Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done;
There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout,
Seemin' ter stump me ter come clean 'em out;
But, there's the river, so clear and so cool,
There's the white lilies afloat on the pool,
Scentin' the shade 'neath the old maple tree--
"Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?"
Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat,
Down by the river a robin sings sweet,
Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say:
"Who's the chump talkin' of _workin_' to-day?"
Robin's song tells how the pickerel wait
Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait;
I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know:
But, "Where's the fishin'-pole? Hang the old hoe!"
* * * * *
"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S"
Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they're with us once agin,
With the grasses wet and shinin', and the air so clear and thin,
When the cheery face of Natur' seems ter want ter let yer know
That she's done with lazy summer and is brimmin' full of "go";
When yer hear the cattle callin' and the hens a-singin' out,
And the pigeons happy cooin' as they flutter 'round about,
And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels,
Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.
There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe
When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe;
There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine,
And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin' on the vine;
And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves,
Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves;
And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place,
And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.
Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass,
Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass,
Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat,
Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that;
And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane,
Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,--
For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew
When _he_ went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too.
Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll
Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul,
And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme
So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time;
And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near
That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here;
That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn,
But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.
* * * * *
[Illustration: boy looking at a turkey]
NOVEMBER'S COME
Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!
Struttin' round so big and proud.
Pretty quick I guess your beller
Won't be goin' quite so loud.
Say, I'd run and hide, I bet you,
And I'd leave off eatin' some,
Else the choppin'-block'll get you,--
Don't you know November's come?
Don't you know that Grandma's makin'
Loads of mince and pun'kin pies?
Don't you smell those goodies cookin'?
Can't you see 'em? Where's your eyes?
Tell that rooster there that's crowin',
Cute folks now are keepin' mum;
_They_ don't show how fat they 're growin'
When they know November's come.
'Member when you tried ter lick me?
Yes, you did, and hurt me, too!
Thought't was big ter chase and pick me,--
Well, I'll soon be pickin' you.
Oh, I know you 're big and hearty,
So you needn't strut and drum,--
Better make your will out, smarty,
'Cause, you know, November's come.
"Gobble! gobble!" oh, no matter!
Pretty quick you'll change your tune;
You'll be dead and in a platter,
And _I'll_ gobble pretty soon.
'F I was you I'd stop my puffin',
And I'd look most awful glum;--
Hope they give you lots of stuffin'!
_Ain't_ you glad November's come?
* * * * *
THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME
A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white,
The buildings blots of blackness, the windows gems of light,
A moon, now clear, now hidden, as in its headlong race
The north wind drags the cloud-wrack in tatters o'er its face;
Mailed twigs that click and clatter upon the tossing tree,
And, like a giant's chanting, the deep voice of the sea,
As 'mid the stranded ice-cakes the bursting breakers foam,--
The old familiar picture--a winter night at home.
The old familiar picture--the firelight rich and red,
The lamplight soft and mellow, the shadowed beams o'erhead;
And father with his paper, and mother, calm and sweet,
Mending the red yarn stockings stubbed through by careless feet.
The little attic bedroom, the window 'neath the eaves,
Decked by the Frost King's brushes with silvered sprays and leaves;
The rattling sash which gossips with idle gusts that roam
About the ice-fringed gables--the winter nights at home.
What would I give to climb them--those narrow stairs so steep,--
And reach that little chamber, and sleep a boy's sweet sleep!
What would I give to view it--that old house by the sea--
Filled with the dear lost faces which made it home for me!
The sobbing wind sings softly the song of long ago,
And in that country churchyard the graves are draped in snow;
But there, beyond the arches of Heaven's star-jeweled dome,
Perhaps they know I'm dreaming of winter nights at home.
