You’re an old friend of mine, both trustworthy and true;
For that big head of yours that near gave me a fright
Was in somebody’s pumpkin patch only last night.
And out of my window not two hours ago
I saw your head scooped out by Bill, Jack, and Joe;
And I saw you stuck up on the end of a lath
Before you were stationed right here in my path.
Oho! Mr. Ghost, with your garments so fine!
I know what became of that sheet on the line
In the neighbor’s back yard, newly washed and alone,
It is hiding that lath that you use for backbone.
And the candle that burned in the kitchen last night
Lights those cavernous eyes that near gave me a fright;
Indeed, you are made from such odds and such ends
That I feel we’re the warmest of very old friends.
And those sepulchral groans you are making at me,
I know whence they come--from that big apple tree
That is right behind you--I have heard them before;
They were begging for cake at the side kitchen door.
So you see, Mr. Ghost, with your pumpkin and lath,
With your candle and sheet, when I came up the path
I heard a boy chuckle up there in the tree,
And that is the reason you can’t frighten me!
A REFUGE IN DISTRESS
A fellow’s father he looks wise
Of office work and such,
But when it comes to things like what
A boy wants, he ain’t much.
For when it comes to cuts or warts
Or stone bruise on your toes,
A fellow’s father don’t know, but
A fellow’s mother knows.
A fellow’s father he looks wise
And says: “A-hem! A-hem!”
But when it comes to cakes and pies,
What does he know of them?
He knows the price of wheat and rye
And corn and oats, it’s true,
But if you get the leg ache, why,
He don’t know what to do.
And if you burned your back the time
That you went in to swim,
And want some stuff to heal it, why,
You never go to him,
Because he doesn’t know a thing
About such things as those,
But you just bet, and don’t forget,
A fellow’s mother knows.
And if your nose is sunburned, till
It’s all peeled off, and you
Go to him for some healin’ stuff,
He don’t know what to do.
He’s just as helpless as can be,
But when a fellow goes
And asks his mother, why, you see,
A fellow’s mother knows.
A fellow’s father knows a lot,
But it ain’t any use,
So if a fellow’s really got
The leg ache or a bruise,
Or if there’s anything he wants
He gets right up and goes
And asks his mother, for, you see,
A fellow’s mother knows.
THE LOST HEART
Back among the trees and trellises, along the leaf-strewn lane,
Sitting on the bank of the mill stream and dreaming dreams again,
Drinking water sweet as nectar from the bucket at the well,
In the orchard’s leaf and silence, watching windfalls as they fell,
Trying here, at five and thirty, just to be a boy again,
To recall the joys of boyhood and forget the cares of men;
But I listen to a lesson in the twitter of the wren:
When the boy’s heart turns to man’s it never throbs the same again.
Once the sun marks noon of lifetime, once the morning steals away,
Once the shadows growing shorter and then fall the other way,
Once the play time ends at manhood, once the frolicking is done,
Once the face is turned from dawning to the setting of the sun,
You may sit among the flowers that you plucked and threw away,
Turn the leaves of Time all backward, try to read them as you may,
You may kindle fires of Memory, you may sit and watch the flame,
But there’s something changed within you that can never be the same.
You may lay aside the burden of your troubles as you will,
But the bent and sunken shoulders tell the story to you still;
The story of the troubles and the trials that are sealed
From the simple hearts of children, and to men alone revealed.
The sorrow dulls, the sigh is stilled, the sore hearts soothed are,
The smarting wound is healed again, but always leaves a scar,
The fire of youth burns only once, and dies in its dead flame,
The simple heart of boyhood that can never be the same.
So I sit among the trellises and trees and wonder why:
Clear the air as in my boyhood and as blue the unflecked sky,
Full the leaves as ever blowing, sweet the bird songs and as free,
But the boy’s heart that throbbed to them is untuned and dead in me.
There’s a longing, longing, longing, speaking in a deep-drawn sigh,
For the heart that throbbed in boyhood, cloudless as the azure sky;
For the heart that was the sunlight and the air--that tongue nor pen
Can ever paint or picture--that I cannot know again.
VERSES OF A LITTLE CHILD
Never care as she lies asleep,
Dear little lassie with red-brown hair;
Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep,
Keep for the little one slumbering there.
Never a dream as she lies so still,
Never a dream but of Fairyland,
Fairyland and the flowers that fill
Her bed, and the lilies within her hand.
Never a tear as she lies at rest,
Now or ever or evermore;
Never a sorrow to bruise her breast,
Ever the gladness of fairylore.
Never the rough way to bruise her feet,
Never or ever a discord sound,
Only the murmur of music sweet,
And the laughing of Cherubim, all around.
