as he said: "Referrin' to this thing of bein' homesick, I want to
say right here that of all diseases, afflictions er complaints, this
thing of bein' homesick takes the cookies! A man may think when he's
got a' aggrivated case of janders, er white-swellin', say, er
bone-erysipelas, that he's to be looked up to as bein' purty well
fixed in this vale of trouble and unrest, but I want to tell you, when
I want my sorrow blood-raw, don't you understand, you may give me
homesickness--straight goods, you know--and I'll git more clean,
legitimate agony out of that than you can out of either of the other
attractions--yes, er even ef you'd ring in the full combination on me!
You see, there's no way of treatin' homesickness only one--and that is
to git back home--but as that's a remedy you can't git at no drug
store, at so much per box--and ef you could, fer instance, and only
had enough ready money anyhow to cover half the cost of a full
box--and nothin' but a full box ever reached the case--w'y, it follers
that your condition still remains critical. And homesickness don't
show no favors. It's jes' as liable to strike you as me. High er low,
er rich er poor, all comes under her jurishdiction, and whenever she
once reaches fer a citizen, you can jes' bet she gits there Eli, ever'
time!
"She don't confine herse'f to youth, ner make no specialty of little
children either, but she stalks abroad like a census-taker, and is as
conscientious. She visits the city girl clean up to Maxinkuckee, and
makes her wonder how things really is back home without her. And then
she haunts her dreams, and wakes her up at all hours of the night, and
sings old songs over fer her, and talks to her in low thrillin' tones
of a young man whose salary ain't near big enough fer two; and then
she leaves her photograph with her and comes away, and makes it lively
fer the boys on the train, the conductor, the brakeman and the
engineer. She even nests out the travellin' man, and yanks him out of
his reclinin' chair, and walks him up and down the car, and runs him
clean out of cigars and finecut, and smiles to hear him swear. Then
she gits off at little country stations and touches up the night
operator, who grumbles at his boy companion, and wishes to dernation
'six' was in, so's he could 'pound his ear.'
"And I'll never forgit," continued Mr. Judkins, "the last case of
homesickness I had, and the cure I took fer it. 'Tain't been more'n a
week ago neither. You see my old home is a'most too many laps from
this base to make it very often, and in consequence I hadn't been
there fer five years and better, till this last trip, when I jes'
succumbed to the pressure, and th'owed up my hands and went. Seemed
like I'd 'a' died if I hadn't. And it was glorious to rack around the
old town again--things lookin' jes' the same, mighty nigh, as they was
when I was a boy, don't you know. Run acrost an old schoolmate, too,
and tuck supper at his happy little home, and then we got us a good
nickel cigar, and walked and walked, and talked and talked! Tuck me
all around, you understand, in the meller twilight--till, the first
thing you know, there stood the old schoolhouse where me and him first
learnt to chew tobacco, and all that! Well, sir! you hain't got no
idea of the feelin's that was mine! W'y, I felt like I could th'ow my
arms around the dear old buildin' and squeeze it till the cupolo would
jes' pop out of the top of the roof like the core out of a b'ile! And
I think if they ever was a' epoch in my life when I could 'a' tackled
poetry without no compunctions, as the feller says, w'y, then was the
time--shore!"
TO THE QUIET OBSERVER
ERASMUS WILSON, AFTER HIS LONG SILENCE
Dear old friend of us all in need
Who know the worth of a friend indeed,
How rejoiced are we all to learn
Of your glad return.
We who have missed your voice so long--
Even as March might miss the song
Of the sugar-bird in the maples when
They're tapped again.
Even as the memory of these
_Blended_ sweets,--the sap of the trees
And the song of the birds, and the old camp too,
We think of you.
Hail to you, then, with welcomes deep
As grateful hearts may laugh or weep!--
You give us not only the bird that sings,
But all good things.
AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING
1900
Father all bountiful, in mercy bear
With this our universal voice of prayer--
The voice that needs must be
Upraised in thanks to Thee,
O Father, from Thy Children everywhere.
A multitudinous voice, wherein we fain
Wouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain--
No murmur of distress,
Nor moan of loneliness,
Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain.
And, Father, give us first to comprehend,
No ill can come from Thee; lean Thou and lend
Us clearer sight to see
Our boundless debt to Thee,
Since all thy deeds are blessings, in the end.
And let us feel and know that, being Thine,
We are inheritors of hearts divine,
And hands endowed with skill,
And strength to work Thy will,
And fashion to fulfilment Thy design.
