Tawdery!—faddery! Feathers and fuss!
Mummery!—flummery! wusser and wuss!
All o’ Humanity—Vanity Fair!—
Heaven for nothin’, and—nobody there!
THE GREAT EXPLORER
He sailed o’er the weltery watery miles
For a tabular year-and-a-day,
To the kindless, kinkable Cannibal Isles
He sailed and he sailed away!
He captured a loon in a wild lagoon,
And a yak that weeps and smiles,
And a bustard-bird, and a blue baboon,
In the kindless Cannibal Isles
And wilds
Of the kinkable Cannibal Isles.
He swiped in bats with his butterfly-net,
In the kinkable Cannibal Isles,
And got short-waisted and over-het
In the haunts of the crocodiles;
And nine or ten little Pygmy Men
Of the quaintest shapes and styles
He shipped back home to his old Aunt Jenn,
From the kindless Cannibal Isles
And wilds
Of the kinkable Cannibal Isles.
THE SCHOOL-BOY’S FAVORITE
_“Over the river and through the wood_
_Now Grandmother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah for the fun!—Is the pudding done?_
_Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!”_
SCHOOL READER.
Fer any boy ’at’s little as me,
Er any little girl,
That-un’s the goodest poetry-piece
In any book in the worl’!
An’ ef grown-peoples wuz little ag’in
I bet they’d say so, too,
Ef _they’d_ go see _their_ ole Gran’ma,
Like our Pa lets _us_ do!
_Over the river an’ through the wood_
_Now Gran’mother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah fer the fun!—Is the puddin’ done?—_
_Hurrah fer the punkin-pie!_
An’ ’ll tell you _why_ ’at’s the goodest piece:—
’Cause it’s ist like _we_ go
To _our_ Gran’ma’s, a-visitun there,
When our Pa he says so;
An’ Ma she fixes my little cape-coat
An’ little fuzz-cap; an’ Pa
He tucks me away—an’ yells “_Hoo-ray!_”—
An’ whacks Ole Gray, an’ drives the sleigh
Fastest you ever saw!
_Over the river an’ through the wood_
_Now Gran’mother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah fer the fun!—Is the puddin’ done?—_
_Hurrah fer the punkin-pie!_
An’ Pa ist snuggles me ’tween his knees—
An’ I he’p hold the lines,
An’ peek out over the buffalo-robe;—
An’ the wind ist _blows_!—an’ the snow ist _snows_!—
An’ the sun ist shines! an’ shines!—
An’ th’ ole horse tosses his head an’ coughs
The frost back in our face.—
An’ I ruther go to my Gran’ma’s
Than any other place!
_Over the river an’ through the wood_
_Now Gran’mother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah fer the fun!—Is the puddin’ done?—_
_Hurrah fer the punkin-pie!_
An’ all the peoples they is in town
Watches us whizzin’ past
To go a-visitun _our_ Gran’ma’s,
Like we all went there last;—
But _they_ can’t go, like ist _our_ folks
An’ Johnny an’ Lotty, an’ three
Er four neighber-childerns, an’ Rober-ut Volney,
An’ Charley an’ Maggy an’ me!
_Over the river an’ through the wood_
_Now Gran’mother’s cap I spy:_
_Hurrah fer the fun!—Is the puddin’ done?—_
_Hurrah fer the punkin-pie!_
ALBUMANIA
_Some certain misty yet tenable signs_
_Of the oracular Raggedy Man,_
_Happily found in these fugitive lines_
_Culled from the album of ’Lizabuth Ann._
FRIENDSHIP
O Friendship, when I muse on you,
As thoughtful minds, O Friendship, do,
I muse, O Friendship, o’er and o’er,
O Friendship—as I said before.
LIFE
“What is Life?” If the _Dead_ might say,
’Spect they’d answer, under breath,
Sorry-like yet a-laughin’:—A
Poor pale yesterday of Death!
LIFE’S HAPPIEST HOURS
Best, I guess,
Was the old “_Recess_.”—
’Way back there’s where I’d love to be—
Shet of each lesson and hateful rule,
When the whole round World was as sweet to me
As the big ripe apple I brung to School.
MARION-COUNTY MAN HOMESICK ABROAD
I, who had hobnobbed with the shades of kings,
And canvassed grasses from old masters’ graves,
And in cathedrals stood and looked at things
In niches, crypts and naves;—
My heavy heart was sagging with its woe,
Nor Hope to prop it up, nor Promise, nor
One woman’s hands—and O I wanted so
To be felt sorry for!
