Chapter 7

And then uprose a stranger wich had struck the camp that night; His eyes wuz sot an' fireless, 'nd his face wuz spookish white, 'Nd he sez: "Oh, how I suffer there is nobody kin say, Onless, like me, he's wrenched himself from home an' friends away To seek surcease from sorrer in a fur, seclooded spot, Only to find--alars, too late!--the wich surcease is not! Only to find that there air things that, somehow, seem to live For nothin' in the world but jest the misery they give! I've travelled eighteen hundred miles, but that toon has got here first; I'm done,--I'm blowed,--I welcome death, an' bid it do its worst!"

Then, like a man whose mind wuz sot on yieldin' to his fate, He waltzed up to the counter an' demanded whiskey straight, Wich havin' got outside uv,--both the likker and the door,-- We never seen that stranger in the bloom uv health no more! But some months later, what the birds had left uv him wuz found Associated with a tree, some distance from the ground; And Husky Sam, the coroner, that set upon him, said That two things wuz apparent, namely: first, deceast wuz dead; And, second, previously had got involved beyond all hope In a knotty complication with a yard or two uv rope!

MEDIAEVAL EVENTIDE SONG

Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may, And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth down A lyttel childe that ben a lyttel lambkyn of his owne; And if so bee they love that childe, He willeth it to staye, But elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye.

And sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye childe, And sendeth angells singing, whereby it ben beguiled; They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his play, And beare him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.

I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me; If I colde sing that angell songe, how joysome I sholde bee! For, with mine arms about him, and my musick in his eare, What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?

Soe come, my lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

MARTHY'S YOUNKIT

The mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its way Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play; The wild-flowers uv the hillside bent down their heads to hear The music uv the little feet that had somehow grown so dear; The magpies, like winged shadders, wuz a-flutterin' to an' fro Among the rocks an' holler stumps in the ragged gulch below; The pines an' hemlocks tosst their boughs (like they wuz arms) and made Soft, sollum music on the slope where he had often played; But for these lonesome, sollum voices on the mountain-side, There wuz no sound the summer day that Marthy's younkit died.

We called him Marthy's younkit, for Marthy wuz the name Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife uv Sorry Tom,--the same Ez taught the school-house on the hill, way back in '69, When she marr'd Sorry Tom, wich owned the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine! And Marthy's younkit wuz their first, wich, bein' how it meant The first on Red Hoss Mountain, wuz truly a' event! The miners sawed off short on work ez soon ez they got word That Dock Devine allowed to Casey what had just occurred; We loaded up an' whooped around until we all wuz hoarse Salutin' the arrival, wich weighed ten pounds, uv course!

Three years, and sech a pretty child!--his mother's counterpart! Three years, an' sech a holt ez he had got on every heart! A peert an' likely little tyke with hair ez red ez gold, A-laughin', toddlin' everywhere,--'nd only three years old! Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, an' sometimes down the hill He kited (boys is boys, you know,--you couldn't keep him still!) An' there he'd play beside the brook where purpul wild-flowers grew, An' the mountain pines an' hemlocks a kindly shadder threw, An' sung soft, sollum toons to him, while in the gulch below The magpies, like strange sperrits, went flutterin' to an' fro.

Three years, an' then the fever come,--it wuzn't right, you know, With all us old ones in the camp, for that little child to go; It's right the old should die, but that a harmless little child Should miss the joy uv life an' love,--that can't be reconciled! That's what we thought that summer day, an' that is what we said Ez we looked upon the piteous face uv Marthy's younkit dead. But for his mother's sobbin', the house wuz very still, An' Sorry Tom wuz lookin', through the winder, down the hill, To the patch beneath the hemlocks where his darlin' used to play, An' the mountain brook sung lonesomelike an' loitered on its way.