Never a sigh from the silent lips,
For the dollies all carefully laid away;
Only the music of laughter slips
Out of the realm of the sunlit day.
Never or ever a thought or care,
For the little hat with its flowered wreath,
Bearing a vision of red-brown hair
Flying in tangled curls beneath.
[Illustration: VERSES OF A LITTLE CHILD]
Dead? Ah, no! She is just asleep,
Asleep where the dreams and daisies are;
Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep,
Keep in the light of a twinkling star.
Asleep, and the odors of flowers fill
Her bed, and the lilies within her hand;
Asleep, and the whispering angels still
Her sighs with the dreams of Fairyland.
GOLDEN DAYS IN SLOWVILLE
These are golden days in Slowville; there is gladness up and down;
For they’re sticking circus posters ’round the little country town.
Flaming sheets of red and yellow on its every barn and fence
Tell of wonders aggregated disregardful of expense.
Tell of wildernesses threaded for the fierce Bigrigmajig;
Tell of jungle-beasts made captive and of marvels small and big,
“In a most stupendous spectacle of splendor and renown,”
Say the flaming circus posters in the little country town.
They have wielded monster brushes from the dewy hours of morn,
They have covered half of Jones’s barn with grandeur heaven-born;
They have pictured fluffy ladies on the backs of dashing steeds,
They have ornamented Slowville with a wealth of daring deeds;
They have left a Ripperumptus on the back of Robbin’s fence,
Captured in the wilds of Africa at marvelous expense;
They’ve a retinue of big-eyed lads as they move up and down
When they put up circus posters in the little country town.
Oh! the multicolored marvels done in wonder-rousing haste
With a broad red barn for background and no means but brush and paste.
“Hi, there, Jimmy! See the monkeys!” All the air is shrill with cries
As the likenesses of wild beasts are upreared in gorgeous dyes;
There’s the fierce Ornithorinktus and the dreadful Whatisnot,
The blood-sweating Crinklawoozum and the awful Bingleswat.
Tent and sideshow, flag and streamer, elephant, parade, and clown--
Oh! they’re sticking circus posters ’round the little country town.
These are sleepless nights in Slowville; sleepless nights and anxious days;
There’s a hoarding of stray pennies got in half a hundred ways;
There are lads in wonder raptured; open-mouthed, with bulging eyes,
Where the marvelous menageries from gorgeous posters rise;
Oh! there’s glory, glory, glory in the chariots arrayed,
There’s rapture in the promise of the splendorous parade;
And new life has come to Slowville and is surging up and down
Since they put up circus posters in the little country town.
THE HEART OF A CHILD
Give me thy happy heart, Oh little child!
Where love springs like the sweetest flower, wild,
From all its virgin soil, and radiantly
Reflects its fresh, unsullied purity.
Give me thy heart, that knows not heat or hate,
Nor passion thrills, nor grief makes desolate,
When love, lone, reigned, and Life but smiled and smiled,
Give me thy spotless heart, Oh little child!
Give me thine artless tongue that to deceive
Knows not; but lisps to laugh and wakes to weave
In whispered words diviner melody
Of love than speaks in grandest symphony.
Give me thine eyes that see but happiness,
Nor aught of else in all the hours that bless
Thy childhood time, nor any graver ray
Than the glad sunshine of an endless day.
Would we could cleanse our hearts and make them young,
As when were sweeter chimes of childhood rung
From them, and when were flowers springing wild
From the untrampled soil, Oh little child!
THE STRENUOUS LIFE
That is your father, dear
Just going out the door;
Oh, he’s been living here
For seven years or more!
In business he’s so deep
He has no time to fret
With little girls, but keep
Up hope--we’ll meet him yet!
That is your mother, dear,
Just getting in the car,
She knows that you are here
And also who you are!
But what with clubs to meet
And bridge to play, you see,
With hours so short and fleet
She’s turned you o’er to me.
But there, my dear, don’t fret,
Or let those blue eyes blur,
Some time I know you’ll get
Acquainted, too, with her.
Why, sometimes, in the night
When angels vigil keep,
She asks if you’re all right
And when you went to sleep!
I think you’d like them both,
I think they’d both like you,
But what with “higher growth”
And many things to do
They’re simply rushed to death,
But there, my dear, don’t cry,
If they should stop for breath
We’ll meet them bye and bye.
A SONG OF MOTHERHOOD
Sew, sew, sew! For there’s many a rent to mend;
There’s a stitch to take and a dress to make,
For where do her labors end?
Sew, sew, sew! For a rent in a dress she spies,
Then it’s needle and thread and an aching head
And see how the needle flies!
