"and all that harangue of incoherency about your growing old. Why, my
dear fellow, you're at least a dozen years my junior, and look at me!"
and John glanced at himself in the glass with a feeble pride, noting
the gray sparseness of his side-hair, and its plaintive dearth on top.
"Of course I've got to admit," he continued, "that my hair is
gradually evaporating; but for all that, I'm 'still in the ring,'
don't you know; as young in society, for the matter of that, as
yourself! And this is just the reason why I don't want you to blight
every prospect in your life by marrying at your age--especially a
woman--I mean the kind of woman you'd be sure to fancy at your age."
"Didn't I say 'a good, sensible girl' was the kind I had selected?"
Bert remonstrated.
"Oh!" exclaimed John, "you've selected her, then?--and without one
word to me!" he ended, rebukingly.
"Well, hang it all!" said Bert, impatiently; "I knew how _you_ were,
and just how you'd talk me out of it; and I made up my mind that for
once, at least, I'd follow the dictations of a heart that--however
capricious in youthful frivolties--should beat, in manhood, loyal to
itself and loyal to its own affinity."
"Go it! Fire away! Farewell, vain world!" exclaimed the excited
John.--"Trade your soul off for a pair of ear-bobs and a
button-hook--a hank of jute hair and a box of lily-white! I've buried
not less than ten old chums this way, and here's another nominated for
the tomb."
"But you've got no _reason_ about you," began Bert,--"I want to"--
"And so do _I_ 'want to,'" broke in John, finally,--"I want to get
some sleep.--So 'register' and come to bed.--And lie up on edge, too,
when you _do_ come--'cause this old catafalque-of-a-bed is just about
as narrow as your views of single blessedness! Peace! Not another
word! Pile in! Pile in! I'm three-parts sick, anyhow, and I want
rest!" And very truly he spoke.
It was a bright morning when the slothful John was aroused by a long,
vociferous pounding on the door. He started up in bed to find himself
alone--the victim of his wrathful irony having evidently risen and
fled away while his pitiless tormentor slept--"Doubtless to at once
accomplish that nefarious intent as set forth by his unblushing
confession of last night," mused the miserable John. And he ground his
fingers in the corners of his swollen eyes, and leered grimly in the
glass at the feverish orbs, blood-shotten, blurred and aching.
The pounding on the door continued. John looked at his watch; it was
only 8 o'clock.
"Hi, there!" he called viciously. "What do you mean, anyhow?" he went
on, elevating his voice again; "shaking a man out of bed when he's
just dropping into his first sleep?"
"I mean that you're going to get up; that's what!" replied a firm
female voice. "It's 8 o'clock, and I want to put your room in order;
and I'm not going to wait all day about it, either! Get up and go down
to your breakfast, and let me have the room!" And the clamor at the
door was industriously renewed.
"Say!" called John, querulously, hurrying on his clothes, "Say! you!"
"There's no 'say' about it!" responded the determined voice: "I've
heard about you and your ways around this house, and I'm not going to
put up with it! You'll not lie in bed till high noon when I've got to
keep your room in proper order!"
"Oh ho!" bawled John, intelligently: "reckon you're the new invasion
here? Doubtless you're the girl that's been hanging up the new
window-blinds that won't roll, and disguising the pillows with clean
slips, and 'hennin' round among my books and papers on the table here,
and ageing me generally till I don't know my own handwriting by the
time I find it! Oh, yes! you're going to revolutionize things here;
you're going to introduce promptness, and system, and order. See
you've even filled the wash-pitcher and tucked two starched towels
through the handle. Haven't got any tin towels, have you? I rather
like this new soap, too! So solid and durable, you know; warranted not
to raise a lather. Might as well wash one's hands with a door-knob!"
And as John's voice grumbled away into the sullen silence again, the
determined voice without responded: "Oh, you can growl away to your
heart's content, Mr. McKinney, but I want you to distinctly understand
that I'm not going to humor you in any of your old bachelor,
sluggardly, slovenly ways, and whims and notions. And I want you to
understand, too, that I'm not hired help in this house, nor a
chambermaid, nor anything of the kind. I'm the landlady here; and I'll
give you just ten minutes more to get down to your breakfast, or
you'll not get any--that's all!" And as the reversed cuff John was in
the act of buttoning slid from his wrist and rolled under the dresser,
he heard a stiff rustling of starched muslin flouncing past the door,
and the quick italicized patter of determined gaiters down the hall.
"Look here," said John to the bright-faced boy in the hotel office, a
half hour later. "It seems the house here's been changing hands
again."
