And hushed is the roar and the din,
When Evening is cooling the sweltering town,
'Tis then that the frolics begin;
And up in dim "Finnegan's Court," on the pavement,
Shut in by the loom of the tenement's wall,
'Neath the swinging arc-light, on a warm summer's night,
They gather to dance at the hand-organ ball.
'Tis not a society function, you see,
But quite an informal affair;
The costumes are varied, yet simple and free,
And gems are exceedingly rare;
The ladies are gowned in their calicoes, fetching,
And coatless and cool are the gentlemen, all.
In a jacket, they say, one's not rated _au fait_
By the finicky guests at the hand-organ ball.
There's "Ikey," the newsboy, and "Muggsy" who "shines";
There's Beppo who peddles "banan'";
There's A. Lincoln Johnson, whose "Pa" kalsomines--
His skin has a very deep tan;
There's Rosy, the cash-girl, and Mame, who ties bundles,
And Maggie, who works in the factory, tall;
She's much in demand, for she "pivots so grand,"
She's really the belle of the hand-organ ball.
Professor Spaghetti the music supplies,
From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime;
His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies,
Is merrily thumping the rollicking time;
The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper,
The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall,
And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in
To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball.
The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street,
The mothers lean out from the windows to see,
While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet,
And tenement babies crow loud in their glee;
And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,--
Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;--
There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light,
In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
"JIM"
Want to see me, hey, old chap?
Want to curl up in my lap,
Do yer, Jim?
See him sit and purr and blink--
Don't yer bet he knows I think
Lots of him?
Little kitten, nothin' more,
When we found him at the door.
In the cold,
And the baby, half undressed,
Picked him up, and he was jest
All she'd hold.
Put him up fer me to see,
And she says, so 'cute, says she,
"Baby's cat."
And we never had the heart
Fer to keep them two apart
After that.
Seem's if _I must_ hear the beat
Of her toddlin' little feet
'Round about;
Seem to see her tucked in bed,
With the kitten's furry head
Peekin' out.
Seem's if I could hear her say,
In the cunnin' baby way
That she had:
"Say 'dood-night' to Jimmie, do,
'Coz if 'oo fordetted to
He'd feel bad."
Miss her dreadful, don't we, boy?
Day do'n't seem to bring no joy
With the dawn;
Look's if night was everywhere,--
But there's glory over there
Where she's gone.
Seems as if my heart would break,
But I love yer for her sake,
Don't I, Jim?
See him sit and purr and blink,
Don't yer bet he knows I think
Lots of him?
* * * * *
IN MOTHER'S ROOM
In Mother's room still stands the chair
Beside the sunny window, where
The flowers she loved now lightly stir
In April's breeze, as though they were
Forlorn without her loving care.
Her books, her work-box, all are there,
And still the snowy curtains bear
The soft, sweet scent of lavender
In Mother's room.
Oh, spot so cool, and fresh, and fair,
Where dwelt a soul so pure and rare,
On me your fragrant peace confer,
Make my life sweet with thoughts of her,
As lavender makes sweet the air
In Mother's room.
* * * * *
SUNSET-LAND
Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,--
If you look, as the sun sinks low,
Where the cloud-hills rise in the western skies,
Each one with its crest aglow,
O'er the rosy sea, where the purple isles
Have beaches of golden sand,
To the fleecy height of the great cloud, white,
You may catch a gleam of the twinkling light
At the harbor of Sunset-land.
It's a wonderful place, little boy, little boy,
And its city is Sugarplum Town,
Where the slightest breeze through the candy trees
Will tumble the bon-bons down;
Where the fountains sprinkle their lemonade
In syrupy, cooling streams;
And they pave each street with a goody, sweet,
And mark them off in a manner neat,
With borders of chocolate creams.
It's a children's town, little boy, little boy,
With a great big jail, you know,
Where "grown-ups" stay who are heard to say,
"Now don't!" or "You mustn't do so."
And half of the time it is Fourth of July,
And 'tis Christmas all the rest,
With plenty of toys that will make a noise,
For Santa is king of this realm of joys,
And knows what a lad likes best.
Shall I tell you the way, little boy, little boy,
To get to this country, bright?