Brush, brush, brush! For there’s many a boy to clean,
And start to school with a slate and rule,
With a breakfast to get between.
Comb, comb, comb! In the minute she has to spare,
For what is so wild--unreconciled
As the wastes of a youngster’s hair?
Sweep, sweep, sweep! Oh, follow the flashing broom,
And with towel bound her forehead round
She goes from room to room.
Dust, dust, dust! As down on her knees she kneels,
For there’s much to do in the hour or two
Of interval ’twixt meals.
Bake, bake, bake! For the cookie jar piled high
But yesterday in some curious way
Is empty again, Oh my!
Stir, stir, stir, in the froth of yellow and white,
For well she knows how the story goes
Of a small boy’s appetite.
Scrub, scrub, scrub! For the floor that was spick and span,
Alas, alack! has a muddy track
Where some thoughtless youngster ran.
Splash, splash, splash! For the dishes of thrice a day
Are piled up high to wash and dry
And put on the shelves away.
Patch, patch, patch! And oh for a pantaloon
That would not tear or rip or wear
In the course of an afternoon!
Patch, patch, patch! And see how the needle flies,
For a mother knows how the fabric goes
Where the seat of trouble lies.
Toil, toil, toil! For when do her labors end,
With a dress to make and a cake to bake
And dresses and hose to mend?
Stew, stew, stew! Fret and worry and fuss,
And who of us knows of the frets and woes
In the days when she mothered us?
YOUTH
Don’t you recall when apples grew,
Oh, twice as big as now?
When fish, however they were few,
Were monster ones somehow?
When Gaines’s mill-dam made a roar
As though the water hurled
Were gathered in a mighty store
From all the wide, wide world?
Don’t you remember when the trees,
The oak trees and the beech,
Were lost in clouds on days like these
And eyes could hardly reach
Their waving tops? When noonday skies
Were oh, such deeper blue?
When Jack’s great bean stalk in our eyes
Just grew and grew and grew?
And there were bells, so more than fine,
Of blue and white and red,
Upon the morning glory vine
That climbed up on the shed,
To be a wonder and delight,
So fresh and full of dew,
To bud and open in a night night--
I see them now--don’t you?
Don’t you remember when the caves
Were thick and full of gloom,
Where captive maidens, once, like slaves,
Were chained in some damp room?
When twilight rustling in the brush
Was some fierce beast? A cow
It was, but cows at dusk are--Hush!
I think I hear one now.
Come, take a little trip with me,
Forget the things that fret,
For you may close your eyes and see
Some things that I forget.
Why, I’ve seen Bluebeard’s hidden room
And Cinderella’s shoe!
And I have seen where violets bloom bloom--
So blue! So blue! So blue!
AFTER THE YEARS
When you went back to the old home place had the mountain become a hill?
Had the raging river your boyhood knew shrunk down to a peaceful rill?
Were the monster trees in the old front yard but half of their former size?
Was something gone--and you don’t know what what--from the blue of
the arching skies?
Was the swimming-hole but a muddy pool when once it was crystal clear?
Were the apples but half as big and red as they were in that other year?
When you went back to the old home place did the red barn seem so small
It didn’t look like the one you’d known? Was the mighty waterfall
That used to roar in your boyish ears but a little dash of spray
That fell so light you could hardly hear a dozen feet away?
Were the corn rows only half as long as they were in the long ago,
When you measured them with aching arms and the weight of a heavy hoe?
When you went back to the old home place had the mill pond dwindled down?
Was Main Street only a muddy track in the heart of a sleepy town?
And the well that was fathoms, fathoms deep, with its wheel and creaking
chain,
Did it seem to you like a shrunken thing when you looked at it again?
Was something gone of the bygone days, from the sod and the arch of sky
That we used to see when we played as boys in the old days--you and I?
Nay, Heart, the mountain rises high as it did of yore; the rill
Was a river once and the boys near by see a raging river still.
The well is fathoms, fathoms deep and the apples ripe and red;
The sod is cool and green and soft, and the sky up overhead
Is blue and clear, and the days are rare and glad as they used to be--
But where is the Heart of the olden time--hast thou brought it back with
thee?
A VERSE TO MEMORY
Now Memory, like a little child,
Takes me by one soft hand,
By dreams of keen delight beguiled
We stray through Flowerland;
And like the child, sweet Memory
By many a by-way strays,
Plucks flowers and bears them back to me
To fashion my bouquets.
By many sweet, secluded ways
She wanders, far or near;
A rose upon my garland lays
Bejeweled with a tear;
The rose of some far-flown ideal,
A fragrance, ah, how rare!
My fingers close but to reveal
The ashes crumbling there.