* * * * *
"THE LITTLE FELLER'S STOCKIN'"
O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill,
And the frosty Christmas holly shines and sparkles on the hill,
And the Christmas sleigh-bells jingle and the Christmas laughter rings,
As the last stray shoppers hurry, takin' home the Christmas things;
And up yonder in the attic there's a little trundle bed
Where there's Christmas dreams a-dancin' through a sleepy, curly head;
And it's "Merry Christmas," Mary, once agin fer me and you,
With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.
'Tisn't silk, that little stockin', and it isn't much fer show,
And the darns are pretty plenty 'round about the heel and toe,
And the color's kind er faded, and it's sort er worn and old,
But it really is surprisin' what a lot of love 'twill hold;
And the little hand that hung it by the chimney there along
Has a grip upon our heartstrings that is mighty firm and strong;
So old Santy won't fergit it, though it isn't fine and new,--
That plain little worsted stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.
And the crops may fail and leave us with our plans all knocked ter smash,
And the mortgage may hang heavy, and the bills use up the cash,
But whenever comes the season, jest so long's we've got a dime,
There'll be somethin' in that stockin'--won't there, Mary?--every time.
And if in amongst our sunshine there's a shower or two of rain,
Why, we'll face it bravely smilin', and we'll try not ter complain,
Long as Christmas comes and finds us here together, me and you,
With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER
You know the story--it's centuries old--
How the Ant and the Grasshopper met, we're told,
On a blustering day, when the wind was cold
And the trees were bare and brown;
And the Grasshopper, being a careless blade,
Who all the summer had danced and played,
Now came to the rich old Ant for aid,
And the latter "turned him down."
It's only fancy, but I suppose
That the Grasshopper wore his summer clothes,
And stood there kicking his frozen toes
And shaking his bones apart;
And the Ant, with a sealskin coat and hat,
Commanded the Grasshopper, brusque and flat,
To "Dance through the winter," and things like that,
Which he thought were "cute" and "smart."
But, mind you, the Ant, all summer long,
Had heard the Grasshopper's merry song,
And had laughed with the rest of the happy throng
At the bubbling notes of glee;
And he said to himself, as his cash he lent,
Or started out to collect his rent,
"The shif'less fool do'n't charge a cent,--
I'm getting the whole show free."
I've never been told how the pair came out--
The Grasshopper starved to death, no doubt,
And the Ant grew richer, and had the gout,
As most of his brethren do;
I know that it's better to save one's pelf,
And the Ant is considered a wise old elf,
But I like the Grasshopper more myself,--
Though that is between we two.
* * * * *
THE CROAKER
Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool,
Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool,
Where bushes over the water hung,
And grasses nodded and rushes swung--
Just where the brook flowed out of the bog--
There lived a gouty and mean old Frog,
Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak,
And do just nothing but croak and croak.
'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know,
What _is_ the trouble down there below?
Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?"
The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot!
Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime,
For me to look at the livelong time.
'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke,
And voiced his woes in a mournful croak.
"But you're looking _down!_" the Blackbird said.
"Look at the blossoms overhead;
Look at the lovely summer skies;
Look at the bees and butterflies--
Look _up_, old fellow! Why, bless your soul,
You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!"
But still, with his gurgling sob and choke,
The Frog continued to croak and croak.
And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near,
Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here:
Don't shed your tears over him, for he
Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be!
He's one of the kind who _won't_ be glad;
It makes him happy to think he's sad.
_I'll_ tell you something--and it's no joke--
Don't waste your pity on those who croak!"
* * * * *
THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN
Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy,
In the sunny little garden where I wandered when a boy!
Oh, the morning-glories twining 'mongst the shining sunflowers tall,
And the clematis a-tangle in the angle of the wall!
How the mignonette's sweet blooming was perfuming all the walks,
Where the hollyhocks stood proudly with their blossom-dotted stalks;
While the old-maids' pinks were nodding groups of gossips, here and there,
And the bluebells swung so lightly in the lazy, hazy air!
Then the sleepy poppies, stooping low their drooping, drowsy heads,
And the modest young sweet-williams hiding in their shady beds!