So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside,
Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride;
As here to Thee we dare
Uplift our faltering prayer,
Lend it some fervor of the glorified.
We thank Thee that our land is loved of Thee
The blessed home of thrift and industry,
With ever-open door
Of welcome to the poor--
Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly.
Even thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grew
Into a right that heroes battled to,
With brothers long estranged,
Once more as brothers ranged
Beneath the red and white and starry blue.
Ay, thanks--though tremulous the thanks expressed--
Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best--
For all the clanging fray
Whose discord dies away
Into a pastoral song of peace and rest.
WILLIAM PINKNEY FISHBACK
Say first he loved the dear home-hearts, and then
He loved his honest fellow citizen--
He loved and honored him, in any post
Of duty where he served mankind the most.
All that he asked of him in humblest need
Was but to find him striving to succeed;
All that he asked of him in highest place
Was justice to the lowliest of his race.
When he found these conditions, proved and tried,
He owned he marvelled, but was satisfied--
Relaxed in vigilance enough to smile
And, with his own wit, flay himself a while.
Often he liked real anger--as, perchance,
The summer skies like storm-clouds and the glance
Of lightning--for the clearer, purer blue
Of heaven, and the greener old earth, too.
All easy things to do he did with care,
Knowing the very common danger there;
In noblest conquest of supreme debate
The facts are simple as the victory great.
That which had been a task to hardiest minds
To him was as a pleasure, such as finds
The captive-truant, doomed to read throughout
The one lone book he really cares about.
Study revived him: Howsoever dim
And deep the problem, 'twas a joy to him
To solve it wholly; and he seemed as one
Refreshed and rested as the work was done.
And he had gathered, from all wealth of lore
That time has written, such a treasure store,
His mind held opulence--his speech the rare
Fair grace of sharing all his riches there--
Sharing with all, but with the greatest zest
Sharing with those who seemed the neediest:
The young he ever favored; and through these
Shall he live longest in men's memories.
JOHN CLARK RIDPATH
To the lorn ones who loved him first and best,
And knew his dear love at its tenderest,
We seem akin--we simplest friends who knew
His fellowship, of heart and spirit too:
We who have known the happy summertide
Of his ingenuous nature, glorified
With the inspiring smile that ever lit
The earnest face and kindly strength of it:
His presence, all-commanding, as his thought
Into unconscious eloquence was wrought,
Until the utterance became a spell
That awed us as a spoken miracle.
Learning, to him, was native--was, in truth,
The earliest playmate of his lisping youth,
Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress,
It was as laughter, health and happiness:
And so he played with it--joyed at its call--
Ran rioting with it, forgetting all
Delights of childhood, and of age and fame,--
A devotee of learning, still the same!
In fancy, even now we catch the glance
Of the rapt eye and radiant countenance,
As when his discourse, like a woodland stream,
Flowed musically on from theme to theme:
The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea,
He worshipped as their high divinity--
Nor did his reverent spirit find one thing
On earth too lowly for his worshipping.
The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain,
The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain--
All--all were fashioned beautiful and good,
As the soul saw and senses understood.
Thus broadly based, his spacious faith and love
Enfolded all below as all above--
Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind,
He gave his love's vast largess as designed.
Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, he
Wrought ever bravely for humanity--
Stood, first of heroes for the Right allied--
Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died.
This was the man we loved--are loving yet,
And still shall love while longing eyes are wet
With selfish tears that well were brushed away
Remembering his smile of yesterday.--
For, even as we knew him, smiling still,
Somewhere beyond all earthly ache or ill,
He waits with the old welcome--just as when
We met him smiling, we shall meet again.
NEW YEAR'S NURSERY JINGLE
Of all the rhymes of all the climes
Of where and when and how,
We best and most can boost and boast
The Golden Age of NOW!
TO THE MOTHER
The mother-hands no further toil may know;
The mother-eyes smile not on you and me;
The mother-heart is stilled, alas!--But O
The mother-love abides eternally.
TO MY SISTER
A BELATED OFFERING FOR HER BIRTHDAY
These books you find three weeks behind
Your honored anniversary
Make me, I fear, to here appear
Mayhap a trifle cursory.--
Yet while the Muse must thus refuse
The chords that fall caressfully,
She seems to stir the publisher
And dealer quite successfully.
As to our _birthdays_--let 'em run
Until they whir and whiz!
Read Robert Louis Stevenson,
And hum these lines of his:--
"The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,
Shall break on hill and plain
And put all stars and candles out
Ere we be young again."