"Yes, sir," said the boy, closing the cigar case, and handing him a
lighted match. "Well, the new landlord, whoever he is," continued
John, patronizingly, "is a good one. Leastwise, he knows what's good
to eat, and how to serve it."
The boy laughed timidly,--"It aint a landlord,' though--it's a
landlady; it's my mother."
"Ah," said John, dallying with the change the boy had pushed toward
him. "Your mother, eh?" And where's your father?"
"He's dead," said the boy.
"And what's this for?" abruptly asked John, examining his change.
"That's your change," said the boy: "You got three for a quarter, and
gave me a half."
"Well, _you_ just keep it," said John, sliding back the change. "It's
for good luck, you know, my boy. Same as drinking your long life and
prosperity. And, Oh yes, by the way, you may tell your mother I'll
have a friend to dinner with me to-day."
"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir," said the beaming boy.
"Handsome boy!" mused John, as he walked down street. "Takes that from
his father, though, I'll wager my existence!"
Upon his office desk John found a hastily written note. It was
addressed in the well-known hand of his old chum. He eyed the missive
apprehensively, and there was a positive pathos in his voice as he
said aloud, "It's our divorce. I feel it!" The note, headed, "At the
Office, 4 in Morning," ran like this:
"Dear Mack--I left you slumbering so soundly that, by noon,
when you waken, I hope, in your refreshed state, you will
look more tolerantly on my intentions as partially confided
to you this night. I will not see you here again to say
good-bye. I wanted to, but was afraid to 'rouse the sleeping
lion.' I will not close my eyes to-night--fact is, I haven't
time. Our serenade at Josie's was a pre-arranged signal by
which she is to be ready and at the station for the 5
morning train. You may remember the lighting of three
consecutive matches at her window before the igniting of her
lamp. That meant, 'Thrice dearest one, I'll meet thee at the
depot at 4:30 sharp.' So, my dear Mack, this is to inform
you that, even as you read, Josie and I have eloped. It is
all the old man's fault, yet I forgive him. Hope he'll
return the favor. Josie predicts he will, inside of a
week--or two weeks, anyhow. Good-bye, Mack, old boy; and let
a fellow down as easy as you can.
Affectionately,
BERT."
"Heavens!" exclaimed John, stifling the note in his hand and stalking
tragically around the room. "Can it be possible that I have nursed a
frozen viper? An ingrate? A wolf in sheep's clothing? An orang-outang
in gent's furnishings?"
"Was you callin' me, sir?" asked a voice at the door. It was the
janitor.
"No!" thundered John; "Quit my sight! get out of my way! No, no,
Thompson, I don't mean that," he called after him. "Here's a half
dollar for you, and I want you to lock up the office, and tell anybody
that wants to see me that I've been set upon, and sacked and
assassinated in cold blood; and I've fled to my father's in the
country, and am lying there in the convulsions of dissolution,
babbling of green fields and running brooks, and thirsting for the
life of every woman that comes in gunshot!" And then, more like a
confirmed invalid than a man in the strength and pride of his prime,
he crept down into the street again, and thence back to his hotel.
Dejectedly and painfully climbing to his room, he encountered, on the
landing above, a little woman in a jaunty dusting-cap and a trim habit
of crisp muslin. He tried to evade her, but in vain. She looked him
squarely in the face--occasioning him the dubious impression of either
needing shaving very badly, or having egg-stains on his chin.
"You're the gentleman in No. 11, I believe?" she said.
He nodded confusedly.
"Mr. McKinney is your name, I think?" she queried, with a pretty
elevation of the eyebrows.
"Yes, ma'am," said John, rather abjectly. "You see, ma'am--But I beg
pardon," he went on stammeringly, and with a very awkward bow--"I beg
pardon, but I am addressing--ah--the--ah--the--"
"You are addressing the new landlady," she interpolated, pleasantly.
"Mrs. Miller is my name. I think we should be friends, Mr. McKinney,
since I hear that you are one of the oldest patrons of the house."
"Thank you--thank you!" said John, completely embarrassed. "Yes,
indeed!--ha, ha. Oh, yes--yes--really, we must be quite old friends, I
assure you, Mrs.--Mrs.--"
"Mrs. Miller," smilingly prompted the little woman.
"Yes, ah, yes,--Mrs. Miller. Lovely morning, Mrs. Miller," said John,
edging past her and backing toward his room.
But as Mrs. Miller was laughing outright, for some mysterious reason,
and gave no affirmation in response to his proposition as to the
quality of the weather, John, utterly abashed and nonplussed, darted
into his room and closed the door. "Deucedly extraordinary woman!" he
thought; "wonder what's her idea!"