By the edges of the hedges, where the spiders' webs were spun,
How the marigolds lay, yellow as the mellow summer sun
That made all the grass a-dapple 'neath the leafy apple tree,
Whence you heard the locust drumming and the humming of the bee;
While the soft breeze in the trellis, where the roses used to grow,
Sent the silken petals flying like a scented shower of snow!
Oh, the quaint old-fashioned garden, and the pathways cool and sweet,
With the dewy branches splashing flashing jewels o'er my feet!
And the dear old-fashioned blossoms, and the old home where they grew,
And the mother-hands that plucked them, and the mother-love I knew!
Ah, of all earth's fragrant flowers in the bowers on her breast,
Sure the blooms which memory brings us are the brightest and the best;
And the fairest, rarest blossoms ne'er could win my love, I know,
Like the sweet old-fashioned posies mother tended long ago.
* * * * *
THE LIGHT-KEEPER
For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore;
For years the surge has tossed its kelp and wrack about my door;
I've heard the sea-wind sing its song in whispers 'round the place,
And fought it when it flung the sand, like needles, in my face.
I've seen the sun-rays turn the roof ter blist'rin', tarry coal;
I've seen the ice-drift clog the bay from foamin' shoal ter shoal;
I've faced the winter's snow and sleet, I've felt the summer's shower,
But every night I've lit the lamp up yonder in the tower.
I've seen the sunset flood the earth with streams of rosy light,
And every foot of sea-line specked with twinklin' sails of white;
I've woke ter find the sky a mess of scud and smoky wreath,
A blind wind-devil overhead and hell let loose beneath.
And then ter watch the rollers pound on ledges, bars and rips,
And pray fer them that go, O Lord, down ter the sea in ships!
Ter see the lamp, when darkness comes, throw out its shinin' track,
And think of that one gleamin' speck in all the world of black.
[Illustration: "It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty
right."]
And often, through a night like that, I've waited fer the day
That broke and showed a lonesome sea, a sky all cold and gray;
And, may be, on the spit below, where sea-gulls whirl and screech,
I've seen a somethin' stretched among the fresh weed on the beach;
A draggled, frozen somethin', in the ocean's tangled scum,
That meant a woman waitin' fer a man who'd never come;
And all the drop of comfort in my sorrer I could git
Was this: "I done my best ter save; thank God, the lamp was lit."
And there's lots of comfort, really, to a strugglin' mortal's breast
In the sayin', if it's truthful, of "I done my level best";
It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right,
No matter if yer rule a land or if yer tend a light.
My lot is humble, but I've kept that lamp a-burnin' clear,
And so, I reckon, when I die I'll know which course ter steer;
The waves may roar around me and the darkness hide the view,
But the lights'll mark the channel and the Lord'll tow me through.
* * * * *
THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE SHORE
It stands at the bend where the road has its end,
And the blackberries nod on the vine;
And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown,
Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine.
The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked,
And the grasses grow high at the door,
But hid in my heart is an altar, apart,
To the little old house by the shore.
For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare,
With the blossoms that clustered above,
When a mother's dear face gave a charm to the place
As she sang at her labor of love.
And the breeze, as it strays through the window and plays
With the dust and the leaves on the floor,
Is a memory sweet of the pattering feet
In the little old house by the shore.
And again in my ears, through the dream of the years,
They whisper, the playmates of old,
The brother whose eyes were a glimpse of the skies,
The sister with ringlets of gold;
And Father comes late to the path at the gate,
As he did when the fishing was o'er,
And the echoes ring out, at our welcoming shout,
From the little old house by the shore.
But the night-wind has blown and the vision has flown,
And the sound of the children is still,
And the shadowy mist, like a spirit, has kissed
The graves by the church on the hill;
But softly, afar, sing the waves on the bar,
A song of the sunshine of yore:
A lullaby deep for the loved ones who sleep
Near the little old house by the shore.