A MOTTO
The _Brightest_ Star's the _modestest_,
And more'n likely writes
His motto like the lightnin'-bug's--
_Accordin' To His Lights_.
TO A POET ON HIS MARRIAGE
MADISON CAWEIN
Ever and ever, on and on,
From winter dusk to April dawn,
This old enchanted world we range
From night to light--from change to change--
Or path of burs or lily-bells,
We walk a world of miracles.
The morning evermore must be
A newer, purer mystery--
The dewy grasses, or the bloom
Of orchards, or the wood's perfume
Of wild sweet-williams, or the wet
Blent scent of loam and violet.
How wondrous all the ways we fare--
What marvels wait us, unaware!...
But yesterday, with eyes ablur
And heart that held no hope of Her,
You paced the lone path, but the true
That led to where she waited you.
ART AND POETRY
TO HOMER C. DAVENPORT
"Wess," he says, and sort o' grins,
"Art and Poetry is twins.
'F I could draw as you have drew,
Like to jes' swap pens with you."
HER SMILE OF CHEER AND VOICE OF SONG
ANNA HARRIS RANDALL
Spring fails, in all its bravery of brilliant gold and green,--
The sun, the grass, the leafing tree, and all the dazzling scene
Of dewy morning--orchard blooms,
And woodland blossoms and perfumes
With bird-songs sown between.
Yea, since _she_ smiles not any more, so every flowery thing
Fades, and the birds seem brooding o'er her silence as they sing--
Her smile of cheer and voice of song
Seemed so divinely to belong
To ever-joyous Spring!
Nay, still she smiles.--Our eyes are blurred and see not through our
tears:
And still her rapturous voice is heard, though not of mortal ears:--
Now ever doth she smile and sing
Where Heaven's unending clime of Spring
Reclaims those gifts of hers.
OLD INDIANY
FRAGMENT
INTENDED FOR A DINNER OF THE INDIANA SOCIETY OF CHICAGO
Old Indiany, 'course we know
Is first, and best, and _most_, also,
Of _all_ the States' whole forty-four:--
She's first in ever'thing, that's shore!--
And _best_ in ever'way as yet
Made known to man; and you kin bet
She's _most_, because she won't confess
She ever was, or will be, _less_!
And yet, fer all her proud array
Of sons, how many gits away!--
No doubt about her bein' _great_
But, fellers, she's a leaky State!
And them that boasts the most about
Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out.
Law! jes' to think of all you boys
'Way over here in Illinoise
A-celebratin', like ye air,
Old Indiany, 'way back there
In the dark ages, so to speak,
A-prayin' for ye once a week
And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you
From comin', like you ort to do.
You're all a-lookin' well, and like
You wasn't "sidin' up the pike,"
As the tramp-shoemaker said
When "he sacked the boss and shed
The blame town, to hunt fer one
Where they didn't work fer fun!"
Lookin' _extry_ well, I'd say,
Your old home so fur away.--
Maybe, though, like the old jour.,
Fun hain't all yer workin' fer.
So you've found a job that pays
Better than in them old days
You was on _The Weekly Press_,
Heppin' run things, more er less;
Er a-learnin' telegraph
Operatin', with a half
Notion of the tinner's trade,
Er the dusty man's that laid
Out designs on marble and
Hacked out little lambs by hand,
And chewed fine-cut as he wrought,
"Shapin' from his bitter thought"
Some squshed mutterings to say,--
"Yes, hard work, and porer pay!"
Er you'd kind o' thought the far-
Gazin' kuss that owned a car
And took pictures in it, had
Jes' the snap you wanted--bad!
And you even wondered why
He kep' foolin' with his sky-
Light the same on shiny days
As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.)
Wondered what strange things was hid
In there when he shet the door
And smelt like a burnt drug store
Next some orchard-trees, i swan!
With whole roasted apples on!
That's why Ade is, here of late,
Buyin' in the dear old State,--
So's to cut it up in plots
Of both town and country lots.
ABE MARTIN
Abe Martin!--dad-burn his old picture!
P'tends he's a Brown County fixture--
A kind of a comical mixture
Of hoss-sense and no sense at all!
His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin',
And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin',
And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'--
From Genesis clean to baseball!
The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless
He draws Abe most eyeless and earless,
But he's never yet pictured him cheerless
Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal,--
Whuther onto the fence er clean over
A-rootin' up ragweed er clover,
Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover"
Er newfangled automo_beel_!
It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in;
And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in
The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in
As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh
As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled
Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled
Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled
That it was a pleasure to die.
