Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright
Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, leaping
Forever, forever burst, full with delight;
And its lisp on my spirit
Fell faint as that near it
Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night.
O your love was an odorous sachet of blisses!
The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay!
And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses!--
And the music!--in fancy I hear it to-day,
As I sit here, confessing
Our secret, and blessing
My rival who found us, and waltzed you away.
AUGUST
O mellow month and merry month,
Let me make love to you,
And follow you around the world
As knights their ladies do.
I thought your sisters beautiful,
Both May and April, too,
But April she had rainy eyes,
And May had eyes of blue.
And June--I liked the singing
Of her lips--and liked her smile--
But all her songs were promises
Of something, after while;
And July's face--the lights and shades
That may not long beguile
With alterations o'er the wheat
The dreamer at the stile.
But you!--ah, you are tropical,
Your beauty is so rare;
Your eyes are clearer, deeper eyes
Than any, anywhere;
Mysterious, imperious,
Deliriously fair,
O listless Andalusian maid,
With bangles in your hair!
THE GUIDE
IMITATED
We rode across the level plain--
We--my sagacious guide and I.--
He knew the earth--the air--the sky;
He knew when it would blow or rain,
And when the weather would be dry:
The blended blades of grass spake out
To him when Redskins were about;
The wagon tracks would tell him too,
The very day that they rolled through:
He knew their burden--whence they came--
If any horse along were lame,
And what its owner ought to do;
He knew when it would snow; he knew,
By some strange intuition, when
The buffalo would overflow
The prairies like a flood, and then
Recede in their stampede again.
He knew all things--yea, he did know
The brand of liquor in my flask,
And many times did tilt it up,
Nor halt or hesitate one whit,
Nor pause to slip the silver cup
From off its crystal base, nor ask
Why I preferred to drink from it.
And more and more I plied him, and
Did query of him o'er and o'er,
And seek to lure from him the lore
By which the man did understand
These hidden things of sky and land:
And, wrought upon, he sudden drew
His bridle--wheeled, and caught my hand--
Pressed it, as one that loved me true,
And bade me listen.
................... There be few
Like tales as strange to listen to!
He told me all--How, when a child,
The Indians stole him--there he laughed--
"They stole me, and I stole their craft!"
Then slowly winked both eyes, and smiled,
And went on ramblingly,--"And they--
They reared me, and I ran away--
'Twas winter, and the weather wild;
And, caught up in the awful snows
That bury wilderness and plain,
I struggled on until I froze
My feet ere human hands again
Were reached to me in my distress,--
And lo, since then not any rain
May fall upon me anywhere,
Nor any cyclone's cussedness
Slip up behind me unaware,--
Nor any change of cold, or heat,
Or blow, or snow, but I do know
It's coming, days and days before;--
I know it by my frozen feet--
I know it by my itching heels,
And by the agony one feels
Who knows that scratching nevermore
Will bring to him the old and sweet
Relief he knew ere thus endowed
With knowledge that a certain cloud
Will burst with storm on such a day,
And when a snow will fall, and--nay,
I speak not falsely when I say
That by my tingling heels and toes
I measure time, and can disclose
The date of month--the week--and lo,
The very day and minute--yea--
Look at your watch!--An hour ago
And twenty minutes I did say
Unto myself with bitter laugh,
'In less than one hour and a half
Will I be drunken!' Is it so?"
SUTTER'S CLAIM
IMITATED
Say! _you_ feller! _You_--
With that spade and the pick!--
What do you 'pose to do
On this side o' the crick?
Goin' to tackle this claim? Well, I reckon
You'll let up ag'in, purty quick!
No bluff, understand,--
But the same has been tried,
And the claim never panned--
Or the fellers has lied,--
For they tell of a dozen that tried it,
And quit it most onsatisfied.
The luck's dead ag'in it!--
The first man I see
That stuck a pick in it
Proved _that_ thing to me,--
For he sort o' took down, and got homesick,
And went back whar he'd orto be!
Then others they worked it
Some--more or less,
But finally shirked it,
In grades of distress,--
With an eye out--a jaw or skull busted,
Or some sort o' seriousness.
The _last_ one was plucky--
He wasn't afeerd,
And bragged he was "lucky,"
And said that "he'd heerd
A heap of bluff-talk," and swore awkard
He'd work any claim that he keered!