When you're snug in bed, and your prayers are said,
You must shut up your eyelids tight;
And wait till the sleepy old Sandman comes
And gives you his kindly hand,
And then you'll float in a drowsy boat,
O'er the sea of rose to the cloud, remote,
And the wonderful Sunset-land.
* * * * *
THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE
Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks,
Your valleys forest laden, your cliffs where Echo speaks;
And ye, who by the prairies your childhood's joys have seen,
Sing of your waving grasses, your velvet miles of green:
But when my memory wanders down to the dear old home
I hear, amid my dreaming, the seething of the foam,
The wet wind through the pine trees, the sobbing crash and roar,
The mighty surge and thunder of the surf along the shore.
I see upon the sand-dunes the beach-grass sway and swing,
I see the whirling sea-birds sweep by on graceful wing,
I see the silver breakers leap high on shoal and bar,
And hear the bell-buoy tolling his lonely note afar.
The green salt-meadows fling me their salty, sweet perfume,
I hear, through miles of dimness, the watchful fog-horn boom;
Once more, beneath the blackness of night's great roof-tree high,
The wild geese chant their marches athwart the arching sky.
The dear old Cape! I love it! I love its hills of sand,
The sea-wind singing o'er it, the seaweed on its strand;
The bright blue ocean 'round it, the clear blue sky o'erhead;
The fishing boats, the dripping nets, the white sails filled and spread;--
For each heart has its picture, and each its own home song,
The sights and sounds which move it when Youth's fair memories throng;
And when, down dreamland pathways, a boy, I stroll once more,
I hear the mighty music of the surf along the shore.
* * * * *
AT EVENTIDE
The tired breezes are tucked to rest
In the cloud-beds far away;
The waves are pressed to the placid breast
Of the dreaming, gleaming bay;
The shore line swims in a hazy heat,
Asleep in the sea and sky,
And the muffled beat where the breakers meet
Is a soft, sweet lullaby.
The pine-clad hill has a crimson crown
Of glittering sunset glows;
The roofs of brown in the distant town
Are bathed in a blush of rose;
The radiant ripples shine and shift
In shimmering shreds of gold;
The seaweeds lift and drowse and drift,
And the jellies fill and fold.
The great sun sinks, and the gray fog heaps
His cloak on the silent sea;
The night-wind creeps where the ocean sleeps,
And the wavelets wake in glee;
Across the bay, like a silver star,
There twinkles the harbor-light,
And faint and far from the outer bar
The sea-birds call "Good-night."
* * * * *
INDEX TO FIRST LINES
* * * * *
A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell
A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes
A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white
Almost every other evenin', jest as reg'lar as the clock
"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that
Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,--
For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore
From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note
Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe
He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere"
Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!
Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair
I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind
I never was naturally vicious;
I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent
I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me
I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty
I'm pretty nearly certain that 't was 'bout two weeks ago,--
I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap
In Mother's room still stands the chair
In the gleam and gloom of the April weather
It's a wonderful world we're in, my dear
It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed
It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill
It stands at the bend where the road has its end
Jason White has come ter town
Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road
Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,--
Little bare feet, sunburned and brown,
Little foot, whose lightest pat
Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run out-doors and play;
My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold
My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three
My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at;
Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation
O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill
O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me
Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they 're with us once agin
Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago
Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town
Oh, the song of the Sea--
Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth
Oh, the wild November wind
Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair
Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy
Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town
On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm
Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool
Our Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys
Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer;
Pavements a-frying in street and in square
Say, I've got a little brother
She's little and modest and purty
Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late
South Pokus is religious,--that's the honest, livin' truth;
Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't they soft and still!
Sun like a furnace hung up overhead
Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone
The fog was so thick yer could cut it
The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust
The tired breezes are tucked to rest
To my office window, gray
Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest
Want to see me, hey, old chap?
_We'd_ never thought of takin' 'em,--'twas Mary Ann's idee,--
When Ezry, that's my sister's son, came home from furrin parts
When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes!
When the farm work's done, at the set of sun
When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore
When the hot summer daylight is dyin'
When the Lord breathes his wrath above the bosom of the waters
When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance
When the toil of day is over
When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down
Where leap the long Atlantic swells
Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming
Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks
You know the story--it's centuries old--
THE END