310 1. 4, p. 310 11. 13-21, p. 311 11. 9-22, 
 introduced. 
 
 The next song by Amphine, sung after he has 
 discovered Dwainie near him in the garden, p. 313 1. 
 I to p. 314 1. 8, also appeared as a part of this poem 
 for the first time in the 1891 edition, having been 
 printed separately under the title, Song, in The In 
 dianapolis Journal, June 21, 1885. In this original 
 form, before it became a part of The Flying Islands, 
 "Lady" stood in place of "Dwainie" throughout the 
 poem. The earliest version is given : 
 
 SONG 
 
 Linger, my Lady! Lady lily-fair, 
 Stay yet thy step upon the casement-stair 
 Poised be thy slipper-tip as is the time 
 Of some still star. Ah, Lady! lady mine, 
 Yet linger linger there! 
 
 Thy face, O Lady, lily-pure and fair, 
 Gleams i the dusk as in thy dusky hair 
 The snowy blossom glimmers, or the shine 
 Of thy swift smile. Ah, Lady! lady mine! 
 Yet linger linger there! 
 
NOTES 445 
 
 With lifted wrist where round the laughing air 
 Hath blown a mist of lawn and claspt it there, 
 Waft finger-tipt adieus that spray the wine 
 Of thy waste kisses to rd me, lady mine! 
 Yet linger linger there! 
 
 What unloosed splendor is there may compare 
 With thy hand s unfurled glory anywhere! 
 What glint of sun, or dew, or jewel fine 
 May mate thine eyes ? Ah, Lady lady mine, 
 Yet linger linger there ! 
 
 My soul confronts thee ; on thy brow and hair 
 It lays its gentleness like palms of prayer; 
 It touches sacredly those lips of thine 
 And swoons across thy spirit, lady mine, 
 The while thou lingerest there. 
 
 Part of Amphine s conversation with Dwainie, p. 
 315 11. 7-15, was added to the 1891 edition; but in 
 stead of the latter part of Dwainie s reply and Am 
 phine s answer, p. 316 11. 7-20, the original text con 
 tained only the following : 
 
 When love lay like a baby in my arms 
 And life was like a tinkling toy. 
 
 In the 1891 edition appeared for the first time: 
 Dwainie s laudatory description of Wunkland, p. 
 317 11. 10-14, p. 31^11. 13-24, p. 319 11. 9-14; Am 
 phine s account of his lost sister, p. 323 11. 13-16, p. 
 
 324 11. 9-11 ; their discussion about the change in the 
 King, including Dwainie s "asides" in which she 
 reveals to the reader her supernatural powers, p. 
 
 325 11. 3-13, p. 326 11. 7-1 1, p. 326 1. 22 to p. 327 1. 4. 
 p. 328 11. 9-12, p. 329 11. 6-9 ; and Jucklet s grotesque 
 remarks after arriving in the garden, p. 338 11. 5-10, 
 p. 340 11. 6-20, p. 341 11. 1-13 ; though p. 320 11. 12- 
 26 and p. 331 1. 5 to p. 334 1. 7, including Jucklet s 
 
446 NOTES 
 
 song, Fold Me Away in Your Arms, Night, were 
 not added until the final revision. 
 
 July 5, 1879, p. 331 1. 18 to p. 332 1. 8, p. 332 1. 13 
 to P- 333 1- 5 were printed separately in The Indian 
 apolis Saturday Herald, as follows : 
 
 GLIMPSE 
 
 ". . . My pen fell 
 
 My hands struck sharp together, as hands do 
 
 Which hold at nothing." 
 
 O, but a flash of some sweet light 
 Has smitten the eyes of my soul to-night ! 
 Groping here in the garden-land, 
 I felt my fancy s out-held hand 
 Touch the rim of a realm that seems 
 Like an isle of bloom in a sea of dreams. 
 I stand here dazed and alone alone 
 My heart beats on in an undertone, 
 And I hold my breath as I hear from far 
 Away the voice of a dead guitar, 
 
 And the wraith of an old love song, 
 And my cheeks are as red as the roses are 
 
 Where the dews of night belong. 
 Low to myself I am whispering, 
 
 I am glad, and the night knows why 
 I am glad that the dream came by 
 And found me here as of old when I 
 Was a ruler and a king. 
 
 It was an age ago an age 
 
 Turned down in life like a folded page 
 
 See, where the volume falls apart, 
 
 And the faded book-mark tis my heart 
 
 Nor mine alone, but another knit 
 
 So cunningly in the love of it, 
 
 That you must look with a shaking head 
 
 Nor know the living from the dead. 
 