Don't you strike nary lick
With that pick till I'm through;
This-here feller talked slick
And as peart-like as you!
And he says: "I'll abide here
As long as I please!"
But he didn't.... He died here--
And I'm his disease!
HER LIGHT GUITAR
She twankled a tune on her light guitar--
A low, sweet jangle of tangled sounds,
As blurred as the voices of the fairies are,
Dancing in moondawn dales and downs;
And the tinkling drip of the strange refrain
Ran over the rim of my soul like rain.
The great blond moon in the midnight skies
Paused and poised o'er the trellis eaves,
And the stars, in the light of her upturned eyes,
Sifted their love through the rifted leaves,
Glittered and splintered in crystal mist
Down the glittering strings that her fingers kissed.
O the melody mad! O the tinkle and thrill
Of the ecstasy of the exquisite thing!
The red rose dropped from the window-sill
And lay in a long swoon quivering;
While the dying notes of the strain divine
Rippled in glee up my spellbound spine.
WHILE CIGARETTES TO ASHES TURN
I
"He smokes--and that's enough," says Ma--
"And cigarettes, at that!" says Pa.
"He must not call again," says she--
"He _shall_ not call again!" says he.
They both glare at me as before--
Then quit the room and bang the door.--
While I, their wilful daughter, say,
"I guess I'll love him, anyway!"
II
At twilight, in his room, alone,
His careless feet inertly thrown
Across a chair, my fancy can
But worship this most worthless man!
I dream what joy it is to set
His slow lips round a cigarette,
With idle-humored whiff and puff--
Ah! this is innocent enough!
To mark the slender fingers raise
The waxen match's dainty blaze,
Whose chastened light an instant glows
On drooping lids and arching nose,
Then, in the sudden gloom, instead,
A tiny ember, dim and red,
Blooms languidly to ripeness, then
Fades slowly, and grows ripe again.
III
I lean back, in my own boudoir--
The door is fast, the sash ajar;
And in the dark, I smiling stare
At one wide window over there,
Where some one, smoking, pinks the gloom,
The darling darkness of his room!
I push my shutters wider yet,
And lo! I light a cigarette;
And gleam for gleam, and glow for glow,
Each pulse of light a word we know,
We talk of love that still will burn
While cigarettes to ashes turn.
TWO SONNETS TO THE JUNE-BUG
I
You make me jes' a little nervouser
Than any dog-gone bug I ever see!
And you know night's the time to pester me--
When any tetch at all 'll rub the fur
Of all my patience back'ards! You're the myrrh
And ruburb of my life! A bumblebee
Cain't hold a candle to you; and a he
Bald hornet, with a laminated spur
In his hip pocket, daresent even cheep
When you're around! And, dern ye! you have made
Me lose whole ricks and stacks and piles of sleep,--
And many of a livelong night I've laid
And never shut an eye, hearin' you keep
Up that eternal buzzin' serenade!
II
And I've got up and lit the lamp, and clum
On cheers and trunks and wash-stands and bureaus,
And all such dangerous articles as those,
And biffed at you with brooms, and never come
'In two feet of you,--maybe skeered you some,--
But what does that amount to when it throws
A feller out o' balance, and his nose
Gits barked ag'inst the mantel, while you hum
Fer joy around the room, and churn your head
Ag'inst the ceilin', and draw back and butt
The plasterin' loose, and drop--behind the bed,
Where never human-bein' ever putt
Harm's hand on you, er ever truthful said
He'd choked yer dern infernal wizzen shut!
AUTOGRAPHIC
_For an Album_
I feel, if aught I ought to rhyme,
I ought 'a' thought a longer time,
And ought 'a' caught a higher sense,
Of autocratic eloquence.
I ought 'a' sought each haughty Muse
That taught a thought I ought to use,
And fought and fraught, and so devised
A poem _unmonotonized_.--
But since all this was vain, I thought
I ought to simply say,--I ought
To thank you, as I ought to do,
And ought to bow my best to you;
And ought to trust not to intrude
A rudely wrought-up gratitude,
But ought to smile, and ought to laugh,
And ought to write--an autograph.
AN IMPROMPTU ON ROLLER SKATES
Rumble, tumble, growl, and grate!