* * * * *
WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT
When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance
Through the wiry sedge-grass near the shore;
How the ripples spark in the sunbeam's glance,
As they madly tumble the pebbles o'er!
The barnacled rocks emerging seem,
As their beards of seaweed are tossed about,
Like giants who wake from a troubled dream
And laugh for joy when the tide goes out.
When the tide goes out, how the shining sands,
Like silver, glisten, and gleam, and glow;
How the sea-gulls whirl, in their joyous bands,
O'er the shoals where the breakers come and go!
The coal-black driftwood, gleaming wet,
Relic of by-gone vessel stout,
With its clinging shells, seems a bar of jet,
Studded with pearls, when the tide goes out.
When the tide goes out, how the breezes blow
The nodding plumes of the pine-trees through;
How the far-off ships, like flakes of snow,
Are lightly sprinkled upon the blue!
The Sea, as he moves in his slow retreat,
Like a warrior struggling for each redoubt,
But with flashing lances the sand-bars meet
And drive him back, when the tide goes out.
When the tide goes out, how each limpid pool
Reflects the sky and the fleecy cloud;
How the rills, like children set free from school,
Prattle and plash and sing aloud!
The shore-birds cheerily call, the while
They dart and circle in merry rout,--
The face of the ocean seems to smile
And the earth to laugh, when the tide goes out.
When the tide goes out, as the years roll by,
And Life sweeps on to the outer bar,
And I feel the chill of the depths that lie
Beyond the shoals where the breakers are,
I will not rail at a kindly Fate,
Or welcome Age with a peevish pout,
But still, with a heart of Youth, await
The final wave, when the tide goes out.
* * * * *
THE WATCHERS
When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore,
And the tossing waves grow dim, and the white sails flash no more,
Then, over the shrouded sea, where the winding mist-wreaths creep,
The deep-voiced Watchers call, the Watchers who guard the Deep.
* * * * *
"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to the word I bring!
Toilers upon the sea, list to the Bell-buoy's ring!
List, as I clash and clang! list, as I toss and toll!
Under me yawns the grave, under me lies the shoal
Where the whirling eddies wait to grapple the drowning crew,
And the hungry quicksand hides the bones of the ship it slew.
Swift on the outward tack! quick, to the seaward bear!
Toilers upon the sea, here is the shoal! Beware!"
"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to me, one and all!
Toilers upon the sea, list to the Fog-horn's call!
List to my buzzing cry! list, as I growl and groan:
Here is the sullen shore where the white-toothed breakers moan;
Where the silky ripples run with the wolf-like wave behind,
To leap on the struggling wreck and worry and gnaw and grind,
To toss on the cruel crag the dead with his streaming hair!
Toilers upon the sea, here are the rocks! Beware!"
"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to my stormy shriek!
Toilers upon the sea, the Whistling-buoy would speak!
List to my sobbing shout! list, for my word is brief:
Death is beneath me here! death on the sunken reef
Where the jagged ledge is hid and the slimy seaweeds grow,
And the long kelp streamers wave in the dark green depths below,
Where, under the shell-clad hulk, the gaunt shark makes his lair,--
Toilers upon the sea, here is the reef! Beware!"
* * * * *
And then, o'er the silent sea, an answer from unseen lips,
Comes in through the great, gray fog, the word from the mist-bound
ships,--
A chorus of bell and horn, faint and afar and clear,--
"Thanks, O Guard of the Deep! Watchers, we hear! we hear!"
* * * * *
"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN"
He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere,"
Ter sparkle in the sun;
He do'n't parade with gay cockade,
And posies in his gun;
He ain't no "pretty soldier boy,"
So lovely, spick and span,--
He wears a crust of tan and dust,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The marchin', parchin',
Pipe-clay starchin',
Reg'lar Army man.
He ain't at home in Sunday-school,
Nor yet a social tea,
And on the day he gets his pay
He's apt to spend it free;
He ain't no temp'rance advocate,
He likes ter fill the "can,"
He's kind er rough, and maybe, tough,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The r'arin', tearin',
Sometimes swearin',
Reg'lar Army man.