But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at
Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at
Both me and you lays back and shakes at
His comic, miraculous cracks
Which makes him--clean back of the power
Of genius itse'f in its flower--
This Notable Man of the Hour,
Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.
O. HENRY
WRITTEN IN THE CHARACTER OF "SHERRARD PLUMMER"
O. Henry, Afrite-chef of all delight!--
Of all delectables conglomerate
That stay the starved brain and rejuvenate
The mental man. Th' esthetic appetite--
So long anhungered that its "in'ards" fight
And growl gutwise,--its pangs thou dost abate
And all so amiably alleviate,
Joy pats its belly as a hobo might
Who haply hath attained a cherry pie
With no burnt bottom in it, ner no seeds--
Nothin' but crispest crust, and thickness fit,
And squshin'-juicy, and jes' mighty nigh
Too dratted drippin'-sweet fer human needs,
But fer the sosh of milk that goes with it.
"MONA MACHREE"
"_Mona Machree, I'm the wanderin' cr'ature now,
Over the sea;
Slave of no lass, but a lover of Nature now
Careless and free._"
--T. A. Daly.
Mona Machree! och, the sootherin' flow of it,
Soft as the sea,
Yet, in-under the mild, moves the wild undertow of it
Tuggin' at me,
Until both the head and the heart o' me's fightin'
For breath, nigh a death all so grandly invitin'
That--barrin' your own livin' yet--I'd delight in,
Drowned in the deeps of this billowy song to you
Sung by a lover your beauty has banned,
Not alone from your love but his dear native land,
Whilst the kiss of his lips, and touch of his hand,
And his song--all belong to you,
Mona Machree!
WILLIAM McKINLEY
CANTON, OHIO, SEPTEMBER 30, 1907
He said: "It is God's way:
His will, not ours be done."
And o'er our land a shadow lay
That darkened all the sun.
The voice of jubilee
That gladdened all the air,
Fell sudden to a quavering key
Of suppliance and prayer.
He was our chief--our guide--
Sprung of our common Earth,
From youth's long struggle proved and tried
To manhood's highest worth:
Through toil, he knew all needs
Of all his toiling kind--
The favored striver who succeeds--
The one who falls behind.
The boy's young faith he still
Retained through years mature--
The faith to labor, hand and will,
Nor doubt the harvest sure--
The harvest of man's love--
A nation's joy that swells
To heights of Song, or deeps whereof
But sacred silence tells.
To him his Country seemed
Even as a Mother, where
He rested--slept; and once he dreamed--
As on her bosom there--
And thrilled to hear, within
That dream of her, the call
Of bugles and the clang and din
Of war.... And o'er it all
His rapt eyes caught the bright
Old Banner, winging wild
And beck'ning him, as to the fight ...
When--even as a child--
He wakened--And the dream
Was real! And he leapt
As led the proud Flag through a gleam
Of tears the Mother wept.
His was a tender hand--
Even as a woman's is--
And yet as fixed, in Right's command,
As this bronze hand of his:
This was the Soldier brave--
This was the Victor fair--
This is the Hero Heaven gave
To glory here--and There.
BENJAMIN HARRISON
ON THE UNVEILING OF HIS MONUMENT AT INDIANAPOLIS
OCTOBER 27, 1908
As tangible a form in History
The Spirit of this man stands forth as here
He towers in deathless sculpture, high and clear
Against the bright sky of his destiny.
Sprung of our oldest, noblest ancestry,
His pride of birth, as lofty as sincere,
Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear--
Such was his sacred faith in you and me.
Thus, natively, from youth his work was one
Unselfish service in behalf of all--
Home, friends, and sharers of his toil and stress;
Ay, loving all men and despising none,
And swift to answer every righteous call,
His life was one long deed of worthiness.
The voice of Duty's faintest whisper found
Him as alert as at her battle-cry--
When awful War's battalions thundered by,
High o'er the havoc still he heard the sound
Of mothers' prayers and pleadings all around;
And ever the despairing sob and sigh
Of stricken wives and orphan children's cry
Made all our Land thrice consecrated ground.
So rang his "Forward!" and so swept his sword--
On!--on!--till from the fire-and-cloud once more
Our proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlight
As though the very Ensign of the Lord
Unfurled in token that the strife was o'er,
And victory--as ever--with the right.
LEE O. HARRIS
CHRISTMAS DAY--1909
O say not he is dead,
The friend we honored so;
Lift up a grateful voice instead
And say: He lives, we know--
We know it by the light
Of his enduring love
Of honor, valor, truth, and right,
And man, and God above.
