That all the girls for miles around on Eph. were very "sweet,"
In hopes to get a ride or two behind her on the road,
With sleigh-bells jingling 'round her neck, some day when it had snowed.
III.
Or else to spin along the pike, with buggy top let down,
And ribbons sailing out behind, when Eph. would drive to town,
The envy of the country boys, and many maidens fair
A-casting wistful glances at the youth with reddish hair.
IV.
This thing went on till finally our Ephraim fell in love
With Tildy Ann Serepty Brown--as gentle as a dove--
Of all the girls around about the reigning country bell,
Whose father was as rich as cream--he'd struck an oil well!
V.
About three nights in every week could Ephraim's yellow mare
Be found a-standing hitched outside, while he was courting there,
And so the boys, with envy mad and jealousy aroused,
To humble Eph. hit on a plan they heartily espoused.
VI.
If anything in all the world, beside sweet Tildy Ann,
Was dear to Ephraim's eye and heart, it was his claybank, Fan;
He boasted of her speed and looks, and of her pedigree--
Said more intelligence in a brute no man would ever see.
VII.
He kept her curried till her coat it shone like burnished gold--
With silver-mounted harness on, a beauty to behold.
A brand new buggy hitched to her, a-glinting in the sun,
She "took the cake" for speed and style from every other one.
VIII.
They heard that Eph. one night would call upon his Tildy Ann
To make arrangements all complete to carry out a plan:
It would be Sunday following, when all in style he'd go
With Tildy and the yellow mare to the country "bonnet-show."
IX.
Supplied with brushes, cans of paint of every shade and hue,
And to furnish light by which to work, a bull's-eye lantern, too,
At ten o'clock that night so dark you couldn't see a wink,
They striped his Fan with red and brown, and black and blue and pink.
X.
Next morning when he went to feed, and opened wide the door,
No zebra that was ever foaled could boast the stripes she wore;
Her ears were white, her legs were green, her tail was fiery red,
And as he gazed upon her then I can't tell what he said!
THAT OLD STRAW HAT OF MINE.
(WITH APOLOGIES TO RILEY.)
I.
As one who dreams at evening o'er the new hats that he's worn,
And muses on the better times that once to him were known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,
I see the faded ribbon on that old straw hat of mine.
II.
The firelight seems to mock me as the ruddy flames arise,
And I turn about to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes;
And I ponder then in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my condition, and to vanish like the smoke.
III.
With fondest recollection the loving thoughts that start
Into being are but feelings from the bottom of my heart;
And to wear the new hats over is a luxury divine--
Till my truant fancy wanders with that old straw hat of mine.
IV.
Now I hear without my chamber, like a fluttering of wings,
The rustling of the autumn wind as through the trees it sings,
And I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any scheme
That will bring to me a hat of which I now can only dream.
V.
In fact, to speak in earnest, if I could work a charm,
I'd try it on old Isaacs--'twouldn't do him much of harm--
And I'd find an extra flavor in memory's mellow wine
When I thought of how I swapped him that old straw hat of mine.
VI.
A thing of real beauty, with a shape of airy grace,
Floats out of Isaacs' storehouse, as the genii from the vase,
And, oh! I gaze upon it with a pair of loving eyes,
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies!
* * * * *
VII.
But, ah! my dream is broken when I gaze upon that chair,
For my eyes are now wide open and--the same old hat is there;
And reluctantly and sadly all my visions I resign
To know that I must wear again that old straw hat of mine!
TOM BARBEE'S POND.
I.
O sweet are the memories when backward we gaze
Through the vista of years to our schoolboy days,
When faces now vanished to the vision appear
And the music of voices long hushed we can hear,
As together we romped where the school-house stood,
Or joyfully wended our way through the wood
Where placidly lay, in the valley beyond,
The moss-covered waters of Tom Barbee's pond!
II.
Though scattered by Time o'er the face of the earth,
And sorrow and anguish have succeeded to mirth,
Still many there be whose mist-bedewed eye
Looks longingly back, while the breast heaves a sigh,
To that far-away time, when together we played
In the school-house yard, or on Saturdays strayed
Where the knots in our sleeves were tied tight as a bond,
As we splashed and we dived in Tom Barbee's pond!
III.
The "pleasures of memory" by Rogers were lined,
With rhythm as sweet as in verse you will find,
But could he e'er picture one-half of the joys
We had when we wandered as barefooted boys
Through the woods and the fields and the meadows out there,
With our sun-blistered backs and the burrs in our hair,
Or recall to the mind a remembrance more fond
Than bathing and swimming in Tom Barbee's pond?
WHERE?
I.
O, where are the friends that in youth we once knew,
Whose smiles were like sunshine, whose hearts were so true?
Alas! they are lost in the darkness and gloom
That veils them from sight in the cold, silent tomb!
II.
O, where are the years that forever have fled,
And over Life's morning their radiance shed?
With the Past written down on the unending scroll
Where Time--grim destroyer--his victims enroll!
III.
O, where are the fancies, the visions, the dreams,
That filled the young breast--with which memory teems?
They have faded away--from life they have passed--
Like stars blotted out when the sky's overcast!
IV.
O, where are the hopes that have beckoned us on
With their beacons of light, through sunshine and storm?
Like spectres--like phantoms--like vapor and mist,
They have vanished forever--a will-o'-the-wisp!
V.
O, where are the harbors, the havens of rest,
That solace can give to a heart that's opprest?
They are hid from the vision beyond the blue sky,
Yet the eye of sweet Faith their portals descry!
THE HILLS OF LINCOLN.
I.