A preacher come from Roarin' Crick to comfort 'em an' pray, 'Nd all the camp wuz present at the obsequies next day; A female teacher staged it twenty miles to sing a hymn, An' we jined her in the chorus,--big, husky men an' grim Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul," an' then the preacher prayed, An' preacht a sermon on the death uv that fair blossom laid Among them other flowers he loved,--wich sermon set sech weight On sinners bein' always heeled against the future state, That, though it had been fashionable to swear a perfec' streak, There warn't no swearin' in the camp for pretty nigh a week!

Last thing uv all, four strappin' men took up the little load An' bore it tenderly along the windin', rocky road, To where the coroner had dug a grave beside the brook, In sight uv Marthy's winder, where the same could set an' look An' wonder if his cradle in that green patch, long an' wide, Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that wuz empty at her side; An' wonder if the mournful songs the pines wuz singin' then Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies she'd never sing again, 'Nd if the bosom of the earth in wich he lay at rest Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm ez wuz his mother's breast.

The camp is gone; but Red Hoss Mountain rears its kindly head, An' looks down, sort uv tenderly, upon its cherished dead; 'Nd I reckon that, through all the years, that little boy wich died Sleeps sweetly an' contentedly upon the mountain-side; That the wild-flowers uv the summer-time bend down their heads to hear The footfall uv a little friend they know not slumbers near; That the magpies on the sollum rocks strange flutterin' shadders make, An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the sleeper doesn't wake; That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike an' loiters on its way Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.

IN FLANDERS

Through sleet and fogs to the saline bogs Where the herring fish meanders, An army sped, and then, 't is said, Swore terribly in Flanders: "--------!" "--------!" A hideous store of oaths they swore, Did the army over in Flanders!

At this distant day we're unable to say What so aroused their danders; But it's doubtless the case, to their lasting disgrace, That the army swore in Flanders: "--------!" "--------!" And many more such oaths they swore, Did that impious horde in Flanders!

Some folks contend that these oaths without end Began among the commanders, That, taking this cue, the subordinates, too, Swore terribly in Flanders: Twas "------------!" "--------"

Why, the air was blue with the hullaballoo Of those wicked men in Flanders!

But some suppose that the trouble arose With a certain Corporal Sanders, Who sought to abuse the wooden shoes That the natives wore in Flanders. Saying: "--------!" "--------"

What marvel then, that the other men Felt encouraged to swear in Flanders! At any rate, as I grieve to state, Since these soldiers vented their danders Conjectures obtain that for language profane There is no such place as Flanders. "--------" "--------"

This is the kind of talk you'll find If ever you go to Flanders. How wretched is he, wherever he be, That unto this habit panders! And how glad am I that my interests lie In Chicago, and not in Flanders! "----------------!" "----------------!"

Would never go down in this circumspect town However it might in Flanders.

OUR BIGGEST FISH

When in the halcyon days of old, I was a little tyke, I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like; And oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraught When I rambled home at nightfall with the puny string I'd caught! And, oh, the indignation and the valor I'd display When I claimed that all the biggest fish I'd caught had got away!

Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines, And many times the treacherous reeds would foil my just designs; But whether hooks or lines or reeds were actually to blame, I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same-- I never lost a _little_ fish--yes, I am free to say It always was the _biggest_ fish I caught that got away.

And so it was, when later on, I felt ambition pass From callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass; I found it quite convenient, when the beauties wouldn't bite And I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night, To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gay How the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away.

And really, fish look bigger than they are before they are before they're caught-- When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut, When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throat And he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat! Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I say That it always _is_ the biggest fish you catch that gets away!

'T 'is even so in other things--yes, in our greedy eyes The biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize; We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life-- Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife;

And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray, We own the biggest fish we've caught are those that got away.

I would not have it otherwise; 't is better there should be Much bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea; For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game-- May by his arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same; Which, having done, perchance he'll bless the man who's proud to say That the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away.

THIRTY-NINE

O hapless day! O wretched day! I hoped you'd pass me by-- Alas, the years have sneaked away And all is changed but I! Had I the power, I would remand You to a gloom condign, But here you've crept upon me and I--I am thirty-nine!