BIRDY! BIRDY!
The Redbreast loves the blooming bough—
The Bluebird loves it same as he;—
And as they sit and sing there now,
So do I sing to thee—
Only, dear heart, unlike the birds,
I do not climb a tree
To sing—
I do not climb a tree.
When o’er this page, in happy years to come,
Thou jokest on these lines and on my name,
Doubt not my love and say, “Though he lies dumb,
He’s lying, just the same!”
THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs—
He mocks the lady’s horse ’at rares
At bi-sickles an’ things,—
He mocks the mens ’at rides ’em, too;
An’ mocks the Movers, drivin’ through.
An’ hollers, “Here’s the way _you_ do
With them-air hitchin’-strings!”
“Ho! ho!” he’ll say,
Ole Settlers’ Day,
When they’re all jogglin’ by,—
“You look like _this_,”
He’ll say, an’ twis’
His mouth an’ squint his eye
An’ ’tend-like _he_ wuz beat the bass
Drum at both ends—an’ toots an’ blares
Ole dinner-horn an’ puffs his face—
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs
Mocks all the peoples all he cares
’At passes up an’ down!
He mocks the chickens round the door,
An’ mocks the girl ’at scrubs the floor,
An’ mocks the rich, an’ mocks the pore,
An’ ever’thing in town!
“Ho! ho!” says he,
To you er me;
An’ ef we turns an’ looks,
He’s all cross-eyed
An’ mouth all wide
Like Giunts is, in books.—
“Ho! ho!” he yells, “look here at _me_,”
An’ rolls his fat eyes roun’ an’ glares,—
“_You_ look like _this_!” he says, says he—
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!
_The Little Mock—_
_The Little Mock—_
_The Little Mock-man on the Stairs,_
_He mocks the music-box an’ clock,_
_An’ roller-sofy an’ the chairs;_
_He mocks his Pa, an’ specs he wears;_
_He mocks the man ’at picks the pears_
_An’ plums an’ peaches on the shares;_
_He mocks the monkeys an’ the bears_
_On picture-bills, an’ rips an’ tears_
_’Em down,—an’ mocks ist all he cares,_
_An’ EVER’body EVER’wheres!_
SUMMER-TIME AND WINTER-TIME
In the golden noon-shine,
Or in the pink of dawn;
In the silver moonshine,
Or when the moon is gone;
Open eyes, or drowsy lids,
’Wake or ’most asleep,
I can hear the katydids,—
“Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!”
Only in the winter-time
Do they ever stop,
In the chip-and-splinter-time,
When the backlogs pop,—
Then it is, the kettle-lids,
While the sparkles leap,
Lisp like the katydids,—
“Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!”
HOME-MADE RIDDLES—ALL BUT THE ANSWERS
I
No one ever saw it
Till I dug it from the ground;
I found it when I lost it,
And lost it when I found:
I washed it, and dressed it,
And buried it once more—
Dug it up, and loved it then
Better than before.
I was paid for finding it—
I don’t know why or how,—
But I lost, found, and kept it,
And haven’t got it now.
II
Sometimes it’s all alone—
Sometimes in a crowd;
It says a thousand bright things,
But never talks aloud.
Everybody loves it,
And likes to have it call,
But if you shouldn’t happen to,
It wouldn’t care at all.
First you see or hear of it,
It’s a-singing,—then
You may look and listen,
But it never sings again.
THE LOVELY CHILD
Lilies are both pure and fair,
Growing ’midst the roses there—
Roses, too, both red and pink,
Are quite beautiful, I think.
But of all bright blossoms—best—
Purest—fairest—loveliest,—
Could there be a sweeter thing
Than a primrose, blossoming?
THE YELLOWBIRD
Hey! my little Yellowbird,
What you doing there?
Like a flashing sun-ray,
Flitting everywhere:
Dangling down the tall weeds
And the hollyhocks,
And the lordly sunflowers
Along the garden-walks.
Ho! my gallant Golden-bill,
Pecking ’mongst the weeds,
You must have for breakfast
Golden flower-seeds:
Won’t you tell a little fellow
What you have for _tea_?—
’Spect a peck o’ yellow, mellow
Pippin on the tree.
ENVOY
When but a little boy, it seemed
My dearest rapture ran
In fancy ever, when I dreamed
I was a man—a man!
Now—sad perversity!—my theme
Of rarest, purest joy
Is when, in fancy blest, I dream
I am a little boy.