O the hills of old Lincoln!--I can see them to-day
As they stretch in dim distance far, far away,
And on Fancy's swift pinions my spirit hath flown
To rest 'mid the scenes which my childhood has known--
Where the old Hanging Fork, with its silvery gleam,
Glides away 'tween the meadows like thoughts in a dream,
And far to the south, with their outlines so blue,
The rugged knobs blend into heaven's own hue!
II.
O the hills of old Lincoln!--how fondly I gaze
On their wildwoods and thickets and deep-tangled ways
When memory's mirror presents them to view,
And I dream once again that I tread them anew,
While raptured I listen to the music of love
That the song-birds are singing in the tree-tops above,
And the soul drifts away in a swoon of delight,
Unanchored from care and from sorrow's cold blight!
III.
O the hills of old Lincoln!--my footsteps have trod
Up and down their green valleys, with shotgun and rod,
And it seems to me now that the years that have fled
Around their old summits a halo have shed
That guides the fond fancy unerringly there
When backward it wanders with childhood to share
Sweet scenes such as these, inurned in the heart,
And which from fond memory can never depart!
LOVED AND LOST.
I.
Sweetly to sleep beneath the fresh green turf
They laid the loved and lost away;
A chair is vacant by the household hearth,
And shadow-vested Sorrow's there to-day.
II.
The tender hands that guided us in youth
Are folded now upon the gentle breast,
And those dear eyes whose depths were love and truth
Are closed to open in eternal rest.
III.
Through simple faith and duty well performed,
A crown of light forever shall be hers;
And though with bitter grief and anguish mourned,
A consolation gleams through blinding tears!
A TRUE STORY.
(READ BEFORE A MEETING OF THE DANVILLE
SCRIBBLER CLUB.)
Dear friends, to-night the inspiration of my theme
Is not the baseless fabric of a weird, fantastic dream--
For truth, combined with justice, doth impel,
And therefore it is fact--not fiction--that I tell.
"Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again"--
A maxim true as holy writ;--then it is plain,
If rudely woven by an untaught hand it be,
Sustains but transitory wrong and injury.
And thus it is, in homely rhyme, I venture forth,
Relating nothing here but under oath;
And if, perchance, at times it sounds a little strange,
You know that truth o'er fiction hath a wider range.
These stanzas three I hope you'll deem explanatory--
As introductory and preliminary to the story--
A preface simply used before I introduce
The proper characters essential for our use.
And just one moment more attention I will claim,
And crave indulgence while I here explain,
That "character" is used in a Pickwickian sense--
So truth and justice need not take offense.
'Twas when the Autumn leaves, with russet hue,
Scarce quivered in the gentle wind, and when the dew
Lay sparkling on the grass, beneath the argent moon,
A tragedy took place--of which I'll tell you soon.
And ever and anon a fleecy, drifting cloud,
Meek Dian's face would veil with filmy shroud,
And lend to wood and field that softened ray
Unmatched in beauty from the glaring god of day!
But I will tell the story as 'twas told to me,
And vouched for by some others--two or three--
Whose word to doubt would be a heinous sin--
So, armed with truth, in confidence I will begin.
Ah, memory! Thou art a fickle jade,
And oft responsible when grave mistakes are made,
And therefore 'tis with caution that I hesitate
When truthful things I undertake to state.
This much is due to accuracy and circumspection,
As well as to a rather faulty recollection;
And so I'll trespass on your patience now no more,
But straightway tell the story--as I said before.
All good beginnings have that natural trend
Which safely leads to a successful end,
And stories all should have their plots well laid--
Which neither prose nor verse can do, when haste is made.
'Tis said "procrastination is the thief of time,"
And this might seem to be the object of my rhyme.
Had I not told you, as I should have done,
The reason why the story's not begun.
'Tis my sole object, then, to give without delay,
The narrative in a direct and proper way,
For as you know some critics may be here
Whom scribbling rhymesters may, with justice, fear.
"What shameless bards we have! And yet, 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandoned critics, too!"
This couplet, penned by Pope, is ever new--
But then, dear friends, the second line was _not_ for you!
I only quote that you may comprehend
How modesty in _me_ has missed its end,
And why it is I ever undertook to write
The story that I'm going to tell--sometime to-night.
An introduction that will keep the listener in suspense
I deem derogatory to good taste and sense;
And this is also why I'll nothing put as prefatory
Before I launch right out into the story.
I'm going to make it thrilling, crisp and short,
In purest diction drest, with gems of thought
So intermingled with the story's warp and woof,
That from beginning I can scarcely keep aloof.
I'll put quotation marks to shrive me of the sin
Of plagiarism when such language I begin--
That every one of you may plainly see
I tell the story as 'twas told to me.
So calmly, coolly then, I think I will proceed
To give you now the story--taking heed
To curtail all that truth and justice will permit--
Remembering that "brevity's the soul of wit."
But undue haste would cause me to forget
And mar the memory of its telling with regret
If I had overlooked some startling fact,
Which on both truth and justice would re-act!
And now, dear friends, don't think that you are "sold"
If still as yet the story's left untold--
But paper, ink, your patience, and my time
Are all exhausted in this race with rhyme!
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Variations in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been
retained from the original book, except for the following changes:
Page 9: raiload changed to railroad:
(From the raiload bridge, with its single span,).
Page 49: Aud changed to And:
(Aud do the very best I could the heat to struggle through,).
Page 56: Punctuation corrected from:
(Old "Bull "Spring?") to (Old "Bull Spring!").
Page 62: Their changed to There:
(There where briars in tangled network sway).
Page 101: Ephram's changed to Ephraim's:
(Was dear to Ephram's eye and heart, it was his claybank, Fan;).