He remained locked in his room till the dinner-hour; and, when he
promptly emerged for that occasion, there was a very noticeable
improvement in his personal appearance, in point of dress, at least,
though there still lingered about his smoothly-shaven features a
certain haggard, care-worn, anxious look that would not out.
Next his own place at the table he found a chair tilted forward, as
though in reservation for some honored guest. What did it mean? Oh, he
remembered now. Told the boy to tell his mother he would have a friend
to dine with him. Bert--and, blast the fellow! he was, doubtless,
dining then with a far preferable companion--his wife--in a palace-car
on the P., C. & St. L., a hundred miles away. The thought was
maddening. Of course, now, the landlady would have material for a new
assault. And how could he avert it? A despairing film blurred his
sight for the moment--then the eyes flashed daringly. "I will meet it
like a man!" he said, mentally--"like a State's Attorney,--I will
invite it! Let her do her worst!"
He called a servant, directing some message in an undertone.
"Yes, sir," said the agreeable servant, "I'll go right away, sir," and
left the room.
Five minutes elapsed, and then a voice at his shoulder startled him:
"Did you send for me, Mr. McKinney? What is it I can do?"
"You are very kind, Mrs.--Mrs.--"
"Mrs. Miller," said the lady, with a smile that he remembered.
"Now, please spare me even the mildest of rebukes. I deserve your
censure, but I can't stand it--I can't positively!" and there was a
pleading look in John's lifted eyes that changed the little woman's
smile to an expression of real solicitude. "I have sent for you,"
continued John, "to ask of you three great favors. Please be seated
while I enumerate them. First--I want you to forgive and forget that
ill-natured, uncalled-for grumbling of mine this morning when you
wakened me."
"Why, certainly," said the landlady, again smiling, though quite
seriously.
"I thank you," said John, with dignity. "And, second," he
continued--"I want your assurance that my extreme confusion and
awkwardness on the occasion of our meeting later were rightly
interpreted."
"Certainly--certainly," said the landlady, with the kindliest
sympathy.
"I am grateful--utterly," said John, with newer dignity. "And then,"
he went on,--after informing you that it is impossible for the best
friend I have in the world to be with me at this hour, as intended, I
want you to do me the very great honor of dining with me. Will you?"
"Why, certainly," said the charming little landlady--"and a thousand
thanks beside! But tell me something of your friend," she continued,
as they were being served. "What is he like--and what is his name--and
where is he?"
"Well," said John, warily,--"he's like all young fellows of his age.
He's quite young, you know--not over thirty, I should say--a mere boy,
in fact, but clever--talented--versatile."
"--Unmarried, of course," said the chatty little woman.
"Oh, yes!" said John, in a matter-of-course tone--but he caught
himself abruptly--then stared intently at his napkin--glanced
evasively at the side-face of his questioner, and said,--"Oh yes! Yes,
indeed! He's unmarried.--Old bachelor like myself, you know. Ha! Ha!"
"So he's not like the young man here that distinguished himself last
night?" said the little woman, archly.
The fork in John's hand, half-lifted to his lips, faltered and fell
back toward his plate.
"Why, what's that?" said John, in a strange voice; "I hadn't heard
anything about it--I mean I haven't heard anything about any young
man. What was it?"
"Haven't heard anything about the elopement?" exclaimed the little
woman, in astonishment.--"Why, it's been the talk of the town all
morning. Elopement in high life--son of a grain-dealer, name of Hines,
or Himes, or something, and a preacher's daughter--Josie
somebody--didn't catch her last name. Wonder if you don't know the
parties--Why, Mr. McKinney, are you ill?"
"Oh, no--not at all!" said John: "Don't mention it. Ha--ha! Just
eating too rapidly, that's all. Go on with--you were saying that Bert
and Josie had really eloped."
"What 'Bert'?" asked the little woman quickly.
"Why, did I say Bert?" said John, with a guilty look. "I meant Haines,
of course, you know--Haines and Josie.--And did they really elope?"
"That's the report," answered the little woman, as though deliberating
some important evidence; "and they say, too, that the plot of the
runaway was quite ingenious. It seems the young lovers were assisted
in their flight by some old fellow--friend of the young man's--Why,
Mr. McKinney, you _are_ ill, surely?"
John's face was ashen.
"No--no!" he gasped, painfully: "Go on--go on! Tell me more about
the--the--the old fellow--the old reprobate! And is he still at
large?"