Skip, and trip, and gravitate!
Lunge, and plunge, and thrash the planks
With your blameless, shameless shanks:
In excruciating pain,
Stand upon your head again,
And, uncoiling kink by kink,
Kick the roof out of the rink!
In derisive bursts of mirth,
Drop ka-whop and jar the earth!
Jolt your lungs down in your socks,
Oh! tempestuous equinox
Of dismembered legs and arms!
Strew your ways with wild alarms;
Fameward skoot and ricochet
On your glittering vertebrae!
WRITTEN IN BUNNER'S "AIRS FROM ARCADY"
O ever gracious Airs from Arcady!
What lack is there of any jocund thing
In glancing wit or glad imagining
Capricious fancy may not find in thee?--
The laugh of Momus, tempered daintily
To lull the ear and lure its listening;
The whistled syllables the birds of spring
Flaunt ever at our guessings what they be;
The wood, the seashore, and the clanging town;
The pets of fashion, and the ways of such;
The _robe de chambre_, and the russet gown;
The lordling's carriage, and the pilgrim's crutch--
From hale old Chaucer's wholesomeness, clean down
To our artistic Dobson's deftest touch!
IN THE AFTERNOON
You in the hammock; and I, near by,
Was trying to read, and to swing you, too;
And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye,
And the shade of the maples so cool and blue,
That often I looked from the book to you
To say as much, with a sigh.
You in the hammock. The book we'd brought
From the parlor--to read in the open air,--
Something of love and of Launcelot
And Guinevere, I believe, was there--
But the afternoon, it was far more fair
Than the poem was, I thought.
You in the hammock; and on and on
I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff--
But, with always a half of my vision gone
Over the top of the page--enough
To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff
Of your hair and your odorous "lawn."
You in the hammock--and that was a year--
Fully a year ago, I guess--
And what do we care for their Guinevere
And her Launcelot and their lordliness!--
You in the hammock still, and--Yes--
Kiss me again, my dear!
AT MADAME MANICURE'S
Daintiest of Manicures!
What a cunning hand is yours;
And how awkward, rude and great
Mine, as you manipulate!
Wonderfully cool and calm
Are the touches of your palm
To my fingers, as they rest
In their rosy, cosey nest,
While your own, with deftest skill,
Dance and caper as they will,--
Armed with instruments that seem
Gathered from some fairy dream--
Tiny spears, and simitars
Such as pixy armorers
Might have made for jocund fays
To parade on holidays,
And flash round in dewy dells,
Lopping down the lily-bells;
Or in tilting, o'er the leas,
At the clumsy bumblebees,
Splintering their stings, perchance,
As the knights in old romance
Snapped the spears of foes that fought
In the jousts at Camelot!
Smiling? Dainty Manicure?--
'Twould delight me, but that you're
Simply smiling, as I see,
At my nails and not at me!
Haply this is why they glow
And light up and twinkle so!
A CALLER FROM BOONE
BENJ. F. JOHNSON VISITS THE EDITOR
It was a dim and chill and loveless afternoon in the late fall of
eighty-three when I first saw the genial subject of this hasty sketch.
From time to time the daily paper on which I worked had been
receiving, among the general literary driftage of amateur essayists,
poets and sketch-writers, some conceits in verse that struck the
editorial head as decidedly novel; and, as they were evidently the
production of an unlettered man, and an _old_ man, and a farmer at that,
they were usually spared the waste-basket, and preserved--not for
publication, but to pass from hand to hand among the members of the
staff as simply quaint and mirth-provoking specimens of the verdancy
of both the venerable author and the Muse inspiring him. Letters as
quaint as were the poems invariably accompanied them, and the oddity
of these, in fact, had first called attention to the verses. I well
remember the general merriment of the office when the first of the old
man's letters was read aloud, and I recall, too, some of his comments
on his own verse, verbatim. In one place he said: "I make no doubt you
will find some purty _sad_ spots in my poetry, considerin'; but I hope
you will bear in mind that I am a great sufferer with rheumatizum, and
have been, off and on, sence the cold New Year's. In the main,
however," he continued, "I allus aim to write in a cheerful,
comfortin' sperit, so's ef the stuff hangs fire, and don't do no good,
it hain't a-goin' to do no harm,--and them's my honest views on
poetry."