Now tinkling laughter ripples clear
As some new flower she spies,
Some far-forgotten joys appear
As fairy faces rise.
My thoughts in revel, flower-wreathed,
Heart-full, my garlands lie,
While on the scented air is breathed
A greeting and good-bye.
Come, Child, away! The frolic ends,
The flower in ashes, dead;
The perfume with the air that blends
We’ll bear away instead.
Here at the hedge we kiss and part,
Some sterner duties find.
Bear all the sweetness in the heart
But leave the flowers behind.
Thank God, thank God for Memory,
Half smile and half a tear;
The flowers are there eternally,
And when the days are drear,
In through the tangled hedge of days
We wander, hand in hand,
And I may dream, while Memory strays,
A child is Flowerland.
LEST I FORGET
When from my earliest abode in boyhood’s merry days I strode,
Oh, well do I remember how my mother came--I see her now--
And, standing in the old front door, repeated to me o’er and o’er:
“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and William, wear your other hat.
Please, William, don’t forget my note, and William, wear your overcoat.
And William, hurry on your way, or you’ll be late to school today.”
And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear
Came floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.
When from my lessons, shirked or done, came homeward I at waning sun,
Oh, well do I remember how my mother came--I see her now--
And greeted me at that front door with admonitions o’er and o’er:
“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and wipe your feet upon the mat,
And do not slam the door and wake the baby, William, and please take
This package down to Howe and Hatch and tell them that it doesn’t match,
And don’t forget to hurry back, because the kitchen fire is slack”;
And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear
Come floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.
I’m married now--at man’s estate, and yet, quite mournful to relate,
My wife it is who, as before, comes with me to the new front door,
And standing there, bombards me for a block or two, and o’er and o’er:
“Oh, William, don’t you wet your feet, and William, don’t forget the meat,
And William, don’t forget to mail my letter promptly, and don’t fail
To pay the ice bill, order wood; and William, would you be so good
As to stop in at Jones’s store and get a bit of ribbon for
The baby’s hair?”--and so ’tis yet--lest I forget--lest I forget!
ECHO OF A SONG
To my fancy, idly roaming, comes a picture of the gloaming,
Comes a fragrance from the blossoms of the lilac and the rose;
With the yellow lamplight streaming I am sitting here and dreaming
Of a half-forgotten twilight whence a mellow memory flows;
To my listening ears come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing,
I’ve a sense of sweet contentment as the sounds are borne along;
’Tis a mother who is tuning her fond heart to love and crooning
To her laddie such a
Sleepy little,
Creepy little,
Song.
Ah, how well do I remember when by crackling spark and ember
The old-fashioned oaken rocker moved with rhythmic sweep and slow;
With her feet upon the fender, in a cadence low and tender,
Floated forth that slumber anthem of a childhood long ago.
There were goblins in the gloaming and the half-closed eyes went roaming
Through the twilight for the ghostly shapes of bugaboos along;
Now the sandman’s slyly creeping and a tired lad half sleeping
When she sings to him that
Sleepy little,
Creepy little,
Song.
I am sitting here and dreaming with the mellow lamplight streaming
Through the vine-embowered window in a yellow filigree;
On the fragrant air come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing,
’Tis the slumber song of childhood that is murmuring to me;
And some subtle fancy creeping lulls my senses half to sleeping
As the misty shapes of bugaboos go dreamily along,
All my sorrows disappearing, as a tired lad I’m hearing
Once again my mother’s
Sleepy little,
Creepy little,
Song.
LOVERS’ LANE
How good to remember Life’s June from September,
The days that were fairer than ever again;
When hearts held no sorrow to last o’er the morrow
And heads were brimful of the wisdom of ten;
No skies were e’er bluer, no heart was e’er truer
Than mine when I waited in sunshine or rain
With joy that enriched me for one who bewitched me
And bade me to wait till she came down the lane.
Our trysting-place gaining, my eyes they were straining
Afar down the road, and my lips hummed a tune
That held all the sweetness of first love’s completeness
The whiles that I waited at morning and noon;
For last when we parted, beloved, fond hearted,
She pledged me to wait for her, sunshine or rain,
And so I kept humming, I knew she was coming,
A girl queen in gingham, somewhere down the lane.
And there with a vision of futures Elysian
I traced both our names with my toe in the dust,
And not a temptation could alter my station
As knight of the faithful heart, true to its trust.
[Illustration: LOVER’S LANE]
With ecstasy thrilling, I heard a far trilling
So sweeter than bird song, and heard it again,
The heart of the maiden, care-free and joy-laden,
Was borne on the music I heard down the lane.
