ANONYMOUS
Examination’s over ’n’ I don’t care if I passed,
An’ I don’t care if I didn’t fer vacation’s come at last!
I thought ’twould never git here, fer the days dragged by as slow
As Davy Jones’s ma, who calls ’n’ don’t know when to go.
Pop says I ort to go to work, but ma says she knows best,
’N’ what a boy of my age needs is just a thurru’ rest.
So me an’ Dave’ll get up every mornin’ bright ’n’ soon,
An’ pitch ’n’ ketch till breakfast, ’n’ bat up flies till noon.
’Cause after dinner every day the Hustlehards—his nine—
Is goin’ to play a series fer the champeenship with mine:
The one behind at dark has got to say the other’s best.
Gee! ain’t I glad vacation’s here ’n’ I got time to rest.
Then I’m a-goin’ to learn the other fellers how to dive,
An’ rassle Billy Potter, best thirteen in twenty-five!
’N’ after supper Dave ’n’ I are goin’ to have a race,
Ten times around the block, ’n’ if I win he’ll bust my face.
That’s what he says! But he’ll find out which one of us is best;
I’m feeling pretty strong now since I’m havin’ such a rest.
There’s goin’ to be a picnic ’n’ you bet yer life I’m goin’;
I’m entered in the swimmin’ race, ’n’ greasy pole, ’n’ rowin’,
The sack race ’n’ potato race are mine, I bet a dime,
’N’ in “the mile” I simply got to win the prize fer time,
’Cause it’s a ticket to the Gym. I like that prize the best,
Fer a feller needs some exercise as well as just a rest.
I’m goin’ to visit Uncle’s farm. He lets me do the chores
’N’ work just like the farm-hands do, right in the fields out-doors.
I’m goin’ to git a bag to punch, so’s I won’t git too fat:
We’re goin’ to have a six-day race—I got to train fer that.
I want to do so many things, I don’t know which is best;
I bet vacation’s over ’fore I get a thurru’ rest!
NO SHOOTIN’ OFF THIS YEAR
ANONYMOUS
There ain’t no Declaration. Naw
There ain’t no Fourth-July.
There ain’t no “free ’n’ equal” law,
’N’ Washin’ton could lie.
They never dumped no Boston tea;
It’s fakey, all you hear,
Fer pop says there ain’t goin’ to be
No shootin’ off this year.
They talk about pertectin’ us
To keep the Fourth in peace;
But we ain’t makin’ any fuss,
Ner askin’ fer police.
We ain’t afraid of smoke ’n’ noise,
Er little lumps of lead;
’N’ why should they blame livin’ boys
Because some boys is dead?
It ain’t my fault the fuse went out
’N’ Tom went up ’n’ blew;
Besides he’s just as well without
His extry ear er two.
They cut off Oscar’s leg, but he
Don’t seem to miss it much;
He’d beat us hoppin’ yet, if we
’Ud let him use his crutch.
It ain’t my fault that Willie blew
His hand off, like a chump;
I told him what those big ones do;
He needn’t ’a’ took the stump.
It ain’t my fault a rocket flies
’N’ hits some him er her;
Somebody’s got to wear glass eyes;
That’s what glass eyes is fer!
It ain’t my fault the stuff was bad
They made Jim’s pistol of;
Besides the preacher said, “We’re glad
He’s happier up above!”
Bet I’d be happier, anyhow,
Most any place but here,
Where they ain’t goin’ to allow
No shootin’ off this year!
HAUL AWAY, JOE
BY CHARLES KEELER
O Oi wuz a loafin’ lubber but bedad I learned to wurrk
Whin Oi loighted out o’ County Corrk along wid Paddy Burrke.
We stowed abarrd a coaster an’ her skipper wuz a brick;
Begorrah if yez didn’t moind, he’d boost yez wid a kick!
Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!
Th’ pigs wuz lane in County Corrk, th’ men all starrved on taties,
But Oi shipped upon a Yankee barrk, and better, faith, me fate is!
Och Oi hed an Irish darlint, but she ghrew so fat an’ lazy
Thet Oi bounced her fur a Yankee gurrl, an’ surre but she’s a daisy!
Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!
O since Oi lift auld Ireland Oi’ve poaked thro’ miny plaices,
Oi’ve wurrked me way, Oi’ve arrned me pay at haalin’ shates an’ braces;
On farrin’ shorres Oi’ve sot me eye on gurrls iv iv’ry nashin,
Me Yankee gurrl hes ne’er a mate throughhout th’ woid creashin!
Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!
—Copyright by the publisher, _A. M. Robertson_, San Francisco, and used
by his kind permission.
BLACK SAILORS’ CHANTY
BY CHARLES KEELER
Yo ho, ma hahties, da’s a hurricane a-brewin’,
Fo’ de cook he hasn’t nuffin fo’ de sailah-men a-stewin’,—
He am skulkin’ in his bunk, am dat niggah of a cook,
An’ his chaowdah ’m in de ocean while de pot am on de hook.
You can chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick,
But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum when de cook am lyin’ sick.
Ah remembah in de cane-fiel’ we hed pone-cakes ebry day;
Slack yo line a bit, ma hahties! pull away! pull away!
An’ Ah ’low Ah’m feelin’ homesick, jes’ t’ mention ob ma honey,—
She’s a libbin’ at de cabin an’ she’s out o’ cloes an’ money.
While we chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick,
But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum while de cook am lyin’ sick.
O ma po’ neglected Liza an’ her piccaninny Jo,
Ah’s ben roamin’ sence Ah left her case Ah wanted fo’ to go!
Ah’s ben hustlin’ roun’ de islands, navigatin’ all de sea,
While ma honey specs a hungry shark done stuff hisself wid me.
While we chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick,
But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum while de cook am lyin’ sick.
—Copyright by the publisher, _A. M. Robertson_, San Francisco; and used
by his kind permission.
JOSIAH AND SYMANTHY
BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS
Josiah loved Symanthy
And Symanthy loved Josi’,
Which you couldn’t fail to notice
In the rollin’ of the eye;
But they never told each other,
On account o’ bein’ shy,
’Pears to me!
But they kept right on a-lovin’
Jes like any couple would.
Weren’t no reason why they shouldn’t,
Ner no reason why they should,
’Cause there wa’n’t no p’ints about ’em
Cupid reckoned on as good,
’Pears to me!
Now this love disease is mortal,
’Cause it tackles mortals so,
An’ the oftener you have it
The worse it seems to grow;
More you try to hide the symptoms,
More the symptoms seem to show,
’Pears to me!
Josiah was uneasy
When Symanthy wasn’t near,
An’ he got still more uneasy
Whenever she’d appear.
But sittin’ down beside ’er
Got his joints clean out o’ gear,
’Pears to me!
He put his arm behind ’er,
An’ then he pulled it back
Until Symanthy giggled:
“Guess yer gittin’ on the track
By the way yer flusticatin’;
Kind a-lookin’ fer a smack,
’Pears to me!”
Then Josiah stopped a minute,
Jes consid’rin’ how ’twould be
An’ how best to go about it,
’Cause he hadn’t much idee;
But he knew ’twas waitin’ fer him,
By Symanthy’s shy _te-he_!
’Pears to me!
Then Symanthy got pretending,
She was bitin’ off her thumb,
But she wasn’t—she was waitin’
For whatever chose to come;
While Josiah’s tongue kept rollin’
In his cheek, like chewin’-gum,
’Pears to me!
When Josiah was persuaded
That Symanthy wouldn’t shout,
Wa’n’t a-jokin’, ner a-foolin’,
Ner a-fixin’ to back out,—
Then he buckled up his courage:
Kissed her cheek or thereabout,
’Pears to me!
Then he asked ’er if she’d have him,
An’ she answered: “What d’ ye guess?”
Said he wa’n’t no good at guessin’;
So she smiled an’ snickered: “Yes!
Since I git ye all fer nothin’
I couldn’t do no less,
’Pears to me!”
When the Squire asked ’em the questions—
On the weddin’-day they set—
Which some people answer quickly
An’ about as soon forget,—
Symanthy said: “I reckin!”
An’ Josiah said: “You bet!”
’Pears to me!
When they took their weddin’ journey
Up an’ down the city street,
Josiah told Symanthy
That he guessed they’d have a treat:
So they went an’ got some oysters—
What they never yet had eat,
’Pears to me!
Then Josiah, sort o’ thinkin’,
Said: “I thought they had a shell;
What the slipp’ry things resemble
I’ll be switched if I can tell;
An’ they look so pale an’ sickly
Kind o’ reckon they ain’t well,
’Pears to me!”
“I wonder how they eat ’em?”
Said Symanthy, “How’d I know?
I’ve eat everythin’ that you have
Ever since you’ve been my beau!
But I’ll bet a cent ye dasn’t
Put one in an’ let ’er go!
’Pears to me!”
While Symanthy eat the crackers
Josiah let one slip;
Said it didn’t taste like nothin’;
Wasn’t ripe; then closed his lip;
Vowed he wouldn’t eat another,
Fear ’twould spile his weddin’ trip,
’Pears to me!
When the tip-expectin’ beggar
Bowed, an’ smilin’ meekly, said:
“Colonel hasn’t feed the waitah!”
Then Josiah jerked his head—
“You can feed on them ’ere oysters
If the pesky things ain’t dead,
’Pears to me!”
—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of
author and publisher.
CHARLIE JONES’S BAD LUCK
BY A. J. WATERHOUSE
(_As discussed by little Willie_)
I don’t care if Charlie Jones
Is better ’an I be;
An’ I don’t care if teacher says
He’s smart ’long side er me;
An’ I don’t care, w’en vis’tors come,
If she on him does call;
He ain’t got measles, like I have—
He don’t have luck at all.
He never had the whoopin’ cough,
Ner mos’ cut off his thumb,
Ner ever fell an’ broke his leg
An’ had a doctor come.
He hardly ever stubs his toe,
An’ if he does, he’ll bawl!
There’s nothin’ special comes to him—
He don’t have luck at all.
An’ I don’t care if he can say
More tex’s an’ things ’an I;
He never burnt both hands to once
’Long ’bout the Fo’th July.
He never had the chicken-pox,
Ner p’isen oak—las’ Fall!
He can’t be proud o’ nothin’ much—
He don’t have luck at all.
—From “Lays for Little Chaps.”
KISSING’S NO SIN
ANONYMOUS
Some say that kissing’s a sin;
But I think it’s nane ava,
For kissing has wonn’d in this warld
Since ever that there was twa.
O, if it wasna lawfu’,
Lawyers wadna allow it;
If it wasna holy,
Ministers wadna do it.
If it wasna modest,
Maidens wadna take it;
If it wasna plenty,
Puir folks wadna get it.
IF I DARST
BY EUGENE FIELD
I’d like to be a cowboy, an’ ride a firey hoss
Way out into the big and boundless West;
I’d kill the bears an’ catamounts an’ wolves I come across,
An’ I’d pluck the bal’ head eagle from his nest!
With my pistol at my side,
I would roam the prarers wide,
An’ to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride—
If I darst; but I darsen’t.