Now, were I thirty-five, I could Assume a flippant guise; Or, were I forty years, I should Undoubtedly look wise; For forty years are said to bring Sedateness superfine; But thirty-nine don't mean a thing-- _A bas_ with thirty-nine!

You healthy, hulking girls and boys,-- What makes you grow so fast? Oh, I'll survive your lusty noise-- I'm tough and bound to last! No, no--I'm old and withered too-- I feel my powers decline (Yet none believes this can be true Of one at thirty-nine).

And you, dear girl with velvet eyes, I wonder what you mean Through all our keen anxieties By keeping sweet sixteen. With your dear love to warm my heart, Wretch were I to repine; I was but jesting at the start-- I'm glad I'm thirty-nine!

So, little children, roar and race As blithely as you can, And, sweetheart, let your tender grace Exalt the Day and Man; For then these factors (I'll engage) All subtly shall combine To make both juvenile and sage The one who's thirty-nine!

Yes, after all, I'm free to say I would much rather be Standing as I do stand to-day, 'Twixt devil and deep sea; For though my face be dark with care Or with a grimace shine, Each haply falls unto my share, For I am thirty-nine!

'Tis passing meet to make good cheer And lord it like a king, Since only once we catch the year That doesn't mean a thing. O happy day! O gracious day! I pledge thee in this wine-- Come, let us journey on our way A year, good Thirty-Nine!

Sept. 2, 1889.

YVYTOT

_Where wail the waters in their flaw A spectre wanders to and fro, And evermore that ghostly shore Bemoans the heir of Yvytot_.

_Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall, The mists upon the waters fall, Across the main float shadows twain That do not heed the spectre's call_.

The king his son of Yvytot Stood once and saw the waters go Boiling around with hissing sound The sullen phantom rocks below.

And suddenly he saw a face Lift from that black and seething place-- Lift up and gaze in mute amaze And tenderly a little space,

A mighty cry of love made he-- No answering word to him gave she, But looked, and then sunk back again Into the dark and depthless sea.

And ever afterward that face, That he beheld such little space, Like wraith would rise within his eyes And in his heart find biding place.

So oft from castle hall he crept Where mid the rocks grim shadows slept, And where the mist reached down and kissed The waters as they wailed and wept.

The king it was of Yvytot That vaunted, many years ago, There was no coast his valiant host Had not subdued with spear and bow.

For once to him the sea-king cried: "In safety all thy ships shall ride An thou but swear thy princely heir Shall take my daughter to his bride.

"And lo, these winds that rove the sea Unto our pact shall witness be, And of the oath which binds us both Shall be the judge 'twixt me and thee!"

Then swore the king of Yvytot Unto the sea-king years ago, And with great cheer for many a year His ships went harrying to and fro.

Unto this mighty king his throne Was born a prince, and one alone-- Fairer than he in form and blee And knightly grace was never known.

But once he saw a maiden face Lift from a haunted ocean place-- Lift up and gaze in mute amaze And tenderly a little space.

Wroth was the king of Yvytot, For that his son would never go Sailing the sea, but liefer be Where wailed the waters in their flow,

Where winds in clamorous anger swept, Where to and fro grim shadows crept, And where the mist reached down and kissed The waters as they wailed and wept.

So sped the years, till came a day The haughty king was old and gray, And in his hold were spoils untold That he had wrenched from Norroway.

Then once again the sea-king cried: "Thy ships have harried far and wide; My part is done--now let thy son Require my daughter to his bride!"

Loud laughed the king of Yvytot, And by his soul he bade him no-- "I heed no more what oath I swore, For I was mad to bargain so!"

Then spake the sea-king in his wrath: "Thy ships lie broken in my path! Go now and wring thy hands, false king! Nor ship nor heir thy kingdom hath!

"And thou shalt wander evermore All up and down this ghostly shore, And call in vain upon the twain That keep what oath a dastard swore!"

The king his son of Yvytot Stood even then where to and fro The breakers swelled--and there beheld A maiden face lift from below.