 Ah ! what a broad and a sea-like lawn 
 
 Is the field of love they bloom upon-: 
 
 Hazy reaches of velvet grass 
 
 Billowing with the winds that pass, 
 
NOTES 447 
 
 And breaking in a snow-white foam 
 Of lily-crests on the shores of home. 
 Only a flash of some sweet light 
 Smiting the eyes of my soul to-night, 
 With my face upturned to a crescent moon 
 Atilt like the bowl of a silver spoon, 
 Skimming the sky of the rich white cream 
 Of the clouds still drifting o er my dream. 
 
 The act originally ended with the last line of p. 
 347, when the Nightmares leap on the comet and 
 disappear, omitting until the 1891 edition Jucklet s 
 prayer to ^Eo, which was first printed in The In 
 dianapolis Journal, December 28, 1884, with the 
 title, What Shall We Pray For. An old manuscript 
 indicates that its original form was as follows : 
 
 What shall we pray for? 
 
 Shall we pray 
 
 For health to-day 
 
 We who so yearn 
 
 For health s return, 
 And laughing hours so long away? 
 
 Or shall we pray 
 
 The long delay 
 Of Fortune shall have end, 
 
 And wealth be ours, as when 
 
 Each silver night and golden day 
 Of youth was ours, my friend? 
 
 What shall we pray for? What? 
 That the sweet clusters of forget-me-nots 
 And mignonette 
 And violet 
 
 Be out of Childhood brought 
 And in our old hearts set 
 
 A-blooming now, as then? 
 Or shall we pray 
 
 The love long flown 
 Return again 
 
 Unto its own, 
 No more to fly away? 
 
448 NOTES 
 
 What shall we pray for? 
 
 Shall it be 
 
 The mother-faces we 
 Have missed for years 
 
 So bitterly 
 
 Whose eyelids would 
 
 Not lift, nor could 
 Be melted open with our tears? 
 How we would greet them now nay nay ! 
 For what then shall we pray? 
 
 For what then shall we pray? 
 Pray pray all self to pass away 
 Forgetful of all needs 
 
 Thine own 
 Neglectful of all creeds, 
 
 Alone 
 Stand facing Heaven, and say: 
 
 To Thee, 
 O Infinite, I pray 
 
 Bless thou mine Enemy! 
 
 In Act III, pp. 351-353, including the stage direc 
 tions in regard to the disappearance of Spraivoll s 
 apparition, p. 354, were omitted from the first ren 
 dering of the poem but included in the second in 
 1891 ; meanwhile the Wraith-Song of Spraivoll, p. 
 352 1. 3 to p. 353 1. 24, was printed in the Indian 
 apolis Journal, March 24, 1883, with the title, Sweet 
 Bells Jangled. 
 
 Krung s speech, in the original version, lacked p. 
 359 11. 7-20, p. 360 1. 4 to p. 361 1. 7, p. 361 11. 16-20, 
 and the last two lines of the play. 
 
 The quotation at the beginning of the poem, "A 
 thynge of wychencreft, an idle dreme," is from 
 Aella, in the Rowley Poems of Thomas Chatterton, 
 line 421. The original version contained the sub 
 title, A Twintorette, in place of this quotation. 
 
 The poem called forth both decided criticism and 
 
NOTES 449 
 
 praise from the first. Mr. Madison Cawein, to 
 whom the poem is dedicated, writes about it as 
 follows : 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich said to me at dinner, on an 
 Easter Sunday, a little while after The Flying Islands 
 appeared, that he considered that book worthy of a place 
 by the side of Shakespeare s Midsummer Night s Dream, 
 and that if everything else Mr. Riley ever wrote were 
 forgotten, this play would establish his reputation to 
 posterity. 
 
 Mr. Riley, in replying to a letter from Benj. S. 
 Parker, September 13, 1878, speaks thus of it: 
 
 That "Thing-um-me-jig rhyme" is the supposed produc 
 tion of a wild, eccentric character of mine who figures in 
 a mythical club whose only ambition is to please itself 
 fully conscious that the public is too engrossed with mat 
 ters of importance to listen to its jargon. Therefore I 
 think you err in attacking me, ignoring, as you do, all 
 allowance for the proprieties the production calls into use ; 
 . . . and I am startled and chagrined that you, a careful 
 reader and an author as well, should find such serious fault 
 with what is simply nothing more than my good nature, 
 for The Flying Islands is but, at best, a smile. 
 
> 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 BERKELEY 
 
 Return to desk from which borrowed. 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 23NovDEAD 
 2lJar, I 5C!fl 
 
 
 REC D LD 
 88 Wff 
 
 
 2 5 1993 
 
 AUTO DISC. 
 
 $EP 2 3 19SZ 
 IRCULATION 
 
 RECEIVED 
 U3AN DEPT. 
 
 LD 21-100m-9, 48XB399sl6)476 
 
U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 t ,..