I’d like to go to Afriky an’ hunt the lions there,
An’ the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw!
I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair,
An’ beard the cannybull that eats folks raw.
I’d chase the pizen snakes
An’ the pottimus that makes
His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes—
If I darst; but I darsen’t.
I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue,
With a big black flag a-flyin’ overhead;
I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew,
An’ dye the sea a gouty, gory red.
With my cutlass in my hand
On the quarterdeck I’d stand
And to deeds of heroism I’d incite my pirut band—
If I darst; but I darsen’t.
And, if I darst, I’d lick my pa for the times that he’s licked me,
I’d lick my brother an’ my teacher, too,
I’d lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea,
An’ I’d keep on lickin’ folks till I got through.
You bet. I’d run away
From my lessons to my play,
An’ I’d shoo the hens, and tease the cat, an’ kiss the girls all day—
If I darst; but I darsen’t.
DERNDEST GAL I EVER KNOWED
BY HERBERT BASHFORD
Derndest gal I ever knowed,
Neatest gal I ever seen,
Lived down in the Red Ravine
Jest below the county road,
Guess she wuz about sixteen—
Sophy wuz her name, an’ she
Wuz ez cute ez cute kin be.
When I’d go t’ town I brung
Her the biggest lot o’ stuff,
Pop-corn, likrish, ’n’ enough
Candy fer t’ fill a room.
Once she hit me with a broom
Cuz I kissed her on the cheek,
An’ the midget wouldn’t speak
T’ me fer, perhaps, a week.
When I’d raise my eyes to hern
Jeminny! my cheeks ’ud burn
An’ git redder ’n’ a beet.
Oh, she looked jest powerful sweet!
When I’d try to call her dear,
Why, I’d feel so doggoned queer
That I’d lean ag’in’ th’ fence
’Zif I didn’ hev no sense,
Twist th’ buttons on my vest,
Ast her who she liked th’ best,
Ast her if it wuzn’t Bill,
Er old Jones thet run th’ mill,
Keep a-hintin’ ’round, yuh see,
Till she’d up an’ say ’twuz me.
I wuz jellus o’ Jim Pike,
Jellus ez th’ very deuce
Though there didn’t seem much use,
Fer his freckles wuz so thick,
An’ his hair wuz so like brick
Thet a feller one day said
Yuh could toast a hunk o’ bread
Ef yuh’d hold it nigh his head.
He wuz awkarder’n sin,
Never fished along the crick
But he’d hev t’ tumble in.
Sophy ’peared t’ pity Jim,
While I thought if I wuz him
I’d go off ’n’ hide somewhere,
Else put plaster on my hair.
But this homely, lantern-jawed
Lookin’ cuss stood ’round ’n’ chawed
On a plug o’ terbacker
Half his time ’n’ talked t’ her
Of his love, till I jest told
Him t’ mosey, an’ he rolled
Up his sleeves ’n’ landed me
Plumb betwixt th’ eyes, then he
Went to Sophy, an’, sir, she
Married him! The pesky mule!
Wuzn’t she a reg’ler fool?
I wuz jest tetotally blowed—
Derndest gal I ever knowed!
—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
ON NEWBRASKY’S FERTILE SHORE
BY HERBERT BASHFORD
Oh, I am so orful humsick! An’ I feel so wretched queer!
Ephrum, he has gone a-ridin’ on a wild eclectric keer,
Rhody—that’s my only darter—she has gone an’ left me, tew,
Both a trapesin’ ’round like ijits—wonder what’s th’ next they’ll do?
They don’t seem to think they’re darin’ Providence right in th’ face,
Ridin’ without hoss er engine ’n’ goin’ at a break-neck pace:
Course I needn’t stand here waitin’, both insisted I should come,
But I vow I’ll not be reckless when I am so fer from hum:
Clear out here by th’ Pacific, jist as fur as we kin git,
An’ if we stay here much longer I declare I’ll hev a fit.
It’s th’ most deceivin’ kentry as ever’ one’ll say
Ever’ drap o’ water salty in th’ hull o’ Frisco bay.
Oh, I’ve tramped these pesky sidewalks till my feet is lame an’ sore,
An’ a-yearnin’ ever’ minute fur Newbrasky’s fertile shore!
Then they brag about their scenery! Californy! Humph! O dear!
Scenery! Well, jest speaking plainly, I don’t see no scenery here:
Nothin’ but the mount’in ranges rarin’ up so ’tarnal high
Thet a buddy kint look nowheres ’cept the middle o’ th’ sky.
Mount’ins, everlastin’ mount’ins, hills ’n’ woods ’n’ rocks ’n’ snow,
Where th’ scenery is they’re braggin’ on I’m th’ one as wants t’ know.
Let ’em stand in Lincoln county jest aback our cowyard fence,
An’ if they don’t say there’s scenery they hain’t got a mite o’ sense;
Why yuh kin look fur miles around yuh an’ see nothin’ but th’ flat
Level prairie in th’ sunshine kivered in its grassy mat.
That is scenery—yuh kin look there jest as fur as yuh kin see
With no hills a-interposin’, er no rocks, er airy tree.
Oh, I’ve told my husband, Ephrum, that I’d gallavant no more
When ag’in I’d sot my foot on old Newbrasky’s fertile shore.
Then I’m worried so ’bout Rhody, fur she’s missin’ ever’ day
All her lessons on th’ melojun that paw bought fur her last May,
An’ she could perform amazin’; she could play “Old Hundred” nice
An’ another song beginnin’ “Happy Day that Fixed My Ch’ice.”
Yes, th’ singin’ teacher told me as we parted at th’ keers,
He was shore she’d play th’ organ in th’ church ’fore many years.
Now her notion’s highkerflutin’, a pianner she wants now,
An’ her paw sez he will get it soon as he kin sell a cow,
Sez he kin dispose o’ Muly—I jest told him no sir-e-e
Not fur no new-fangled nonsense—Muly’s my cow, an’ you see
He’s jest got a spite ag’in her ’cause she’s got a lengthy tail
An’ in fightin’ skeeters sometimes whicks it in th’ milkin’ pail.
Oh, I’ll be the gladdest mortal when I reach th’ kitchen door
Of that dear old farmhouse standin’ on Newbrasky’s fertile shore!
No, I don’t enjoy th’ city where the wimmen folks is dressed
Monday an’ clean through till Saturday all in their Sunday best.
I jest like to ketch my wrapper up ’n’ pin it ’round my waist,
Carin’ not a single copper if my shoe-string comes unlaced,
Then go out an’ milk old Muly an’ turn out th’ spotted calf
While th’ chickens giggle ’round me an’ the speckled roosters laff,
Then go in th’ summer kitchen, set me down an’ churn a spell,
Till time comes t’ put th’ victuals on an’ ring th’ dinner bell.
Yes, I love th’ peaceful quiet o’ th’ farm where it’s so still,
Nothin’ but th’ ducks a-quackin’ ’n’ pigs a-squealin’ fur their swill,
Nothin’ but th’ geese a-clackin’ ’n’ the bawlin’ o’ th’ cows,
An’ th’ nickerin’ o’ th’ hosses as they’re comin’ t’ th’ house;
Oh, I want t’ leave th’ city with its racket an’ its roar
An’ git back there t’ the silence o’ Newbrasky’s fertile shore!
—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
“FUZZY-WUZZY”
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas,
An’ some of ’em was brave an’ some was not:
The paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.
We never got a ha’porth’s change of ’im:
’E squatted in the scrub an’ ’ocked our ’orses,
’E cut our sentries up at Suakim,
An’ ’e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.
So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Sowdan;
You’re a poor benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
We give you your certifikit, and if you want it signed
We’ll come an’ have a romp with you whenever you’re inclined.
We took our chanst among the Kyber hills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman guv us Irriwaddy chills,
An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style;
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We ’eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ’oller.
Then ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went and did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ’ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you bruk the square.
’E ’asn’t got no papers of ’is own,
’E ’asn’t got no medals nor rewards
So we must certify the skill ’e’s shown
In usin’ of ’is long two-handled swords;
When ’e’s ’oppin’ in an’ out among the bush
With ’is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,
A ’appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last a ’ealthy Tommy for a year.
So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which is no more,
If we ’adn’t lost some mess-mates we would help you to deplore;
But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair,
For if you ’ave lost more than us, you crumbled up the square!
’E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An’, before we know, ’e’s ’ackin’ at our ’ead;
’E’s all ’ot sand an’ ginger when alive,
An’ ’e’s generally shammin’ when ’e’s dead.
’E’s a daisy, ’e’s a duck, ’e’s a lamb!
’E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
’E’s the on’y thing that doesn’t care a damn
For the Regiment o’ British Infantree.
So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Sowdan;
You’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
An’ ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ’ayrick ’ead of ’air—
You big black boundin’ beggar—for you bruk a British square.
THOUGHTS FROM BUB
BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER
My name is Bub, ’cuz papa sed
He’d ruther call me so than Ned.
But mamma calls me ’ist her beau—
W’en I am good, I mean, you know.
So, I ’ist hardly knows my name
I guess—I bet ’ist all the same,
I’m papa’s boy an’ mamma’s dear,
An’ I be glad ’ist ’cuz I’m here.
It’s hard to make a name, I s’pose,
W’en they have used ’bout all o’ those
That they have heard or that they’ve read—
O’ course, there’s more w’en people’s dead.
An’ now I wonder if that I
Will leave my name w’en I must die.
I guess it’s so, ’cuz we ’ist call
Angel’s last name for them all.
I’m glad I’m not an angel yet,
Whose names are less than mine, I bet,
Still it must be nice to see
All the folks that used to be.
Oh, my, I don’t know what to say
About my names, ’cuz every day
My mamma finds a new one, too—
I’m ’fraid she’s left no names for you.
The bestest thing in all this worl’
Is, I’m a boy an’ not a girl,
Girls are good as they can be,
But boys are best you must agree.
I guess I’ve tol’ you all I know
From where names come to where they go;
But ’member now ’ist what I sed,
My name is Bub instead o’ Ned.
THE VEGETABLE MAN
BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER
A Chinaman comes to our house each day
Wif horses that’s colored both red an’ gray,
An’ wagon ’ist full of things to eat—
An’ up I climbs on his big high seat.
This Chinaman’s name I cannot tell—
But “veg’table man” will do as well;
For corn an’ beans and cabbage, too,
He grows in the fields for me an’ you.
An’ w’en it’s time to drive to town
He brings his wagon ’ist loaded down
With veg’t’ble things an’ peaches too—
He’ll peel _you_ one if I ask him to.
Gee, but I love this Chinaman;
He stops an’ plays, an’ one day ran
Aroun’ his wagon clear out of sight—
But I found him there an’ held on tight.
Then up he lifts me way up high,
An’ laughs again wif his funny eye—
I forgot to tell that he can see
’Ist half so well as you an’ me.
’Cause one day w’en he’s ’ist a boy
An’ playin’ wif a home-made toy,
It flew aroun’ an’ hit his face,
An’ left that funny open place.