Remember how he drew
The child-heart to his own,
And taught the parable anew,
And reaped as he had sown;
Remember with what cheer
He filled the little lives,
And stayed the sob and dried the tear
With mirth that still survives.
All duties to his kind
It was his joy to fill;
With nature gentle and refined,
Yet dauntless soul and will,
He met the trying need
Of every troublous call,
Yet high and clear and glad indeed
He sung above it all.
Ay, listen! Still we hear
The patriot song, the lay
Of love, the woodland note so dear--
These will not die away.
Then say not he is dead,
The friend we honor so,
But lift a grateful voice instead
And say: He lives, we know.
THE HIGHEST GOOD
WRITTEN FOR A HIGH-SCHOOL ANNUAL
To attain the highest good
Of true man and womanhood,
Simply do your honest best--
God with joy will do the rest.
MY CONSCIENCE
Sometimes my Conscience says, says he,
"Don't you know me?"
And I, says I, skeered through and through,
"Of course I do.
You air a nice chap ever' way,
I'm here to say!
You make me cry--you make me pray,
And all them good things thataway--
That is, at _night_. Where do you stay
Durin' the day?"
And then my Conscience says, onc't more,
"You know me--shore?"
"Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint,
"You're jes' a saint!
Your ways is all so holy-right,
I love you better ever' night
You come around,--tel' plum daylight,
When you air out o' sight!"
And then my Conscience sort o' grits
His teeth, and spits
On his two hands and grabs, of course,
Some old remorse,
And beats me with the big butt-end
O' _that_ thing--tel my clostest friend
'Ud hardly know me. "Now," says he,
"Be keerful as you'd orto be
And _allus_ think o' me!"
MY BOY
You smile and you smoke your cigar, my boy;
You walk with a languid swing;
You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy,
And you lift up your voice and sing;
The midnight moon is a friend of yours,
And a serenade your joy--
And it's only an age like mine that cures
A trouble like yours, my boy!
THE OBJECT LESSON
Barely a year ago I attended the Friday afternoon exercises of a
country school. My mission there, as I remember, was to refresh my
mind with such material as might be gathered, for a "valedictory,"
which, I regret to say, was to be handed down to posterity under
another signature than my own.
There was present, among a host of visitors, a pale young man of
perhaps thirty years, with a tall head and bulging brow and a highly
intellectual pair of eyes and spectacles. He wore his hair without
roach or "part" and the smile he beamed about him was "a joy forever."
He was an educator--from the East, I think I heard it rumoured--anyway
he was introduced to the school at last, and he bowed, and smiled, and
beamed upon us all, and entertained us after the most delightfully
edifying manner imaginable. And although I may fail to reproduce the
exact substance of his remarks upon that highly important occasion, I
think I can at least present his theme in all its coherency of detail.
Addressing more particularly the primary department of the school, he
said:--
"As the little exercise I am about to introduce is of recent origin,
and the bright, intelligent faces of the pupils before me seem rife
with eager and expectant interest, it will be well for me, perhaps, to
offer by way of preparatory preface, a few terse words of explanation.
"The Object Lesson is designed to fill a long-felt want, and is
destined, as I think, to revolutionize, in a great degree, the
educational systems of our land.--In my belief, the Object Lesson will
supply a want which I may safely say has heretofore left the most
egregious and palpable traces of mental confusion and intellectual
inadequacies stamped, as it were, upon the gleaming reasons of the
most learned--the highest cultured, and the most eminently gifted and
promising of our professors and scientists both at home and abroad.
"Now this deficiency--if it may be so termed--plainly has a beginning;
and probing deeply with the bright, clean scalpel of experience we
discover that--'As the twig is bent the tree's inclined.' To remedy,
then, a deeply seated error which for so long has rankled at the very
root of educational progress throughout the land, many plausible, and
we must admit, many helpful theories have been introduced to allay the
painful errors resulting from the discrepancy of which we speak: but
until now, nothing that seemed wholly to eradicate the defect has been
discovered, and that, too, strange as it may seem, is, at last,
emanating, like the mighty river, from the simplest source, but
broadening and gathering in force and power as it flows along, until,
at last, its grand and mighty current sweeps on in majesty to the vast
illimitable ocean of--of--of--Success! Ahem!
"And, now, little boys and girls, that we have had by implication, a
clear and comprehensive explanation of the Object Lesson and its
mission, I trust you will give me your undivided attention while I
endeavor--in my humble way--to direct your newly acquired knowledge
through the proper channel. For instance:--