"Yes," said the little womon, anxiously regarding the strange demeanor
of her companion. "They say, though, that the law can do nothing with
him, and that this fact only intensifies the agony of the
broken-hearted parents--for it seems they have, till now, regarded him
both as a gentleman and family friend in whom"--
"I really am ill," moaned John, waveringly rising to his feet; "but I
beg you not to be alarmed. Tell your little boy to come to my room,
where I will retire at once, if you'll excuse me, and send for my
physician. It is simply a nervous attack. I am often troubled so; and
only perfect quiet and seclusion restores me. You have done me a great
honor, Mrs."--("Mrs.--Miller," sighed the sympathetic little
woman)--"Mrs. Miller,--and I thank you more than I have words to
express." He bowed limply, turned through a side door opening on a
stair, and tottered to his room.
During the three weeks' illness through which he passed, John had
every attention--much more, indeed, than he had consciousness to
appreciate. For the most part his mind wandered, and he talked of
curious things, and laughed hysterically, and serenaded mermaids that
dwelt in grassy seas of dew, and were bald-headed like himself. He
played upon a fourteen-jointed flute of solid gold, with diamond
holes, and keys carved out of thawless ice. His old father came at
first to take him home; but he could not be moved, the doctor said.
Two weeks of John's illness had worn away, when a very serious looking
young man, in a traveling duster, and a high hat, came up the stairs
to see him. A handsome young lady was clinging to his arm. It was Bert
and Josie. She had guessed the very date of their forgiveness. John
wakened even clearer in mind than usual that afternoon. He recognized
his old chum at a glance, and Josie--now Bert's wife. Yes, he
comprehended that. He was holding a hand of each when another figure
entered. His thin, white fingers loosened their clasp, and he held a
hand toward the new comer. "Here," he said, "is my best friend in the
world--Bert, you and Josie will love her, I know; for this is
Mrs.--Mrs."--"Mrs. Miller," said the radiant little
woman.--"Yes,--Mrs. Miller," said John, very proudly.
RHYMES OF RAINY DAYS
THE TREE-TOAD.
"'Scurious-like," said the tree-toad,
"I've twittered far rain all day;
And I got up soon,
And I hollered till noon--
But the sun, hit blazed away,
Till I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
Weary at heart, and sick at soul!
"Dozed away far an hour,
And I tackled the thing agin;
And I sung, and sung,
Till I knowed my lung
Was jest about give in;
And then, thinks I, ef hit don't rain now.
There're nothin' in singin', anyhow!
"Once in awhile some
Would come a drivin' past;
And he'd hear my cry,
And stop and sigh--
Till I jest laid back, at last,
And I hollered rain till I thought my th'oat
Would bust right open at ever' note!
"But _I fetched_ her! O _I fetched_ her!--
'Cause a little while ago,
As I kindo' set,
With one eye shet,
And a-singin' soft and low,
A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,
Sayin',--' Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!'"
A WORN-OUT PENCIL.
Welladay!
Here I lay
You at rest--all worn away,
O my pencil, to the tip
Of our old companionship!
Memory
Sighs to see
What you are, and used to be,
Looking backward to the time
When you wrote your earliest rhyme!--
When I sat
Filing at
Your first point, and dreaming that
Your initial song should be
Worthy of posterity.
With regret
I forget
If the song be living yet,
Yet remember, vaguely now,
It was honest, anyhow.
You have brought
Me a thought--
Truer yet was never taught,--
That the silent song is best,
And the unsung worthiest.
So if I,
When I die,
May as uncomplainingly
Drop aside as now you do,
Write of me, as I of you:--
Here lies one
Who begun
Life a-singing, heard of none;
And he died, satisfied,
With his dead songs by his side.
THE STEPMOTHER.
First she come to our house,
Tommy run and hid;
And Emily and Bob and me
We cried jus' like we did
When Mother died,--and we all said
'At we all wisht 'at we was dead!
And Nurse she couldn't stop us,
And Pa he tried and tried,--
We sobbed and shook and wouldn't look,
But only cried and cried;
And nen someone--we couldn't jus'
Tell who--was cryin' same as us!
Our Stepmother! Yes, it was her,
Her arms around us all--
'Cause Tom slid down the bannister
And peeked in from the hall.--
And we all love her, too, because
She's purt nigh good as Mother was!
THE RAIN.
I.
The rain! the rain! the rain!
It gushed from the skies and streamed
Like awful tears; and the sick man thought
How pitiful it seemed!
And he turned his face away,
And stared at the wall again,
His hopes nigh dead and his heart worn out.
O the rain! the rain! the rain!
II.
The rain! the rain! the rain!
