Part 3

The moonlight is failin’— The sad stars are palin’— The black wings av night are a-dhroopin’ an’ trailin’; The wind’s miserere Sounds lonesome an’ dreary; The katydid’s dumb an’ the nightingale’s weary.

Troth, Nora! I’m wadin’ The grass an’ paradin’ The dews at your dure, wid my swate serenadin’, Alone and forsaken, Whilst you’re never wakin’ To tell me you’re wid me an’ I am mistaken!

Don’t think that my singin’ It’s wrong to be flingin’ Forninst av the dreams that the Angels are bringin’; For if your pure spirit Might waken and hear it, You’d never be draamin’ the Saints could come near it!

Then lave off your slaapin’— The pulse av me’s laapin’ To have the two eyes av yez down on me paapin’. Och, Nora! It’s hopin’ Your windy ye’ll open And light up the night where the heart av me’s gropin’.

THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE

As the little white hearse went glimmering by— The man on the coal-cart jerked his lines, And smutted the lid of either eye, And turned and stared at the business signs; And the street-car driver stopped and beat His hands on his shoulders, and gazed up-street Till his eye on the long track reached the sky— As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by— A stranger petted a ragged child In the crowded walks, and she knew not why, But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled; And a boot-black thrilled with a pleasure strange, As a customer put back his change With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh, As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by— A man looked out of a window dim, And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry, For a dead child even were dear to him! And he thought of his empty life, and said:— “Loveless alive, and loveless dead— Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!” As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

WHAT REDRESS

I pray you, do not use this thing For vengeance; but if questioning What wound, when dealt your humankind, Goes deepest,—surely he will find Who wrongs _you_, loving _him_ no less— There’s nothing hurts like tenderness.

DREAMER, SAY

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me A wild sweet dream of a foreign land, Whose border sips of a foaming sea With lips of coral and silver sand; Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps, Or lave themselves in the tearful mist The great wild wave of the breaker weeps O’er crags of opal and amethyst?

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream Of tropic shades in the lands of shine, Where the lily leans o’er an amber stream That flows like a rill of wasted wine,— Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green, Parry the shafts of the Indian sun Whose splintering vengeance falls between The reeds below where the waters run?

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love That lives in a land of sweet perfume, Where the stars drip down from the skies above In molten spatters of bud and bloom? Where never the weary eyes are wet, And never a sob in the balmy air, And only the laugh of the paroquet Breaks the sleep of the silence there?

WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_

When Lide married _him_—w’y, she had to jes dee-fy The whole popilation!—But she never bat’ an eye! Her parents begged, and _threatened_—she must give him up—that _he_ Wuz jes “a common drunkard!”—And he _wuz_, appearantly.— Swore they’d chase him off the place Ef he ever showed his face— Long after she’d _eloped_ with him and _married_ him fer shore!— When Lide married _him_, it wuz “_Katy, bar the door!_”

When Lide married _him_—Well! she had to go and be A _hired girl_ in town somewheres—while he tromped round to see What _he_ could git that _he_ could do,—you might say, jes sawed wood From door to door!—that’s what he done—’cause that wuz best he could! And the strangest thing, i jing! Wuz, he didn’t _drink_ a thing,— But jes got down to bizness, like he someway _wanted_ to, When Lide married _him_, like they warned her _not_ to do!

When Lide married _him_—er, ruther, _had_ be’n married A little up’ards of a year—some feller come and carried That _hired girl_ away with him—a ruther _stylish_ feller In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller: And he whispered, as they driv To’rds the country, “_Now we’ll live!_”— And _somepin’ else_ she _laughed_ to hear, though both her eyes wuz dim, ’Bout “_trustin’ Love and Heav’n above_, sence Lide married _him_!”

MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE

O Soul of mine, look out and see My bride, my bride that is to be!— Reach out with mad, impatient hands, And draw aside futurity As one might draw a veil aside— And so unveil her where she stands Madonna-like and glorified— The queen of undiscovered lands Of love, to where she beckons me— My bride, my bride that is to be.

The shadow of a willow-tree That wavers on a garden-wall In summer-time may never fall In attitude as gracefully As my fair bride that is to be;— Nor ever Autumn’s leaves of brown As lightly flutter to the lawn As fall her fairy-feet upon The path of love she loiters down.— O’er drops of dew she walks, and yet Not one may stain her sandal wet— Ay, she might _dance_ upon the way Nor crush a single drop to spray, So airy-like she seems to me,— My bride, my bride that is to be.