But I don’t care if he is queer,
He sees enough to know I’m here,
An’ finds the time to stop an’ play
W’en I am lonesome through the day.
But ma an’ dad are not so kind
As veg’t’ble man whose eye is blind.
I guess I love them all I can,
But most I love my Chinaman.
IMMIGRATION
BY WALLACE IRWIN
Ezekiel, the Puritan,
Thus lifts his protestation:
“By ginger, I’m American,
And don’t like immigration.
Naow I jest guess I got here fust
And know what I’m abaout,
When I declar’ we’ll all go bust
Or keep them aliens out.”
Max Heidelburg, the German, says:
“Jah also. Right, mein frendt.
If ve dot foreign trash admit
Our woes will nefer endt.
I am Americans as you
Und villing to ge-shout
‘Hurray mit red und vite und plue,
Und kiip dose aliens oudt!’”
Ike Diamondstein, the Jew, exclaims:
“Ah, Izzy, ain’t dat grandt!
Ve Yangees haf such nople aims
Und vill togeder standt,
Ve’ve got der goods, ve’re nach’ralized—
Vat hinters us from shouten
‘Americavich is civilzized,
So keep dose aliens outen!’”
Pietro Garibaldi says:
“Here ever-r-ry man is king.
I catch-a da fun, I mak-a da mon,
I like-a da ever-r-yt’ing.
American he gent-a-man—
Watch-a da Dago shout,
‘Sell-a da fruit, shin-a da boot,
Keep-a da alien out!’”
The Irishman vociferates:
“Sure, Mike, it’s sahft as jelly.
I’ll take the shtick and crack the pates
Of ivery foreign Kelly.
If it’s the call o’ polyticks,
Then I’m the la’ad to shout,
‘Down wid th’ Da-agos an’ th’ Micks,
An’ keep th’ aliens out!’”
But covered with ancestral tan,
Beside his wigwam door,
The only real American
Counts idle talk a bore.
“Ugh! Pale-face man he mighty thief.
Much medicine talk about—
It heap too late for Injun chief
To keep-um alien out.”
PATHETIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY
PASSIN’ BY[11]
BY BOMBARDIER B. BUMPAS
Well, I went an’ joined the army, an’ I done my little bit—
’Ere’s the bloke wot put my pot on; yes, I keeps ’im in my kit—
No, ’e ain’t no proper soft-nose; just the end off on the sly;
’E’s the only one wot got me—but I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by,
God A’mighty! Yes, I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by.
Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a little whistlin’ sigh,
“Nearly got you that time, Sonny, just a little bit too high,”
Or a crack like, “Jack, look out there: Keep yer ’ead down, mind yer
eye!”
But they’re gone an’ far behind yer ’fore you’ll ’ear ’em passin’ by.
Yes, I lay from Toosday mornin’ till the Wensday afternoon;
’En the Black Watch took their trenches ’en it woke me from a swoon.
I was flamin’, nearly mad wi’ thirst an’ pain, an’ fit to cry,
But I cheered ’em as they trampled on me carcus, passin’ by.
God A’mighty! Yes, I cheered ’em as I ’eard ’em passin’ by.
Passin’ by; passin’ by; trippin’, failin’, gettin’ nigh.
Gettin’ nearer to the trenches, ’en you ’eard a Tommy cry:
“Don’t forget the Belgian wimmen, nor the little bairns forbye.”
God! I wouldn’t be a German when them men was passin’ by.
Then they gathered us together an’ they sorted out the worst—
Wot they called the “stretcher cases”—and they ’tended to us first,
They was overworked an’ crowded, an’ the Doc ’ud give a sigh—
“Hopeless, that case”—“that one, also”—speakin’ softly, passin’ by.
God! They watched ’im, silent, suff’rin’, watchin’, hopin’—passin’ by.
Passin’ by; passin’ by; curt command an’ stifled sigh,
For it ain’t no place for drama, an’ a man ’as got ter die;
’En I thought I ’eard a whimper an’ a little soft reply—
“Greater love than this hath no man”—some one speakin’ passin’ by.
So they ships me off to “Blighty,” ’en they sticks me in a ward,
I was short a leg an’ peeper, but they treats me like a lord.
I’d allus bin a lonely bloke, an’ so I used ter lie
An’ watch the fren’s of other men continual passin’ by,
Sisters, children, wives, an’ mothers, everlastin’ passin’ by.
Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a smile or with a sigh;
With their cigarettes an’ matches, flowers or shirt or pipe or tie;
An’ one ’ud sometimes talk an’ speak—I used ter wonder why—
Cos I ain’t no blame Adonis, not ter notice, passin’ by.
I’m thinkin’ if the angels ’ave a Union Jack around,
An’ sticks it somewhere prominent when Gabriel starts to sound,
The people round that flag will be ’most half the hosts on high—
The men who’ve passed, or waits to pass, or now are passin’ by,
Big ’earted men an’ wimmen, white an’ black, a-passin’ by.
Passin’ by; passin’ by; just to keep that flag on high,
An’ all that flag ’as stood for in the days that’s now gone by;
An’ when they pass before, I’m sure ’E’ll listen to their cry,
An’ ’E’ll treat ’em very gentle, an’ forgive ’em, passin’ by.
JEANIE MORRISON
BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL
I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The luve o’ life’s young day!
The fire that’s blawn on Beltanes e’en
May weel be black ’gin Yule;
But blacker fa’ awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o’ bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi’ tears:
They blind my een wi’ saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o’ langsyne.
’Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
’Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time,—sad time! twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
’Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones and looks and smiles were shed,
Remembered evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin’ cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi’ ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.
O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi’ shame,
Whene’er the scule-weans, laughin’, said
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o’ the Saturdays,
(The scule then skail’t at noon,)
When we ran off the speel the braes,—
The broomy braes o’ June?
My head rins round and round about,—
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O’ scule-time and o’ thee.
O mornin’ life! O mornin’ luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like summer blossoms sprang!
O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin’ dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin’ o’ the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,—
And we, with Nature’s heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o’ joy, till baith
Wi’ very gladness grat.
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled,—unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae bin to thee
As closely twined wi’ earliest thocts
As ye hae been to me?
O, tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine!
O, say gin e’er your heart grows grit
Wi’ dreamings o’ langsyne?
I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west,
I’ve borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luv o’ life’s young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young
I’ve never seen your face, nor heard
The music o’ your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O’ bygone days and me!
CUDDLE DOON
BY ALEXANDER ANDERSON
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ muckle faught an’ din;
“Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrief rogues,
Your faither’s comin’ in.”
They never heed a word I speak;
I try to gie a froon,
But aye I hap them up an’ cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”
Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid—
He aye sleeps next the wa’—
Bangs up an’ cries, “I want a piece;”
The rascal starts them a’.
I rin an’ fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop awee the soun’,
Then draw the blankets up an’ cry,
“Noo, weanies, cuddle doon.”
But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries out, frae neath the claes,
“Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at once,
He’s kittlin’ wi’ his taes.”
The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks,
He’d bother half the toon,
But aye I hap them up and cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”
At length they hear their faither’s fit,
An’ as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa’,
While Tam pretends to snore.
“Hae a’ the weans been gude?” he asks,
As he pits off his shoon;
“The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
An’ lang since cuddled doon.”
And just afore we bed oorsels,
We look at our wee lambs;
Tam has his airm roun’ wee Rab’s neck,
And Rab his airm round Tam’s.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An’ as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me;
But soon the big warl’s cark an’ care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet, come what will to ilka ane,
May He who rules aboon
Aye whisper, though their pows be beld
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”
THE PATRIOT
BY ROBERT BROWNING
(_An Old Story_)
It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.
The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels—
But give me your sun from yonder skies!”
They had answered “And afterward, what else?”
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.
There’s nobody on the house-tops now
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet,
By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.
I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.
Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
“Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me?” God might question; now instead,
’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.
ANNABEL LEE
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee,
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
THE LOVER OF ANNABEL LEE
BY EDWIN D. CASTERLINE
Often I think of the beautiful soul,
The soul of Annabel Lee,
And the man who loved, in the years gone by,
The soul of Annabel Lee—
His beautiful bride, who sleeps by his side,
By the shores of the sounding sea.
They say he was mad, but the world was mad,
More mad and more wrong than he,
For the soul was true that loved the soul
Of the wondrous Annabel Lee,
And the touch of that love was the love that made
The soul of her lover free.
In the days gone by, in the wreck of things,
From the wave of Life’s wide sea,
They were carried beyond by their kinsmen high,
He and his Annabel Lee;
Her heart was pure, too pure for the world
That chills the heart of the free—
And his was a life that chilled with the life
That passed from Annabel Lee.
But the angels are good; in heaven above
They gather the wrecks of the sea,
They gather the gold from the wrecks of love,
And the soul in its purity free—
So this is what they’ve done with the love
Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.
I’ve stood in the room where they lived and loved,
And my soul touched the Life to be,
And I felt the spell of the hidden light
That lived in Annabel Lee;
And I felt the hand of the man she loved,
(That she loved far better than we,)
And down in my soul the double soul
Awoke the God in me.
So down in my dreams I follow the beams
Of Poe and his Annabel Lee,
And deep in the night I see the pure light
That flashes and quivers to me.
Away in the years where the Future stands,
In the world that is to be,
I know that my hands will clasp the hands
Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.
THE BURIED HEART
BY DENNAR STEWART
“I sleep, but my heart waketh.”
Tread lightly, love, when over my head,
Beneath the daisies lying,
And tenderly press the grassy bed
Where the fallen rose lies dying.
Dreamless I sleep in the quiet ground,
Save when, your foot-fall hearing,
My heart awakes to the old-loved sound
And beats to the step that’s nearing.
Bright shone the moon, last eve, when you came—
Still, dust for dust hath feeling—
The willow-roots whispered low the name
Of him who weeps while kneeling.
The lily-cup holds the falling tears,
The tears you shed above me;
And I know through all these silent years
There’s some one still to love me.
Oh, softly sigh; for I hear the sound
And grieve me o’er your sorrow;
But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound—
I’ll give it back to-morrow.
Whisper me, love, as in moments fled,
While I dream your hand mine taketh;
For the stone speaks false that says, “She’s dead;”
I sleep, but my heart awaketh.
BREAK! BREAK! BREAK!
BY ALFRED TENNYSON
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor-lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But, O, for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
BESIDE THE DEAD
BY INA COOLBRITH
(_One of the finest sonnets in the English language_)
It must be sweet, O thou, my dead, to lie
With hands that folded are from every task;
Sealed with the seal of the great mystery,
The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask.
The life-long struggle ended; ended quite
The weariness of patience, and of pain,
And the eyes closed to open not again
On desolate dawn or dreariness of night.
It must be sweet to slumber and forget;
To have the poor tired heart so still at last:
Done with all yearning, done with all regret,
Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all forever past:
Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet—
It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!
—From “Songs of the Golden Gate,” copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._,
and used by kind permission of author and publisher.
ROCKING THE BABY
BY MADGE MORRIS WAGNER
I hear her rocking the baby—
Her room is just next to mine—
And I fancy I feel the dimpled arms
That round her neck entwine,
As she rocks, and rocks the baby,
In the room just next to mine.