No State'll call him "noble son,"
He ain't no ladies' pet,
But, let a row start anyhow,
They'll send for him, you bet!
He "do'n't cut any ice" at all
In Fash'n's social plan,--
He gits the job ter face a mob,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The millin', drilling
Made fer killin',
Reg'lar Army man.
[Illustration: "They ain't no tears shed over him. When he goes off
ter war."]
They ain't no tears shed over him
When he goes off ter war,
He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach"
From mayor or governor;
He packs his little knapsack up
And trots off in the van,
Ter start the fight and start it right,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The rattlin', battlin',
Colt or Gatlin',
Reg'lar Army man.
He makes no fuss about the job,
He do'n't talk big or brave,--
He knows he's in ter fight and win,
Or help fill up a grave;
He ain't no "Mama's darlin'," but
He does the best he can,
And he's the chap that wins the scrap,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The dandy, handy,
Cool and sandy,
Reg'lar Army man.
* * * * *
FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY
A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell,
Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from hell;
A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread,
With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red;
Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose
A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose,
The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk,
Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work.
Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown,
And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down;
And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare,
And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air;
Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet,
He hums a tune, and looks straight down six stories to the street;
Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade,
But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid.
Sometimes he climbs long ladders, through a fiery, burning rain
To reach a pallid face that glares behind a crackling pane;
Sometimes he feels his foothold shake with giddy swing and sway,
And barely leaps to safety as the crashing roof gives way;
Sometimes, penned in and stifling fast, he waits, with courage grim,
And hears the willing axes ply that strive to rescue him;
But sometime, somewhere, somehow, help may come a bit too late
For Fireman Mike O'Rafferty of Engine Twenty-eight.
And then the morning paper may have half a column filled
With, "Fire at Bullion's Warehouse," and the line, "A Fireman Killed";
And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead,
And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed
And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall
On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball;
But, maybe, on the other side, on God's great roll of fame,
Plain Fireman Mike O'Rafferty'll be counted just the same.
* * * * *
LITTLE BARE FEET
Little bare feet, sunburned and brown,
Patterin', patterin' up and down,
Dancin' over the kitchen floor,
Light as the foam-flakes on the shore,--
Right on the go from morn till late,
From the garden path ter the old front gate,--
There hain't no music ter me so sweet
As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet.
When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea,
Them little bare feet trot there with me,
And a shrill little voice I love'll say:
"Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day."
And I know when my dory comes ter land,
There's a spry little form somewheres on hand;
And the very fust sound my ears'll meet
Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet.
Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed
Yer prints of love in my worn old breast!
And I sometimes think, when I come ter die,
'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by;
That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear
That little child's voice, so sweet and clear;
That even there, on the golden street,
I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet.
* * * * *
A RAINY DAY
Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,--
Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather;
If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complainin',
And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.
Like a stormy mornin' now, with the water dashin'
From the eaves and from the spouts, foamin' and a-splashin',
With the leaves and twigs around, shinin' wet and drippin',
Shakin' in the wind with drops every-which-way skippin'.
[Illustration]
Like ter see the gusts of rain, where there's naught ter hinder,
Sail acrost the fields and come "spat" against the winder,
Streakin' down along the panes, floodin' sills and ledges,
Makin' little fountains, like, in the sash's edges.
Like ter see the brooks and ponds dimpled up all over,
Like ter see the di'mon's shine on the bendin' clover,
Like ter see the happy ducks in the puddles sailin'
And the stuck-up rooster all draggled, wet and trailin'.
But I like it best inside, with the fire a-gleamin',
And myself, with chores all done, settin' round and dreaming
With the kitten on my knee, and the kettle hummin',
And the rain-drops on the roof, "Home, Sweet Home" a-drummin'.
Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,
Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather;
If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complaining
And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.
* * * * *
THE HAND-ORGAN BALL