In another letter, evidently suspecting his poem had not appeared in
print because of its dejected tone, he said: "The poetry I herewith
send was wrote off on the finest Autumn day I ever laid eyes on! I
never felt better in my life. The morning air was as invigoratin' as
bitters with tanzy in it, and the folks at breakfast said they never
saw such a' appetite on mortal man before. Then I lit out for the
barn, and after feedin', I come back and tuck my pen and ink out on
the porch, and jest cut loose. I writ and writ till my fingers was
that cramped I couldn't hardly let go of the penholder. And the poem I
send you is the upshot of it all. Ef you don't find it cheerful enough
fer your columns, I'll have to knock under, that's all!" And that
poem, as I recall it, certainly was cheerful enough for publication,
only the "copy" was almost undecipherable, and the ink, too, so pale
and vague, it was thought best to reserve the verses, for the time, at
least, and later on revise, copy, punctuate, and then print it
sometime, as much for the joke of it as anything. But it was still
delayed, neglected, and in a week's time almost entirely forgotten.
And so it was, upon this chill and sombre afternoon I speak of that an
event occurred which most pleasantly reminded me of both the poem with
the "sad spots" in it, and the "cheerful" one, "writ out on the porch"
that glorious autumn day that poured its glory through the old man's
letter to us.
Outside and in the sanctum the gloom was too oppressive to permit an
elevated tendency of either thought or spirit. I could do nothing but
sit listless and inert. Paper and pencil were before me, but I could
not write--I could not even think coherently, and was on the point of
rising and rushing out into the streets for a wild walk, when there
came a hesitating knock at the door.
"Come in!" I snarled, grabbing up my pencil and assuming a frightfully
industrious air: "Come in!" I almost savagely repeated, "Come in! And
shut the door behind you!" and I dropped my lids, bent my gaze fixedly
upon the blank pages before me and began scrawling some disconnected
nothings with no head or tail or anything.
"Sir; howdy," said a low and pleasant voice. And at once, in spite of
my perverse resolve, I looked up. I someway felt rebuked.
The speaker was very slowly, noiselessly closing the door. I could
hardly face him when he turned around. An old man, of sixty-five, at
least, but with a face and an eye of the most cheery and wholesome
expression I had ever seen in either youth or age. Over his broad
bronzed forehead and white hair he wore a low-crowned, wide-brimmed
black felt hat, somewhat rusted now, and with the band grease-crusted,
and the binding frayed at intervals, and sagging from the threads that
held it on. An old-styled frock coat of black, dull brown in streaks,
and quite shiny about the collar and lapels. A waistcoat of no
describable material or pattern, and a clean white shirt and collar of
one piece, with a black string-tie and double bow, which would have
been entirely concealed beneath the long white beard but for its
having worked around to one side of the neck. The front outline of the
face was cleanly shaven, and the beard, growing simply from the under
chin and throat, lent the old pioneer the rather singular appearance
of having hair all over him with this luxurious growth pulled out
above his collar for mere sample.
I arose and asked the old man to sit down, handing him a chair
decorously.
"No--no," he said--"I'm much obleeged. I hain't come in to bother you
no more'n I can he'p. All I wanted was to know ef you got my poetry
all right. You know I take yer paper," he went on, in an explanatory
way, "and seein' you printed poetry in it once-in-a-while, I sent you
some of mine--neighbors kindo' advised me to," he added
apologetically, "and so I sent you some--two or three times I sent you
some, but I hain't never seed hide-ner-hair of it in your paper, and
as I wus in town to-day, anyhow, I jest thought I'd kindo' drap in and
git it back, ef you ain't goin' to print it--'cause I allus save up
most the things I write, aimin' sometime to git 'em all struck off in
pamphlet-form, to kindo' distribit round 'mongst the neighbors, don't
you know."
Already I had begun to suspect my visitor's identity, and was
mechanically opening the drawer of our poetical department.
"How was your poetry signed?" I asked.
"Signed by my own name," he answered proudly,--"signed by my own
name,--Johnson--Benjamin F. Johnson, of Boone County--this state."
"And is this one of them, Mr. Johnson?" I asked, unfolding a
clumsily-folded manuscript, and closely scrutinizing the verse.