I hear her rocking the baby
Each day when the twilight comes,
And I know there’s a world of blessing and love
In the “baby bye” she hums.
I see the restless fingers
Playing with “mamma’s rings,”
And the sweet little smiling, pouting mouth,
That to hers in kissing clings,
As she rocks and sings to the baby,
And dreams as she rocks and sings.
I hear her rocking the baby,
Slower and slower now,
And I know she is leaving her good-night kiss
On its eyes, and cheek, and brow.
From her rocking, rocking, rocking,
I wonder would she start,
Could she know, through the wall between us,
She is rocking on a heart,
While my empty arms are aching
For a form they may not press,
And my emptier heart is breaking
In its desolate loneliness?
I list to the rocking, rocking,
In the room just next to mine,
And breathe a prayer in silence,
At a mother’s broken shrine,
For the woman who rocks the baby
In the room just next to mine.
—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
PUT FLOWERS ON MY GRAVE
BY MADGE MORRIS WAGNER
When dead, no imposing funeral rite,
Nor line of praise I crave;
But drop your tears upon my face—
Put flowers on my grave.
Close not in narrow wall the place
In which my heart finds rest,
Nor mark with tow’ring monument
The sod above my breast.
Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab
A burning thought or deed.
Or word of love, or praise, or blame,
For stranger eyes to read.
But deep, deep in your heart of hearts,
A tender mem’ry save;
Upon my dead face drop your tears—
Put flowers on my grave.
—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES
BY CHARLES LAMB
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert thou not born in my father’s dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces—
How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I FEEL I’M GROWING AULD, GUDE-WIFE
BY JAMES LINEN
I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—
I feel I’m growing auld;
My steps are frail, my een are bleared,
My pow is unco bauld.
I’ve seen the snaws o’ fourscore years
O’er hill and meadow fa’,
And hinnie! were it no’ for you,
I’d gladly slip awa’.
I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—
I feel I’m growing auld;
Frae youth to age I’ve keepit warm
The love that ne’er turned cauld.
I canna bear the dreary thocht
That we maun sindered be;
There’s naething binds my poor auld heart
To earth, gude-wife, but thee.
I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—
I feel I’m growing auld;
Life seems to me a wintry waste,
The very sun feels cauld.
Of worldly frien’s ye’ve been to me,
Amang them a’ the best;
Now, I’ll lay down my weary head,
Gude-wife, and be at rest.
DA THIEF[12]
BY T. A. DALY
Eef poor man goes
An’ steals a rose
Een Juna-time—
Wan leetla rose—
You gon’ su’pose
Dat dat’s a crime?
Eh! w’at? Den taka look at me,
For here bayfore your eyes you see
Wan thief, dat ees so glad an’ proud
He gona brag of eet out loud!
So moocha good I do, an’ feel,
From dat wan leetle rose I steal,
Dat eef I gon’ to jail to-day
Dey no could tak’ my joy away.
So, leesen! here ees how eet come:
Las’ night w’en I am walkin’ home
From work een hotta ceety street
Ees sudden com’ a smal so sweet
Eet maka heaven een my nose—
I look an’ dere I see da rose!
Not wan, but manny, fine an’ tall,
Dat peep at me above da wall.
So, then, I close my eyes an’ find
Anudder peecture een my mind;
I see a house dat’s small an’ hot
Where many pretta theengs ees not,
Where leetla woman, good an’ true,
Ees work so hard da whole day through,
She’s too wore out, w’en com’s da night,
For smile an’ mak’ da housa bright.
But presto! now I’m home, an’ she
Ees seetin’ on da step weeth me.
Bambino, sleepin’ on her breast,
Ees nevva know more sweeta rest,
An’ nevva was sooch glad su’prise
Like now ees shina from her eyes;
An’ all baycause to-night she wear
Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair.
She ees so please’! Eet mak’ me feel
I shoulda sooner learned to steal!
Eef “thief’s” my name
I feel no shame;
Eet ees no crime—
Dat rose I got.
Eh! w’at? O! not
Een Juna-time!
—Copyright 1912, by _David McKay_, and used by kind permission of author
and publisher.
THE SAND STORM
BY LOWELL OTUS REESE
We are thirsty, Pedro mio! and the heat waves leap and beat
Where the Spanish daggers quiver in the mighty desert heat,
And the aching eye looks longing from Old Baldy to the east,
Where the Panamint is crouching like some ugly, hidden beast;
’Tis a hell-wind, Pedro mio! and it beats the sandy hail;
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail.
Oh, the loneliness of nature when she turns on you her frown!
When you feel no eye upon you, save the fierce sun glaring down,
Searing death into your body and despair into your soul,
As you reel across the desert with the sky-line for your goal;
When the breath begins to falter and the step begins to fail,
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
Oh, the awfulness of Nature when she turns on you her frown!
When an unseen hand above you is forever pressing down!
When across the hungry desert flames the scorching sword of Death,
And the eyes and lips are blackened in the Spirit’s blighting breath!
Oh, the agony of dying, when the step begins to fail,
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
Oh, the dry and flying sand that stings to fever cheek and brow!
Rain of Hell, O, Pedro mio! and the flame is on us now!
Spiral Phantoms on the desert writhe and wriggle slowly by,
Reaching earthward from the bosom from the black and yellow sky;
Oh, the spiral specters writhing where the yuccas beat and flail,
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
I have seen it, Pedro mio!—seen it dimly through the wrack!—
Over there beyond the basin where the cloud is whirling black!
Streams of water, peaceful meadows and the shade of bending trees,
Stirring gently—ah, so gently! in the coolest summer breeze.
Let us turn aside and rest there from the fury of the gale;
For the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
Faster—faster, Pedro mio!—for the blood is in my eyes!
I would reach the blessed water ere it o’er my vision dries!
For it thunders in my temples the tumultuous refrain
Of a mountain torrent singing to the first November rain!
Stumble—stumble—onward—farther from the desiccating hail
Where the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
We have fallen, Pedro mio! and the vision fair is gone;
But above us and around us yet the tempest hurtles on;
Hark! a swirling raven settles with a flap of twisted wings;
And I seem to feel about us many crawling, creeping things!
We have fallen, Pedro mio! Hark the raging of the gale!
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
I am dying, Pedro mio! and I fain would go to sleep.
Faugh! the raven ’lights upon me! and the frightened lizards creep
With a rush of tiny claws across my swollen lips! and swift
O’er my breast, a burning blanket, rushing sand-waves eager drift;
We are dying, Pedro mio! in the awful desert gale!
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!
NATHAN HALE
BY FRANCIS M. FINCH
To drum-beat and heart-beat,
A soldier marches by:
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye,
Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat
In a moment he must die.
By starlight and moonlight,
He seeks the Briton’s camp;
He hears the rustling flag,
And the arm’d sentry’s tramp;
And the starlight and moonlight
His silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread
He scans the tented line;
And he counts the battery guns
By the gaunt and shadowy pine;
And his slow tread and still tread
Gives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave,
It meets his eager glance;
And it sparkles ’neath the stars,
Like the glimmer of a lance;—
A dark wave, a plumed wave;
On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a steel clang,
And terror in the sound!
For the sentry, falcon-eyed,
In the camp a spy hath found;
With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, steady brow,
He listens to his doom;
In his look there is no fear,
Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;
But with calm brow and steady brow
He robes him for the tomb.
In the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
E’en the solemn Word of God!
In the long night, the still night,
He walks where Christ hath trod.
’Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,
He dies upon the tree;
And he mourns that he can lose
But one life for Liberty;
And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,
His spirit-wings are free.
But his last words, his message-words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die,
With his last words, his dying words,
A soldier’s battle-cry.
From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
From monument and urn,
The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf
The name of Hale shall burn!
MOTHER AND POET
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
(_Turin, after news from Gaeta, 1861_)
Dead! One of them shot in the sea by the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the sea!
Dead! both my boys! when you sit at the feast,
And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said;
But this woman, this, who is agonized here,—
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
Forever instead.
What art can a woman be good at? O, vain!
What art _is_ she good at, but hurting her breast
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed,
And I proud, by that test.
What art’s for a woman? to hold on her knees
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat
Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees
And ’broider the long-clothes and neat little coat!
To dream and to doat!
To teach them.... It stings there! I made them, indeed,
Speak plain the word _country_. I taught them, no doubt,
That a country’s a thing men should die for at need.
I prated of liberty, rights, and about
The tyrant cast out.
And when their eyes flashed.... O my beautiful eyes!...
I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels
Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise
When one sits quite alone!—Then one weeps, then one kneels!
God, how the house feels!
At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled
With my kisses,—of camp-life and glory, and how
They both loved me, and, soon coming home to be spoiled,
In return would fan off every fly from my brow
With their green laurel-bough.
Then was triumph at Turin: “Ancona was free!”
And some one came out of the cheers in the street,
With a face pale as stone, to say something to me,—
My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet,
While they cheered in the street.
I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained
To the height he had gained.
And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand: “I was not to faint,—
One loved me for two—would be with me ere long:
And ‘Viva l’Italia!’ he died for, our saint,
Who forbids our complaint!”
My Nanni would add, “He was safe, and aware
Of a presence that turned off the balls,—was impressed
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,
And how ’twas impossible, quite dispossessed,
To live on for the rest.”
On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta!—_Shot._
_Tell His Mother._ Ah, ah, “his,” “their” mother,—not “mine,”
No voice says “my mother” again to me. What!
You think Guido forgot?
Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven,
They drop earth’s affections, conceive not of woe?
I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so
The above and below.
O Christ of the seven wounds, who look’dst through the dark
To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray,
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away,
And no last word to say!
Both boys dead? but that’s out of nature. We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.
’Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall;
And, when Italy’s made, for what end is it done,
If we have not a son?
Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta’s taken, what then?
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men?
When the guns of Cavalli with final retort
Have cut the game short;
When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee,
When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red,
When you have your country from mountain to sea,
When King Victor has Italy’s crown on his head
(And _I_ have my dead),—
What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,
And burn your lights faintly! _My_ country is _there_,
Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow:
My Italy’s THERE,—with my brave civic pair,
To disfranchise despair!
Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength,
And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn;
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length
Into wail such as this,—and we sit on forlorn
When the man-child is born.
Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the sea!
Both! both my boys! If in keeping the feast,
You want a great song for your Italy free,
Let none look at me!
DORA
With farmer Allan, at the farm, abode William and Dora. William was his
son, and she his niece. He often looked at them and thought, “I’ll make
them man and wife.” Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all, and yearned
towards William; but the youth, because he had always been with her in
the house, thought not of Dora.
Then there came a day when Allan called his son, and said, “My son, I
married late, but I wish to see my grandchild on my knees before I die:
and I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she
is well to look at, thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother’s
daughter: he and I had once hard words, and parted, and he died in
foreign lands; but for his sake I cared for his daughter Dora: take her
for your wife; for I have wished this marriage, night and day, for many
years.”
But William answered short: “I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not
marry Dora.”