And the broad stream brimmed the shores;
And ever the river crept over the reeds
And the roots of the sycamores:
A corpse swirled by in a drift
Where the boat had snapt its chain--
And a hoarse-voiced mother shrieked and raved.
O the rain! the rain! the rain!
III.
The rain! the rain! the rain!--
Pouring, with never a pause,
Over the fields and the green byways--
How beautiful it was!
And the new-made man and wife
Stood at the window-pane
Like two glad children kept from school.--
O the rain! the rain! the rain!
THE LEGEND GLORIFIED.
"I deem that God is not disquieted"--
This in a mighty poet's rhymes I read;
And blazoned so forever doth abide
Within my soul the legend glorified.
Though awful tempests thunder overhead,
I deem that God is not disquieted,--
The faith that trembles somewhat yet is sure
Through storm and darkness of a way secure.
Bleak winters, when the naked spirit hears
The break of hearts, through stinging sleet of tears,
I deem that God is not disquieted;
Against all stresses am I clothed and fed.
Nay, even with fixed eyes and broken breath,
My feet dip down into the tides of death,
Nor any friend be left, nor prayer be said,
I deem that God is not disquieted.
WANT TO BE WHUR MOTHER IS.
"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Jeemses Rivers! won't some one ever shet that howl o' his?
That-air yellin' drives me wild!
Cain't none of ye stop the child?
Want jer Daddy? "Naw." Gee whizz!
"Want to be whur mother is!"
"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Coax him, Sairy! Mary, sing somepin far him! Lift him, Liz--
Bang the clock-bell with the key--
Er the _meat-ax!_ Gee-mun-nee!
Listen to them lungs o' his!
"Want to be whur mother is!"
"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Preacher guess'll pound all night on that old pulpit o' his;
'Pears to me some wimmin jest
Shows religious interest
Mostly 'fore their fambly's riz!
"Want to be whur mother is!"
* * * * *
"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Nights like these and whipperwills allus brings that voice of his!
Sairy; Mary; 'Lizabeth;
Don't set there and ketch yer death
In the dew--er rheumatiz--
Want to be whur mother is?
OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME.
I.
In the jolly winters
Of the long-ago,
It was not so cold as now--
O! No! No!
Then, as I remember,
Snowballs, to eat,
Were as good as apples now,
And every bit as sweet!
II.
In the jolly winters
Of the dead-and-gone,
Bub was warm as summer,
With his red mitts on,--
Just in his little waist-
And-pants all together,
Who ever heard him growl
About cold weather?
III.
In the jolly winters of the long-ago--
Was it _half_ so cold as now?
O! No! No!
Who caught his death o' cold,
Making prints of men
Flat-backed in snow that now's
Twice as cold again?
IV.
In the jolly winters
Of the dead-and-gone,
Startin' out rabbit-hunting
Early as the dawn,--
Who ever froze his fingers,
Ears, heels, or toes,--
Or'd a cared if he had?
Nobody knows!
V.
Nights by the kitchen-stove,
Shelling white and red
Corn in the skillet, and
Sleepin' four abed!
Ah! the jolly winters
Of the long-ago!
We were not so old as now--
O! No! No!
THREE DEAD FRIENDS.
Always suddenly they are gone--
The friends we trusted and held secure--
Suddenly we are gazing on,
Not a _smiling_ face, but the marble-pure
Dead mask of a face that nevermore
To a smile of ours will make reply--
The lips close-locked as the eyelids are--
Gone--swift as the flash of the molten ore
A meteor pours through a midnight sky,
Leaving it blind of a single star.
Tell us, O Death, Remorseless Might!
What is this old, unescapable ire
You wreak on us?--from the birth of light
Till the world be charred to a core of fire!
We do no evil thing to you--
We seek to evade you--that is all--
That is your will--you will not be known
Of men. What, then, would you have us do?--
Cringe, and wait till your vengeance fall,
And your graves be fed, and the trumpet blown?
You desire no friends; but _we_--O we
Need them so, as we falter here,
Fumbling through each new vacancy,
As each is stricken that we hold dear.
One you struck but a year ago;
And one not a month ago; and one--
(God's vast pity!)--and one lies now
Where the widow wails, in her nameless woe,
And the soldiers pace, with the sword and gun,
Where the comrade sleeps, with the laureled brow.
And what did the first?--that wayward soul,
Clothed of sorrow, yet nude of sin,
And with all hearts bowed in the strange control
Of the heavenly voice of his violin.
Why, it was music the way he _stood_,
So grand was the poise of the head and so
Full was the figure of majesty!--
One heard with the eyes, as a deaf man would,
And with all sense brimmed to the overflow
With tears of anguish and ecstasy.