Ah, who knows the story of Life and its glory,
The unending bliss of the days that were then;
And who knows the sweetness of first love’s completeness
Who has not the wisdom of thirteen and ten?
For back went a trilling to her that was spilling
Its burden of gladness through all of the air,
With infinite yearning her message returning
To show I was true and awaited her there.
Oh, hearts that are older, what secrets I told her!
What dreams of the future, of grown girl and boy!
For what of the weather, when two walk together
The pathway to school in the heyday of joy?
When hours are but measures of innocent pleasures,
When days brim with gladness, as winecups to drain,
When Life learns the sweetness of first love’s completeness
In waiting for Her as she comes down the lane!
DADDY KNOWS
Let us dry our tears now, laddie,
Let us put aside our woes;
Let us go and talk to daddy,
For I’m sure that daddy knows.
Let us take him what we’ve broken,
Be it heart or hope or toy,
And the tale may bide unspoken,
For he used to be a boy.
He has been through all the sorrows
Of a lad at nine or ten;
He has seen the dawn of morrows
When the sun shone bright again;
His own heart has been near breaking,
Oh, more times than I can tell,
And has often known the aching
That a boy’s heart knows so well.
I am sure he well remembers,
In his calendar of days,
When the boy-heart was December’s,
Though the sun and flowers were May’s.
He has lived a boy’s life, laddie,
And he knows just how it goes;
Let us go and talk to daddy,
For I’m sure that daddy knows.
Let us tell him all about it,
How the sting of it is there,
And I have not any doubt it
Will be easier to bear;
For he’s trodden every byway,
He has fathomed every joy,
He has traveled every highway
In the wide world of a boy.
He will put aside the worries
That his day may follow through,
For the great heart of him hurries
At the call for help from you.
He will help us mend the broken
Heart of ours or hope or toy,
And the tale may bide unspoken--
For he used to be a boy.
TO CHILDREN AT THE HEARTH
It is you, my dears, and the gladness
You bring to the tasks to do,
Who can lessen this old world’s sadness
By as much as the joy of you.
It is you, my dears, and your glory
Of sunshine and word and song
Who can make life a sweeter story
Wherever you smile along.
It is you, my dears, with your beauty
And freshness of mind and heart
Who must offer your share of duty
And play yet a nobler part.
For the world, it has need of beauty
And youth that is fine and new,
And the call you may hear to duty
Is for you, my dears--just you.
It is you, my dears, that the sages
Have written their counsels to,
It is you, my dears, that the ages
Leave legacies to--just you.
And remember that every letter
That Wisdom has graven through
The years, so the world be better,
Is for you, my dears--just you.
It is you who must be the bravest
To fight, if the cause be true;
It is you who must be the gravest
In word and in deed--just you.
It is you who must be the strongest
To stand till the battle’s through,
And you who must smile the longest
And never despair--just you.
It is you, my dears, and your glory
Of gladness and youth and smile,
Who shall help to say if the story
Of life and the world’s worth while.
For the years of all time have shaped us,
And the lore of the Ages, too,
And to say if the Truth’s escaped us
Is for you, my dears--just you.
A TOAST TO THE SMALL BOY
He knows the vagrant country roads
Where sleepily they wind;
He has his pockets full of toads,
His smile is broad and kind;
His dreams of lands and seas--who knows?
His joys are never still,
And whistling through the world he goes,
The rugged small boy--Bill!
His world is full of song and shine,
His days are all his own;
His nights are full of plans so fine
That youngsters all have known;
With all the joy that health can give
His ruddy pulses thrill,
And, bless me, how he loves to live,
This rugged small boy--Bill!
His trousers know the ample patch,
His shoes gape at the toes,
But see him gladly toe the scratch
For any chum he knows;
The heart of him is good as gold,
And songs of gladness spill
From his red lips, this sunny-souled
And rugged small boy--Bill!
His scratch-scarred legs are never tired,
His eyes bright-souled and starred,
His heart with hopeful youth is fired,
His sunny soul unscarred;
The world is his, the fields, the trees,
The brook, the wood, the hill,
To do his will, as he may please,
This rugged small boy--Bill!
He knows the song of life by heart,
In fancy he may weave
Such dreams as make the pulses start,
A King of Make-Believe;
And when I speak with him I hear
Truth ripple like a rill
From him, and gladness and good cheer,
This rugged small boy--Bill!
Oh, bide thee, bide thee, overlong,
Health, happiness, and youth;
Be glad thy heart and light thy song
And pure and clear thy truth!
Nor cloud to dim thy sunny ways,
Nor aught to bring thee ill,
And year on year of perfect days,
My rugged small boy--Bill!