Then the old man was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: “You will
not, boy! You dare to answer thus? But in my time a father’s word was
law, and so it shall be now for you. Look to it; consider, William: take
a month to think, and let me have an answer to my wish, or by the Lord
that made me, you shall pack, and never more darken my doors again.”
But William answered madly; bit his lips, and broke away. The more he
looked at her the less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; but Dora
bore them meekly. Then, before the month was out he left his father’s
house, and hired himself to work within the fields; and, half in love,
half spite, he wooed and wed a laborer’s daughter, Mary Morrison.
When the wedding bells were ringing, Allan called his niece and said:
“My girl, I love you well; but if you speak with him who was my son, or
change a word with her he calls his wife, my home is none of yours. My
will is law.” And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, “It cannot
be: my uncle’s mind will change!” And days went on, and there was born
a boy to William; then distresses came on him, and day by day he passed
his father’s gate, heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora
stored what little she could save, and sent it them by stealth, nor did
they know who sent it; till at last a fever seized on William, and in
harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat and looked with
tears upon her boy, and thought hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
“I have obeyed my uncle until now, and I have sinned, for it was all
through me this evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the
sake of him that’s gone, and for your sake, the woman that he chose, and
for this orphan, I am come to you. You know there has not been for these
five years so full a harvest: let me take the boy, and I will set him in
my uncle’s eye among the wheat; that when his heart is glad of the full
harvest, he may see the boy, and bless him for the sake of him that’s
gone.” And Dora took the child and went her way across the wheat, and sat
upon a mound that was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer
came into the field and spied her not; for none of all his men dare tell
him Dora waited with the child. And Dora would have risen and gone to
him, but her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped, and the sun fell,
and all the land was dark.
But when the morrow came, she rose and took the child once more, and sat
upon the mound; and made a little wreath of all the flowers that grew
about, and tied it round his hat to make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye.
Then when the farmer passed into the field he spied her, and he left his
men at work, and came and said: “Where were you yesterday? Whose child is
that? What are you doing here?”
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, and answered softly, “This is
William’s child!”
“And did I not,” said Allan, “did I not forbid you, Dora?”
Dora said again: “Do with me as you will, but take the child, and bless
him for the sake of him that’s gone!”
And Allan said, “I see it is a trick got up betwixt you and the woman
there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law,
and yet you dared to slight it. Well!—for I will take the boy; but go you
hence, and never see me more.”
So saying he took the boy that cried aloud and struggled hard. The wreath
of flowers fell at Dora’s feet. She bowed over her hands, and the boy’s
cry came to her from the field, more and more distant. She bowed down her
head, remembering the day when first she came, and all the things that
had been. She bowed down and wept in secret; and the reapers reaped, and
the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary’s house,
and stood upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy was not with Dora. She
broke out in praise to God, that helped her in her widowhood. And Dora
said, “My uncle took the boy; but, Mary, let me live and work with you;
he says that he will never see me more.”
Then answered Mary, “This shall never be, that thou shouldst take my
trouble on thyself: and, now I think, he shall not have the boy, for he
will teach him hardness, and to slight his mother; therefore thou and I
will go, and I will have my boy, and bring him home; and I will beg of
him to take thee back: but if he will not take thee back again, then thou
and I will live within one house, and work for William’s child, until he
grows of age to help us.”
So the women kissed each other, and set out, and reached the farm. The
door was off the latch: they peeped and saw the boy set up betwixt
his grandsire’s knees, who thrust him in the hollows of his arms, and
clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, like one that loved him: and
the lad stretched out and babbled for the golden seal that hung from
Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in: but when the
boy beheld his mother, he cried out to come to her: and Allan set him
down, and Mary said: “O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came
a-begging for myself, or William, or this child; but now I come for Dora:
take her back, she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at
peace with all men; for I asked him, and he said he could not ever rue
his marrying me—I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said that he was
wrong to cross his father thus: ‘God bless him!’ he said, ‘and may he
never know the troubles I have gone through!’ Then he turned his face and
passed—unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you will
make him hard, and he will learn to slight his father’s memory; and take
Dora back, and let all be as it was before.”
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face by Mary. There was silence in the
room; and all at once the old man burst in sobs: “I have been to blame—to
blame. I have killed my son. I have killed him—but I loved him—my dear
son. May God forgive me! I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children.”
Then they clung about the old man’s neck, and they kissed him many
times. And Allan was broken with remorse; and all his love came back a
hundred-fold; and for three hours he sobbed o’er William’s child thinking
of William. So those four abode in one house together; and as years went
forward, Mary took another mate; but Dora lived unmarried until her death.
THE FAMINE[13]
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
O the long and dreary Winter!
O the cold and cruel Winter!
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker,
Froze the ice on lake and river,
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper
Fell the snow o’er all the landscape,
Fell the covering snow, and drifted
Through the forest, round the village.
Hardly from his buried wigwam
Could the hunter force a passage;
With his mittens and his snow-shoes
Vainly walked he through the forest,
Sought for bird or beast and found none,
Saw no track of deer or rabbit,
In the snow beheld no footprints,
In the ghastly, gleaming forest
Fell, and could not rise from weakness,
Perished there from cold and hunger.
O the famine and the fever!
O the wasting of the famine!
O the blasting of the fever!
O the wailing of the children!
O the anguish of the women!
All the earth was sick and famished;
Hungry was the air around them,
Hungry was the sky above them,
And the hungry stars in heaven
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!
Into Hiawatha’s wigwam
Came two other guests, as silent
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy;
Waited not to be invited,
Did not parley at the doorway,
Sat there without word of welcome
In the seat of Laughing Water;
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow
At the face of Laughing Water.
And the foremost said: “Behold me!
I am Famine, Bukadawin!”
And the other said: “Behold me!
I am Fever, Ahkosewin!”
And the lovely Minnehaha
Shuddered as they looked upon her,
Shuddered at the words they uttered,
Lay down on her bed in silence,
Hid her face, but made no answer;
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning
At the looks they cast upon her,
At the fearful words they uttered.
Forth into the empty forest
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha;
In his heart was deadly sorrow,
In his face a stony firmness;
On his brow the sweat of anguish
Started, but it froze and fell not.
Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting,
With his mighty bow of ash-tree,
With his quiver full of arrows,
With his mittens, Minjekahwun,
Into the vast and vacant forest
On his snow-shoes strode he forward.
“Gitche Manito, the Mighty!”
Cried he with his face uplifted
In that bitter hour of anguish,
“Give your children food, O Father!
Give us food, or we must perish!
Give me food for Minnehaha,
For my dying Minnehaha!”
Through the far-resounding forest,
Through the forest vast and vacant
Rang that cry of desolation,
But there came no other answer
Than the echo of his crying,
Than the echo of the woodlands,
“Minnehaha! Minnehaha!”
All day long roved Hiawatha
In that melancholy forest,
Through the shadow of whose thickets,
In the pleasant days of Summer,
Of that ne’er forgotten Summer,
He had brought his young wife homeward
From the land of the Dacotahs;
When the birds sang in the thickets,
And the streamlets laughed and glistened,
And the air was full of fragrance,
And the lovely Laughing Water
Said with voice that did not tremble,
“I will follow you, my husband!”
In the wigwam with Nokomis,
With those gloomy guests, that watched her,
With the Famine and the Fever,
She was lying, the Beloved,
She, the dying Minnehaha.
“Hark!” she said; “I hear a rushing,
Hear a roaring and a rushing,
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha
Calling to me from a distance!”
“No, my child!” said old Nokomis,
“’Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!”
“Look!” she said; “I see my father
Standing lonely at his doorway,
Beckoning to me from his wigwam
In the land of the Dacotahs!”
“No, my child!” said old Nokomis,
“’Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!”
“Ah!” said she, “the eyes of Pauguk
Glare upon me in the darkness,
I can feel his icy fingers
Clasping mine amid the darkness!
Hiawatha! Hiawatha!”
And the desolate Hiawatha,
Far away amid the forest,
Miles away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him in the darkness,
“Hiawatha! Hiawatha!”
Over snow-fields waste and pathless,
Under snow-encumbered branches,
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing:
“Wahonowin! Wahonowin!
Would that I had perished for you,
Would that I were dead as you are!
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!”
And he rushed into the wigwam,
Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him,
And his bursting heart within him
Uttered such a cry of anguish,
That the forest moaned and shuddered,
That the very stars in heaven
Shook and trembled with his anguish.
Then he sat down, still and speechless,
On the bed of Minnehaha,
At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet, that never
More would lightly run to meet him,
Never more would lightly follow.
With both hands his face he covered,
Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments,
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine;
Covered her with snow, like ermine;
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
And at night a fire was lighted,
On her grave four times was kindled,
For her soul upon its journey
To the Islands of the Blessed.
From his doorway Hiawatha
Saw it burning in the forest,
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;
From his sleepless bed uprising,
From the bed of Minnehaha,
Stood and watched it at the doorway,
That it might not be extinguished,
Might not leave her in the darkness.
“Farewell,” said he, “Minnehaha!
Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you,
All my thoughts go onward with you!
Come not back again to labor,
Come not back again to suffer,
Where the Famine and the Fever
Wear the heart and waste the body.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter!”
THE CHILDREN OF THE BATTLE-FIELD
BY JAMES GOWDY CLARK
Upon the field of Gettysburg
The summer sun was high,
When Freedom met her haughty foe
Beneath a northern sky.
Among the heroes of the North
That swelled her grand array,
And rushed like mountain eagles forth
From happy homes away,
There stood a man of humble fame,—
A sire of children three,—
And gazed within a little frame
His pictured ones to see:
And blame him not if, in the strife,
He breathed a soldier’s prayer,—
“O Father! shield the soldier’s wife,
And for his children care.”
Upon the field of Gettysburg,
When morning shone again,
The crimson cloud of battle burst
In streams of fiery rain:
Our legions quelled the awful flood
Of shot and steel and shell,
While banners, marked with ball and blood,
Around them rose and fell:
And none more nobly won the name
Of Champion of the Free
Than he who pressed the little frame
That held his children three;
And none were braver in the strife
Than he who breathed the prayer,—
“O Father! shield the soldier’s wife,
And for his children care.”
Upon the field of Gettysburg
The full moon slowly rose,—
She looked, and saw ten thousand brows
All pale in death’s repose;
And down beside a silver stream,
From other forms away,
Calm as a warrior in a dream,
Our fallen comrade lay;
His limbs were cold, his sightless eyes
Were fixed upon the three
Sweet stars that rose in memory’s skies
To light him o’er death’s sea.
Then honored be the soldier’s life,
And hallowed be his prayer,—
“O Father! shield the soldier’s wife,
And for his children care.”
PRESIDENT LINCOLN’S FUNERAL
BY SARAH E. CARMICHAEL
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
All rivers seaward wend.
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Weep for the nation’s friend.
Every home and hall was shrouded,
Every thoroughfare was still;
Every brow was darkly clouded,
Every heart was faint and chill.
Oh! the inky drop of poison
In our bitter draught of grief!