"How does she read?" said the old man eagerly, and searching in the
meantime for his spectacles. "How does she read?--Then I can tell
you!"
"It reads," said I, studiously conning the old man's bold but bad
chirography, and tilting my chair back indolently,--"it reads like
this--the first verse does,"--and I very gravely read:--
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!"
"Stop! Stop!" said the old man excitedly--"Stop right there! That's my
poetry, but that's not the way to read it by a long shot! Give it to
me!" and he almost snatched it from my hand. "Poetry like this ain't
no poetry at all, 'less you read it _natchurl_ and _in jes the same
sperit 'at it's writ in_, don't you understand. It's a' old man
a-talkin', rickollect, and a-feelin' kindo' sad, and yit kindo' sorto'
good, too, and I opine he wouldn't got that off with a face on him
like a' undertaker, and a voice as solemn as a cow-bell after dark!
He'd say it more like this."--And the old man adjusted his spectacles
and read:--
"THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE"
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole."
I clapped my hands in genuine applause. "Read on!" I said,--"Read on!
Read all of it!"
The old man's face was radiant as he continued:--
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
"Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I strayed down the banks whare the trees ust to be--
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wisht in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole."
My applause was long and loud. The old man's interpretation of the
poem was a positive revelation, though I was glad enough to conceal
from him my moistened eyes by looking through the scraps for other
specimens of his verse.
"Here," said I enthusiastically, "is another one, signed 'Benj. F.
Johnson,' read me this," and I handed him the poem.
The old man smiled and took the manuscript. "This-here one's on '_The
Hoss_,'" he said, simply clearing his throat. "They ain't so much
fancy-work about this as the other'n, but they's jest as much _fact_,
you can bet--'cause, they're no animal a-livin' 'at I love better 'an
"THE HOSS"
"The hoss he is a splendud beast;
He is man's friend, as heaven desined,
And, search the world from west to east,
No honester you'll ever find!
"Some calls the hoss 'a pore dumb brute,'
And yit, like Him who died fer you,
I say, as I theyr charge refute,
'Fergive; they know not what they do!'
"No wiser animal makes tracks
Upon these earthly shores, and hence
Arose the axium, true as facts,
Extoled by all, as 'Good hoss-sense!'
"The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,--
You hitch him up a time er two
And lash him, and he'll go his len'th
And kick the dashboard out fer you!
"But, treat him allus good and kind,
And never strike him with a stick,
Ner aggervate him, and you'll find
He'll never do a hostile trick.
"A hoss whose master tends him right
And worters him with daily care,
Will do your biddin' with delight,
And act as docile as _you_ air.
"He'll paw and prance to hear your praise,
Because he's learnt to love you well;
And, though you can't tell what he says,
He'll nicker all he wants to tell.
"He knows you when you slam the gate
At early dawn, upon your way
Unto the barn, and snorts elate,
To git his corn, er oats, er hay.
"He knows you, as the orphant knows
The folks that loves her like theyr own,
And raises her and 'finds' her clothes,
And 'schools' her tel a womern-grown!
"I claim no hoss will harm a man,
Ner kick, ner run away, cavort,
Stump-suck, er balk, er 'catamaran,'
Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.
"But when I see the beast abused
And clubbed around as I've saw some,
I want to see his owner noosed,
And jest yanked up like Absolum!
"Of course they's differunce in stock,--
A hoss that has a little yeer,
And slender build, and shaller hock,
Can beat his shadder, mighty near!
"Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist
And big in leg and full in flank,
That tries to race, I still insist
He'll have to take the second rank.
"And I have jest laid back and laughed,
And rolled and wallered in the grass
At fairs, to see some heavy-draft
Lead out at _first_, yit come in _last_!
"Each hoss has his appinted place,--
The heavy hoss should plow the soil;--
The blooded racer, he must race,
And win big wages fer his toil.
"I never bet--ner never wrought
Upon my feller-man to bet--
And yit, at times, I've often thought
Of my convictions with regret.
"I bless the hoss from hoof to head--
From head to hoof, and tale to mane!--
I bless the hoss, as I have said,
From head to hoof, and back again!
"I love my God the first of all,
Then Him that perished on the cross,
And next, my wife,--and then I fall
Down on my knees and love the hoss."