"Be thou or truth or dream," he cried, "Or spirit of the restless tide, It booteth not to me, God wot! But I would have thee to my bride."

Then spake the maiden: "Come with me Unto a palace in the sea, For there my sire in kingly ire Requires thy king his oath of thee!"

Gayly he fared him down the sands And took the maiden's outstretched hands; And so went they upon their way To do the sea-king his commands.

The winds went riding to and fro And scourged the waves that crouched below, And bade them sing to a childless king The bridal song of Yvytot.

So fell the curse upon that shore, And hopeless wailing evermore Was the righteous dole of the craven soul That heeded not what oath he swore.

An hundred ships went down that day All off the coast of Norroway, And the ruthless sea made mighty glee Over the spoil that drifting lay.

The winds went calling far and wide To the dead that tossed in the mocking tide: "Come forth, ye slaves! from your fleeting graves And drink a health to your prince his bride!"

_Where wail the waters in their flow A spectre wanders to and fro, But nevermore that ghostly shore Shall claim the heir of Yvytot_.

_Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall, The mists upon the waters fall, Across the main flit shadows twain That do not heed the spectre's call_.

LONG AGO

I once knew all the birds that came And nested in our orchard trees; For every flower I had a name-- My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees; I knew where thrived in yonder glen What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe-- Oh, I was very learned then; But that was very long ago!

I knew the spot upon the hill Where checkerberries could be found, I knew the rushes near the mill Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound! I knew the wood,--the very tree Where lived the poaching, saucy crow, And all the woods and crows knew me-- But that was very long ago.

And pining for the joys of youth, I tread the old familiar spot Only to learn this solemn truth: I have forgotten, am forgot. Yet here's this youngster at my knee Knows all the things I used to know; To think I once was wise as he-- But that was very long ago.

I know it's folly to complain Of whatsoe'er the Fates decree; Yet were not wishes all in vain, I tell you what my wish should be: I'd wish to be a boy again, Back with the friends I used to know; For I was, oh! so happy then-- But that was very long ago!

TO A SOUBRETTE

'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met; And yet--ah, yet, how swift and tender My thoughts go back in time's dull track To you, sweet pink of female gender! I shall not say--though others may-- That time all human joy enhances; But the same old thrill comes to me still With memories of your songs and dances.

Soubrettish ways these latter days Invite my praise, but never get it; I still am true to yours and you-- My record's made, I'll not upset it! The pranks they play, the things they say-- I'd blush to put the like on paper, And I'll avow they don't know how To dance, so awkwardly they caper!

I used to sit down in the pit And see you flit like elf or fairy Across the stage, and I'll engage No moonbeam sprite was half so airy; Lo, everywhere about me there Were rivals reeking with pomatum, And if, perchance, they caught your glance In song or dance, how did I hate 'em!

At half-past ten came rapture--then Of all those men was I most happy, For bottled beer and royal cheer And tetes-a-tetes were on the tapis. Do you forget, my fair soubrette, Those suppers at the Cafe Rector,-- The cosey nook where we partook Of sweeter cheer than fabled nectar?

Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways Knew every phase of harmless folly! Oh, blissful nights, whose fierce delights Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! Gone are they all beyond recall, And I--a shade, a mere reflection-- Am forced to feed my spirit's greed Upon the husks of retrospection!

And lo! to-night, the phantom light, That, as a sprite, flits on the fender, Reveals a face whose girlish grace Brings back the feeling, warm and tender; And, all the while, the old-time smile Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled,-- As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled!

SOME TIME

Last night, my darling, as you slept, I thought I heard you sigh, And to your little crib I crept, And watched a space thereby; And then I stooped and kissed your brow, For oh! I love you so-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know!

Some time when, in a darkened place Where others come to weep, Your eyes shall look upon a face Calm in eternal sleep, The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow, The patient smile shall show-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you may know!

Look backward, then, into the years, And see me here to-night-- See, O my darling! how my tears Are falling as I write; And feel once more upon your brow The kiss of long ago-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Book of Western Verse, by Eugene Field