Oh! the sorrow of a nation
Mourning for its murdered chief!
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Bound in the reaper’s sheaf—
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
All mortal life is brief.
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Weep for the nation’s chief!
Bands of mourning draped the homestead,
And the sacred house of prayer;
Mourning folds lay black and heavy
On true bosoms everywhere:
Yet there were no tear-drops streaming
From the deep and solemn eye
Of the hour that mutely waited
Till the funeral train went by.
Oh! there is a woe that crushes
All expression with its weight!
There is pain that numbs and hushes
Feeling’s sense, it is so great.
Strongest arms were closely folded,
Most impassioned lips at rest;
Scarcely seemed a heaving motion
In the nation’s wounded breast;
Tears were frozen in their sources,
Blushes burned themselves away;
Language bled through broken heart-threads,
Lips had nothing left to say.
Yet there was a marble sorrow
In each still face, chiseled deep;
Something more than words could utter,
Something more than tears could weep.
Selfishly the nation mourned him,
Mourned its chieftain and its friend;
Eye no traitor mist could darken,
Arm no traitor power could bend;
Heart that gathered the true pulses
Of the land’s indignant veins,
And, with their tempestuous spurning,
Broke the slave’s tear-rusted chains:
Heart that tied its iron fibers
Round the Union’s starry band;
Martyr’s heart, that upward beating,
Broke on hate’s assassin hand!
Oh! the land he loved will miss him,
Miss him in its hour of need!
Mourns the nation for the nation
Till its tear-drops inward bleed.
There is one whose life will mourn him,
With a deep, unselfish woe;
One who owned him chief and master
Ere the nation named him so.
That the land he loved will miss him
Does she either think or care?
No! the chieftain’s heart is shrouded,
And her woman’s world was there.
No! the nation was her rival;
Let its glory shine or dim,
He hath perished on its altar—
What were many such to him?
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Never again—no more—
Comes back to earth the life that goes
Hence to the Eden shore!
Let him rest!—it is not often
That his soul hath known repose;
Let him rest!—they rest but seldom
Whose successes challenge foes.
He was weary—worn with watching;
His life-crown of power hath pressed
Oft on temples sadly aching—
He was weary, let him rest.
Toll, bells at the Capital!
Bells of the land, toll!
Sob out your grief with brazen lungs—
Toll! Toll! Toll!
THE FISHERMAN’S STORY
BY HERBERT BASHFORD
I knew he was morose that day
Because he did not speak to me,
But now I know he was away
Upon the hills of Italy.
He showed me once long months before
The picture of a dark-eyed girl
Within a locket that he wore—
A little keepsake wrought of pearl.
His life had known no counter gale,
He had the aid of wind and tide,
And dreamed that soon a snowy sail
Should bear him to his future bride.
’Twas but a letter—nothing much—
A scrap of paper sent to him,
Yet something he did clutch and clutch
The while his dusky eyes grew dim.
And oh, how eagerly he scanned
Each syllable that formed her name!
He crushed the letter in his hand
And fed it to the driftwood flame.
As in a dream he sat and stared
At night’s black pall around us hung;
I would have spoken if I’d dared,
But silence had a gentler tongue.
He did not curse as men will do,
Of grief he gave no outward sign;
That bitter draught of myrrh and rue
He drank as though it had been wine.
With joyless heart he crooned a song
Of love and hope, as day by day
We hauled our heavy seine along
The pebbled beaches of the bay.
At last—ah, Christ, I’ll not forget!
I never saw the like before!
An empty boat—we, chilled and wet,
And ten leagues from our cabin door!
Ten leagues—a stormy row!
But fishermen know naught of fear;
Had we ere this not faced the snow
When winter nights were dark and drear?
Had we not braved the Storm-king’s glee
When winds were shrill and waves were high,
Been battered by a raging sea
And swung below a ragged sky?
“Oho! Cheer up!” I cried,
“We’ve dared the seas before, my mate,
What matter if ill luck betide?—
Why, we were born to laugh at fate!”
He grasped his oar with one long sigh,
Nor spoke he any word to me;
And so together, he and I,
Put out upon the angry sea.
And side by side, with steady stroke;
We fought against the veering flaw;
In flakes of froth the billows broke—
The wildest wolves I ever saw!
Ah, how the cutting north wind blew,
And in our faces dashed the spray!
The sullen twilight round us grew,
The green shore faded into gray.
“Cheer up! Cheer up! A merry row
We’ll have ere dawn of day!” laughed I;
“And what care we how winds may blow?”
The Sea’s voice only made reply.
A silent man he left the shore,
Nor yet a single word had said;
A silent man he dipped his oar
As though it were a thing of lead.
The night came down and still we toiled,
The tumult fiercer grew, and now
The swirling tide-rip foamed and boiled,
And ghostly seas swept o’er the prow.
The air was filled with flying spume,
Cloud-galleons sailed down the sky,
Strange forms groped toward us in the gloom,
Pale phantoms glided swiftly by.
Afar, at times, a lonely loon
Sent quavering laughter through the night,
While from a filmy sheath the moon
Drew forth a sabre, keen and bright.
Oh, it was weird!—the seabird’s screech,
The distant buoy’s warning bell,
The white palms lifting high to reach
A loosened star that downward fell!
Within my breast each moment grew
A fear of more than wind-blown sea;
And lo! that mute man, laughing, threw
Aside his oar and leered at me.
That moonlit face! It haunts me still!
The eyes that spoke the maddened brain!
That moonlit face! it sent a thrill
Of terror through my every vein!
“Aha! You thought me dead, you cur!”—
His breath blew hot against my cheek;
“Aha! You coward, you lied to her!”—
I felt my limbs grow strangely weak.
“Lorenzo! Look! The boat! The boat!”—
But how can mad men understand?
My God! He leaped to clutch my throat,
A wicked dagger in his hand!
That lifted knife! Ah, yet I feel
A horror of the deadly thing!
The long, keen blade of polished steel
Against the white stars quivering.
I upward sprang—I grasped somehow
The hand that held the hilt of bone;
With panther strength he struggled now,
A demon I must fight—alone!
He strove to slay, and I to save
His life and mine if such might be,
And in the trough and on the wave
Like beasts we grappled savagely.
To plead were vain; I could not hear
My voice above the tempest’s breath,
I only knew my feet were near
The awful, icy edge of Death.
We fought until the dark became
A glare of crimson to my eyes,
Until the stars were snakes of flame
That writhed along the lurid skies.
We fought I know not how—to me
All things of that mad night appear
As vague as when in dreams you see
The ghouls that haunt the coast of Fear.
We fought—we fought and then—and then—
A leap—a cry—and he was gone!
And I alone pulled shoreward when
The East had grown the flower of dawn.
...
I knew he was morose that day
Because he did not speak to me,
But now I know he was away
Upon the hills of Italy.
—Copyright by the _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
WHY SANTA CLAUS FORGOT
BY HERBERT BASHFORD
A wind from the south swept down the bay,
And pale with anger the waters turned
As the ranchman’s wife looked far away
To where the lights of the city burned.
Like feeble stars on that Christmas eve
Were the pulsing lights beyond the tide;
“Now play with your dolly and do not grieve,”
Said she to the wee one at her side.
“Good Santa Claus will come to you
This very night if you do not cry,”
And she wiped a tear like a drop of dew
From the rosy cheek and the anxious eye.
“No sail! No sail!” and the sad wife pressed
A wan face close to the window-pane,
But naught she saw but the sea’s white breast
And the long gray lash of the hissing rain.
The night fell black and the wild gale played
In the chimney’s throat a shrill, weird tune,
While into a cloud as if afraid
Stole the ghostly form of the groping moon.
Then the steeds of the sea all landward came,
Each panting courser thundered o’er
The rocks of the reef and died in flame
Along the utmost reach of shore.
Ah, heavy the heart of the ranchman’s wife!
And long she listened, yet only heard
The voice of breakers in awful strife
And the plaintive cry of a frightened bird.
So long she waited and prayed for day
As the firelight flickered upon the floor,
While the prowling wind like a beast of prey
Did growl and growl at the cabin door.
The gray dawn crept through the weeping wood,
The clouds set sail and all was still;
With a breast of gold the fair morn stood
Above the firs of the eastern hill.
The waters slept and the raindrops clung
Like shimmering pearls to the maple tree;
The sky was clear and the brown birds flung
Sweet showers of crystal melody.
A splintered mast and a tattered sail
Lay out in the sun on the hard brown sands
And plainer than words they told a tale
To the woman who wept and wrung her hands.
And the little girl with the gold-crowned head
Looked up with her tear-wet eyes of blue;
“Oh, please don’t cry, mamma,” she said,
“Old Santa Claus forgot me, too.”
—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
DICKENS IN CAMP
BY BRET HARTE
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow:
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew.
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”
Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy—for the reader
Was youngest of them all—
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken
As by some spell divine—
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire;
And he who wrought that spell?—
Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak, and holly
And laurel wreaths entwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly—
This spray of Western pine!
—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by their
kind permission.
WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED
BY A. J. WATERHOUSE
Sometimes ’long after supper my grandsire used to sit
Where the sunbeams through the window things of beauty liked to knit,
And he’d light his pipe and sit there in a sort of waking dream,
While to bathe his form in glory seemed the sunlight’s pretty scheme;
And then, whatever happened, he didn’t seem to see,
And a smile lit up his features that used to puzzle me,
And I would often wonder what pleasant inner theme
Had caused that strange and tranquil smile when grandpa used to dream.
Sometimes, though, when I’d listen I’d hear the good man sigh,
And once I’m almost sure I saw the moisture in his eye,
But whether he would smile or sigh, he didn’t seem to see
The things that happened ’round him, and that’s what puzzled me.
With the wreaths of smoke ascending as the twilight gathered there,
The shadows crept about him in the old arm chair,
And through the evening darkness I could see the fitful gleam
From the embers in his lighted pipe when grandpa used to dream.
I used to wonder in those days. I wonder now no more,
For now I understand the thing that puzzled me of yore,
And I know that through the twilight and the shadows gathering fast
Came unto my grandsire, dreaming, the visions of the past.
The boys who played with him were there within that little room;
His mother’s smile no doubt lit up the darkness and the gloom;
Again he ran and leaped and played beside an Eastern stream;
The ones he loved were there, I know, when grandpa used to dream.
And so he smiled—and then she stood, his dearest, at his side,
With the glow of youth upon her, red-lipped and laughing eyed,
And he told the old, sweet story, and she listened, nothing loth,
And dreams of hope were written in the happy hearts of both;
And then, by strange transition, he saw her pulseless lie—
And ’twas then I viewed the moisture in the corner of his eye.
Old friends were gathered round him, though they’d crossed death’s
mystic stream,
In that hour of smiles and sighing when my grandsire used to dream.
Oh, glad, sad gift of memory to call our dear ones back
And win them from their narrow homes to Time’s still beaten track!
Yours was the power my grandsire held while twilight turned to night;
Through you his loved returned again and blessed his longing sight;
And I no longer wonder, when his dreaming I recall,
At smiles and sighs succeeding while the shadows hid us all,
For, while my pencil’s trailing and I’ve half forgot my theme,
I, too, am seeing visions, as my grandsire used to dream.
WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME[14]
BY JOAQUIN MILLER
We dwelt in the woods of the Tippe-canoe,
In a lone lost cabin, with never a view
Of the full day’s sun for a whole year through.
With strange half hints through the russet corn
We children were hurried one night. Next morn
There was frost on the trees, and a sprinkle of snow,
And tracks on the ground. Three boys below
The low eave listened. We burst through the door,
And a girl baby cried,—and then we were four.
We were not sturdy, and we were not wise
In the things of the world, and the ways men dare.
A pale-browed mother with a prophet’s eyes,
A father that dreamed and looked anywhere.
Three brothers—wild blossoms, tall-fashioned as men
And we mingled with none, but we lived as when
The pair first lived ere they knew the fall;
And, loving all things, we believed in all.
Ah! girding yourself and throwing your strength
On the front of the forest that stands in mail,
Sounds gallant, indeed, in a pioneer’s tale,
But, God in heaven! the weariness
Of a sweet soul banished to a life like this!
This reaching of weary-worn arms full length;
This stooping all day to the cold stubborn soil—
This holding the heart! it is more than toil!
What loneness of heart! what wishing to die
In that soul in the earth, that was born for the sky!
We parted wood-curtains, pushed westward and we,
Why, we wandered and wandered a half year through,
We tented with herds as the Arabs do,
And at last lay down by the sundown sea.
Then there in that sun did my soul take fire!
It burned in its fervor, thou Venice, for thee!
My glad heart glowed with the one desire
To stride to the front, to live, to be!
To strow great thoughts through the world as I went,
As God sows stars through the firmament.
_Venice, 1874._
—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES
BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
In the forenoon’s restful quiet,
When the boys are off at school,
When the window lights are shaded
And the chimney corner cool,
Then the old man seeks his arm-chair,
Lights his pipe and settles back;
Falls a-dreaming as he draws it
Till the smoke wreaths gather black.
And the tear-drops come a-trickling
Down his cheeks, a silver flow—
Smoke or memories you wonder,
But you never ask him, no;
For there’s something almost sacred
To the other family folks
In those moods of silent dreaming
When the old man smokes.
Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming
Of the love of other days
And how he used to lead her
Through the merry dances maze;
How he called her “little princess.”
And, to please her, used to twine
Tender wreaths to crown her tresses,
From the “matrimony vine.”
Then before his mental vision
Comes, perhaps, a sadder day,
When they left his little princess
Sleeping with her fellow clay.
How his young heart throbbed, and pained him!
Why the memory of it chokes!
Is it of these things he’s thinking
When the old man smokes?
But some brighter thoughts possess him,
For the tears are dried the while.
And the old worn face is wrinkled
In a reminiscent smile,
From the middle of the forehead
To the feebly trembling lip,
At some ancient prank remembered
Or some unheard of quip.
Then the lips relax their tension
And the pipe begins to slide,
Till in little clouds of ashes,
It falls gently at his side;
And his head bends lower and lower
Till his chin lies on his breast,
And he sits in peaceful slumber
Like a little child at rest.
Dear old man, there’s something sad’ning,
In these dreamy moods of yours,
Since the present proves so fleeting,
All the past for you endures;
Weeping at forgotten sorrows,
Smiling at forgotten jokes;
Life epitomized in minutes,
When the old man smokes.
—Copyright by _Dodd Mead & Co._, New York, and used by arrangement.
DRAMATIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY
EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE
BY W. H. CARRUTH
A fire mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell,
A jelly-fish and a saurian,
And caves where the cavemen dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty,
And a face turned from the clod;
Some call it Evolution,
And others call it God.
A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite tender sky;
The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields,
And the wild geese sailing high;
And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the golden-rod;
Some of us call it Autumn,
And others call it God.
Like the tide on the crescent sea beach,
When the moon is new and thin,
In our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in.
Come from the mystic ocean,
Whose rim no foot has trod;
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it God.
A picket frozen on duty,
A mother starved for her brood;
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the road;
The millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight, hard pathway trod;
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it God.
—Copyright, and used by kind permission of the author.
THE MAN WITH THE HOE
BY EDWIN MARKHAM
(_Written after seeing Millet’s World-Famous Painting_)
God made man In His own image, in the image of God made He him.—Genesis.
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And pillared the blue firmament with light?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this—
More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed—
More filled with signs and portents for the soul—
More fraught with menace to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time’s tragedy is in the aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Judges of the World,
A protest that is also prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute questions in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings—
With those who shaped him to the thing he is—
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?
—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
TOMMY
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
I went to a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ’e up an’ sez, “We serve no redcoats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I out into the street again, an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play.
I went into a theater as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.
Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll.
We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barracks, most remarkably like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barracks don’t grow into plaster saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind,”
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the
wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the
wind.
You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room shops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ’is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool—you bet that Tommy sees!
THE CAVALIER’S SONG
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
My true love has mounted his steed, and away
Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down—
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doff’d the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,
He has placed the steel cap o’er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down—
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;
His watchword is honor, his pay is renown—
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
There’s Erin’s high Ormond, and Scotland’s Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
Be his banner unconquer’d, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.
WAR
ANONYMOUS
Ivor never heard of Rudolph,
Rudolph never heard of Ivor,
Yet each of them flies at the other—and dies;
For some one, somewhere, has said “War!”
Twelve million men to be marshaled
And murdered and mangled and maimed;
Twelve million men, by the stroke of the pen,
To be slaughtered—and no one ashamed.
Mountains of wealth to be wasted,
Oceans of tears to be shed,
Valleys of light to be turned into night,
Rivers of blood to run red.
Thousands of wives to be widowed,
Millions of mothers to mourn,
Thousands in sorrow to wait the to-morrow,
Millions of hearts to be torn.
Thousands of fathers to perish,
Millions of children to moan,
Ages of time to prepare for a crime
That eons can never atone.
Thousands of homes to be shattered,
Millions of prayers to be vain.
Thousands of ways to the glory that pays
In poverty, panic and pain.
Twelve million men in God’s image
Sentenced to shoot and be shot,
Kill and be killed, as ruler has willed,
For what—For what—_For what_?
Ivor never heard of Rudolph,
And Rudolph knows naught of Ivor,
Yet each of them flies at the other—and dies,
For some one, somewhere, has said “War!”
LOVE OF COUNTRY
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell
High tho’ his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.
SIR GALAHAD
BY ALFRED TENNYSON
My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel:
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.
—From “Sir Galahad.”
OPPORTUNITY
BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle’s edge,
And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel—
That blue blade that the king’s son bears—but this
Blunt thing—!” he snapped and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.
THE FIRING LINE
BY JOAQUIN MILLER
For glory? For good? For fortune or fame?
Why, he for the front when the battle is on!
Leave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, the lame,
Go forward as ever the valiant have gone;
Whether city or field, whether mountain or mine,
Go forward, right on to the Firing Line.
Whether newsboy or plowboy, cowboy or clerk,
Fight forward, be ready, be steady, be first;
Be fairest, be bravest, be best at your work;
Exalt and be glad; dare to hunger, to thirst,
As David, as Alfred—let dogs skulk and whine—
There is room but for men on the Firing Line.
Aye, the place to fight and the place to fall—
As fall we must, all in God’s good time—
It is where the manliest man is the wall,
Where boys are as men in their pride and prime,
Where glory gleams brightest, where brightest eyes shine,
Far out on the roaring red Firing Line.
HOW OSWALD DINED WITH GOD
BY EDWIN MARKHAM
Over Northumbria’s lone, gray lands,
Over the frozen marl,
Went flying the fogs from the fens and sands,
And the wind with a wolfish snarl.
Frosty and stiff by the York wall
Stood the rusty grass and the yarrow:
Gone wings and songs to the southland, all—
Robin and starling and sparrow.
Weary with weaving the battle-woof,
Came the king and his thanes to the Hall:
Feast-fires reddened the beams of the roof,
Torch flames waved from the wall.
Bright was the gold that the table bore,
Where platters and beakers shone:
Whining hounds on the sanded floor
Looked hungrily up for a bone.
Laughing, the king took his seat at the board,
With his gold-haired queen at his right:
War-men sitting around them roared
Like a crash of the shields in fight.
Loud rose laughter and lusty cheer,
And gleemen sang loud in their throats,
Telling of swords and the whistling spear,
Till their red beards shook with the notes.
Varlets were bringing the smoking boar,
Ladies were pouring the ale,
When the watchman called from the great hall door:
“O King, on the wind is a wail.
“Feebly the host of the hungry poor
Lift hands at the gate with a cry:
Grizzled and gaunt they come over the moor,
Blasted by earth and sky.”
“Ho!” cried the king to the thanes, “make speed—
Carry this food to the gates—
Off with the boar and the cask of mead—
Leave but a loaf on the plates.”
Still came a cry from the hollow night:
“King, this is one day’s feast;
But days are coming with famine-blight;
Wolf winds howl from the east!”
Hot from the king’s heart leaped a deed,
High as his iron crown:
(Noble souls have a deathless need
To stoop to the lowest down.)
“Thanes, I swear by Godde’s Bride
This is a cursèd thing—
Hunger for the folk outside,
Gold inside for the king!”
Whirling his war-ax over his head,
He cleft each plate into four.
“Gather them up, O thanes,” he said,
“For the workfolk at the door.
“Give them this for the morrow’s meat,
Then shall we feast in accord:
Our half of a loaf will then be sweet—
Sweet as the bread of the Lord!”
—From “The Shoes of Happiness and Other Poems.” Copyright by _Doubleday,
Page & Co._, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.
HOW THE GREAT GUEST CAME
BY EDWIN MARKHAM
I
Before the Cathedral in grandeur rose,
At Ingelburg where the Danube goes;
Before its forest of silver spires
Went airily up to the clouds and fires;
Before the oak had ready a beam,
While yet the arch was stone and dream—
There where the altar was later laid,
Conrad the cobbler plied his trade.
II
Doubled all day on his busy bench,
Hard at his cobbling for master and hench,
He pounded away at a brisk rat-tat,
Shearing and shaping with pull and pat,
Hide well hammered and pegs sent home,
Till the shoe was fit for the Prince of Rome.
And he sang as the threads went to and fro:
“Whether ’tis hidden or whether it show,
Let the work be sound, for the Lord will know.”
III
Tall was the cobbler, and gray and thin,
And a full moon shone where the hair had been.
His eyes peered out, intent and afar,
As looking beyond the things that are.
He walked as one who is done with fear,
Knowing at last that God is near.
Only the half of him cobbled the shoes;
The rest was away for the heavenly news.
Indeed, so thin was the mystic screen
That parted the Unseen from the Seen,
You could not tell, from the cobbler’s theme
If his dream were truth or his truth were dream.
IV
It happened one day at the year’s white end,
Two neighbors called on their old-time friend;
And they found the shop, so meager and mean,
Made gay with a hundred boughs of green.
Conrad was stitching with face ashine,
But suddenly stooped as he twitched a twine:
“Old friends, good news! At dawn to-day,
As the cocks were scaring the night away,
The Lord appeared in a dream to me,
And said, ‘I am coming your Guest to be!’
So I’ve been busy with feet astir,
Strewing the floor with branches of fir.
The wall is washed and the shelf is shined,
And over the rafter the holly twined.
He comes to-day, and the table is spread,
With milk and honey and wheaten bread.”
V
His friends went home; and his face grew still
As he watched for the shadow across the sill.
He lived all the moments o’er and o’er,
When the Lord should enter the lowly door—
The knock, the call, the latch pulled up,
The lighted face, the offered cup.
He would wash the feet where the spikes had been;
He would kiss the hands where the nails went in;
And then at the last would sit with Him
And break the bread as the day grew dim.
VI
While the cobbler mused, there passed his pane
A beggar drenched by the driving rain.
He called him in from the stony street
And gave him shoes for his bruisèd feet.
The beggar went and there came a crone,
Her face with wrinkles of sorrow sown.
A bundle of fagots bowed her back,
And she was spent with the wrench and rack.
He gave her his loaf and steadied her load
As she took her way on the weary road.
Then to his door came a little child,
Lost and afraid in the world so wild,
In the big, dark world. Catching it up,
He gave it the milk in the waiting cup,
And led it home to its mother’s arms,
Out of the reach of the world’s alarms.
VII
The day went down in the crimson west
And with it the hope of the blessed Guest,
And Conrad sighed as the world turned gray:
“Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay?
Did You forget that this was the day?”
Then soft in the silence a Voice he heard:
“Lift up your heart, for I kept my word.
Three times I came to your friendly door;
Three times my shadow was on your floor.
I was the beggar with bruisèd feet;
I was the woman you gave to eat;
I was the child on the homeless street!”
—From “The Shoes of Happiness and Other Poems.” Copyright by _Doubleday,
Page & Co._, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.
PICKETT’S CHARGE
BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS
When Pickett charged at Gettysburg,
For three long days, with carnage fraught,
Two hundred thousand men had fought;
And courage could not gain the field,
Where stubborn valor would not yield.
With Meade on Cemetery Hill,
And mighty Lee thundering still
Upon the ridge a mile away;
Four hundred guns in counterplay
Their deadly thunderbolts had hurled—
The cannon duel of the world!
When Pickett charged at Gettysburg.
When Pickett charged at Gettysburg,
Dread war had never known such need
Of some o’ermastering, valiant deed;
And never yet had cause so large
Hung on the fate of one brief charge.
To break the center, but a chance;
With Pickett waiting to advance;
It seemed a crime to bid him go,
And Longstreet said not “Yes” nor “No,”
But silently he bowed his head.
“I shall go forward!” Pickett said.
Then Pickett charged at Gettysburg.
Then Pickett charged at Gettysburg;
Down from the little wooded slope,
A-step with doubt, a-step with hope,
And nothing but the tapping drum
To time their tread, still on they come.
Four hundred cannon hush their thunder,
While cannoneers gaze on in wonder!
Two armies watch, with stifled breath,
Full eighteen thousand march to death,
At elbow-touch, with banners furled,
And courage to defy the world,
In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.
’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:
None but tried veterans can know
How fearful ’tis to charge the foe;
But these are soldiers will not quail,
Though Death and Hell stand in their trail!
Flower of the South and Longstreet’s pride,
There’s valor in their very stride!
Virginian blood runs in their veins,
And each his ardor scarce restrains;
Proud of the part they’re chosen for:
The mighty cyclone of the war,
In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.
’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:
How mortals their opinions prize
When armies march to sacrifice,
And souls by thousands in the fight
On Battle’s smoky wing take flight.
Firm-paced they come, in solid form
The dreadful calm before the storm.
Those silent batteries seem to say:
“We’re waiting for you, men in gray!”
Each anxious gunner knows full well
Why every shot of his must tell
On Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.
’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:
What grander tableau can there be
Than rhythmic swing of infantry
At shouldered arms, with flashing steel?
As Pickett swings to left, half-wheel,
Those monsters instantly outpour
Their flame and smoke of death! and roar
Their fury on the silent air—
Starting a scene of wild despair:
Lee’s batteries roaring: “Room! Make room!!”
With Meade’s replying: “Doom! ’Tis doom
To Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!”
’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:
Now Hancock’s riflemen begin
To pour their deadly missiles in.
Can standing grain defy the hail?
Will Pickett stop? Will Pickett fail?
His left is all uncovered through
That fateful halt of Pettigrew!
And Wilcox from the right is cleft
By Pickett’s half-wheel to the left!
Brave Stannard rushes ’tween the walls,
No more disastrous thing befalls
Brave Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.
’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:
How terrible it is to see
Great armies making history:
Long lines of muskets belching flame!
No need of gunners taking aim
When from that thunder-cloud of smoke
The lightning kills at every stroke!
If there’s a place resembling hell,
’Tis where, ’mid shot and bursting shell,
Stalks Carnage, arm in arm with Death,
A furnace blast in every breath,
On Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.
’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:
Brave leaders fall on every hand!
Unheard, unheeded all command!
Battered in front and torn in flank;
A frenzied mob in broken rank!
They come like demons with a yell,
And fight like demons all pell-mell!
The wounded stop not till they fall;
The living never stop at all—
Their blood-bespattered faces say:
“’Tis death alone stops men in gray,
With Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!”
Stopped Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg
Where his last officer fell dead,
The dauntless, peerless, Armistead!
Where ebbed the tide and left the slain
Like wreckage from the hurricane—
That awful spot which soldiers call
“The bloody angle of the wall,”
There Pickett stopped, turned back again
Alone, with just a thousand men!
And not another shot was fired—
So much is bravery admired!
Pickett had charged at Gettysburg.
Brave Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!
The charge of England’s Light Brigade
Was nothing to what Pickett made
To capture Cemetery Hill—
To-day a cemetery still,
With flowers in the rifle-pit,
But no one cares to capture it.
The field belongs to those who fell;
They hold it without shot or shell!
While cattle yonder in the vale
Are grazing on the very trail
Where Pickett charged at Gettysburg.
Where Pickett charged at Gettysburg,
In after-years survivors came
To tramp once more that field of fame;
And Mrs. Pickett led the Gray,
Just where her husband did that day.
The Blue were waiting at the wall,
The Gray leaped over, heart and all!
Where man had failed with sword and gun,
A woman’s tender smile had won:
The Gray had captured now the Blue,
What mortal valor could not do
When Pickett charged at Gettysburg.
—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of
author and publisher.
“INASMUCH....”
BY EDWIN MARKHAM
Wild tempest swirled on Moscow’s castled height;
Wild sleet shot slanting down the wind of night;
Quick snarling mouths from out of the darkness sprang
To strike you in the face with tooth and fang.
Javelins of ice hung on the roofs of all;
The very stones were aching in the wall,
Where Ivan stood a watchman on his hour,
Guarding the Kremlin by the northern tower,
When, lo! a half-bare beggar tottered past,
Shrunk up and stiffened in the bitter blast.
A heap of misery he drifted by,
And from the heap came out a broken cry.
At this the watchman straightened with a start;
A tender grief was tugging at his heart,
The thought of his dead father, bent and old
And lying lonesome in the ground so cold.
Then cried the watchman starting from his post:
“Little father, this is yours; you need it most!”
And tearing off his hairy coat, he ran
And wrapt it warm around the beggar man.
That night the piling snows began to fall,
And the good watchman died beside the wall.
But waking in the Better Land that lies
Beyond the reaches of these cooping skies,
Behold, the Lord came out to greet him home,
Wearing the hairy heavy coat he gave
By Moscow’s tower before he felt the grave!
And Ivan, by the old Earth-memory stirred,
Cried softly with a wonder in his word:
“And where, dear Lord, found you this coat of mine,
A thing unfit for glory such as Thine?”
Then the Lord answered with a look of light:
“This coat, My son, you gave to Me last night.”
—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
THE MAN UNDER THE STONE
BY EDWIN MARKHAM
When I see a workingman with mouths to feed,
Up, day after day, in the dark before the dawn,
And coming home, night after night, through the dusk,
Swinging forward like some fierce silent animal,
I see a man doomed to roll a huge stone up an endless steep.
He strains it onward inch by stubborn inch,
Crouched always in the shadow of the rock....
See where he crouches, twisted, cramped, misshapen:
He lifts for their life;
The veins knot and darken—
Blood surges into his face....
Now he loses—now he wins—
Now he loses—loses—(God of my soul!)
He digs his feet into some earth—
There’s a moment of terrified effort....
Will the huge stone break his hold,
And crush him as it plunges to the gulf?
The silent struggle goes on and on,
Like two contending in a dream.
—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.
TO GERMANY
BY GEORGE STERLING
I
Beat back thy forfeit plow-shares into swords:
It is not yet, the far, seraphic dream
Of peace made beautiful and love supreme.
Now let the strong, unweariable chords
Of battle shake to thunder, and the hordes
Advance, where now the famished vultures scream.
The standards gather and the trumpets gleam;
Down the long hill-side stare the mounted lords.
Now far beyond the tumult and the hate,
The white-clad nurses and the surgeons wait
The backward currents of tormented life,
When on the waiting silences shall come
The screams of men, and, ere those lips are dumb,
The searching probe, the ligature and knife.
II
Was it for such, the brutehood and the pain,
Civilization gave her holy fire
Unto thy wardship, and the snowy spire
Of her august and most exalted fane?
Are these the harvests of her ancient rain
Men reap at evening in the scarlet mire,
Or where the mountain smokes, a dreadful pyre,
Or where the warship drags a bloody stain?
Are these thy votive lilies and their dews,
That now the outraged stars look down to see?
Behold them, where the cold prophetic damps
Congeal on youthful brows so soon to lose
Their dream of sacrifice to thee—to thee,
Harlot to Murder in a thousand camps!
III
Was it for this that loving men and true
Have labored in the darkness and the light
To rear the solemn temple of the Right,
On Reason’s deep foundations, bared anew
Long after the Cæsarian eagles flew
And Rome’s last thunder died upon the Night?
Cuirassed, the cannon menace from the height;
Armored, the new-born eagles take the blue.
Wait not thy lords the avenging, certain knell—
One with the captains and abhorrent fames
The echoes of whose conquests died in Hell?—
They that have loosened the ensanguined flood,
And whose malign and execrable names
The Seraph of the Record writes in blood.
IV
From gravid trench and sullen parapet,
Profane the wounded lands with mine or shell!
Turn thou upon the world thy cannons’ Hell,
Till many million women’s eyes are wet!
Ravage and slay! Pile up the eternal debt!
But when the fanes of France and Belgium fell
Another ruin was on earth as well,
And ashes that the race shall not forget.
Not by the devastation of the guns,
Nor tempest-shock, nor steel’s subverting edge,
Nor yet the slow erasure of the suns
Thy downfall came, betrayer of thy trust!
But at the dissolution of a pledge
The temple of thine honor sank to dust.
V