I know not if her eyes are light As summer skies or dark as night,— I only know that they are dim With mystery: In vain I peer To make their hidden meaning clear. While o’er their surface, like a tear That ripples to the silken brim, A look of longing seems to swim All worn and weary-like to me; And then, as suddenly, my sight Is blinded with a smile so bright, Through folded lids I still may see My bride, my bride that is to be.

Her face is like a night of June Upon whose brow the crescent-moon Hangs pendent in a diadem Of stars, with envy lighting them.— And, like a wild cascade, her hair Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist, Till only through a gleaming mist I seem to see a Siren there, With lips of love and melody And open arms and heaving breast Wherein I fling myself to rest, The while my heart cries hopelessly For my fair bride that is to be.

...

Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes! My bride hath need of no disguise.— But, rather, let her come to me In such a form as bent above My pillow when, in infancy, I knew not anything but love.— O let her come from out the lands Of Womanhood—not fairy isles,— And let her come with Woman’s hands And Woman’s eyes of tears and smiles,— With Woman’s hopefulness and grace Of patience lighting up her face: And let her diadem be wrought Of kindly deed and prayerful thought, That ever over all distress May beam the light of cheerfulness.— And let her feet be brave to fare The labyrinths of doubt and care, That, following, my own may find The path to Heaven God designed.— O let her come like this to me— My bride—my bride that is to be.

“RINGWORM FRANK”

Jest Frank Reed’s his _real_ name—though Boys all calls him “Ringworm Frank,” ’Cause he allus _runs round_ so.— No man can’t tell where to bank _Frank_’ll be, Next you see Er _hear_ of him!—Drat his melts!— That man’s allus _somers else_!

We’re old pards.—But Frank he jest _Can’t_ stay still!—Wuz _prosper’n’_ here, But lit out on furder West Somers on a ranch, last year: Never heard Nary a word _How_ he liked it, tel to-day, Got this card, reads thisaway:—

“Dad-burn climate out here makes Me homesick all Winter long, And when Springtime _comes_, it takes Two pee-wees to sing one song,— One sings ‘_pee_,’ And the other one ‘_wee!_’ Stay right where you air, old pard,— Wisht _I_ wuz this postal card!”

AN EMPTY GLOVE

I

An empty glove—long withering in the grasp Of Time’s cold palm. I lift it to my lips,— And lo, once more I thrill beneath its clasp, In fancy, as with odorous finger-tips It reaches from the years that used to be And proffers back love, life and all, to me.

II

Ah! beautiful she was beyond belief: Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon’s; Her eyes—too large for small delight or grief,— The smiles of them were Laughter’s afternoons; Their tears were April showers, and their love— All sweetest speech swoons ere it speaks thereof.

III

White-fruited cocoa shown against the shell Were not so white as was her brow below The cloven tresses of the hair that fell Across her neck and shoulders of nude snow; Her cheeks—chaste pallor, with a crimson stain— Her mouth was like a red rose rinsed with rain.

IV

And this was she my fancy held as good— As fair and lovable—in every wise As peerless in pure worth of womanhood As was her wondrous beauty in men’s eyes.— Yet, all alone, I kiss this empty glove— The poor husk of the hand I loved—and love.

OUR OWN

They walk here with us, hand-in-hand; We gossip, knee-by-knee; They tell us all that they have planned— Of all their joys to be,— And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day, All desolate we cry Across wide waves of voiceless graves— Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye!

MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY

_THE FROG_

_Who am I but the Frog—the Frog!_ _My realm is the dark bayou,_ _And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log_ _That the poison-vine clings to—_ _And the black-snakes slide in the slimy tide_ _Where the ghost of the moon looks blue._

_What am I but a King—a King!—_ _For the royal robes I wear—_ _A sceptre, too, and a signet-ring,_ _As vassals and serfs declare:_ _And a voice, god wot, that is equalled not_ _In the wide world anywhere!_

_I can talk to the Night—the Night!—_ _Under her big black wing_ _She tells me the tale of the world outright,_ _And the secret of everything;_ _For she knows you all, from the time you crawl,_ _To the doom that death will bring._

_The Storm swoops down, and he blows—and blows,—_ _While I drum on his swollen cheek,_ _And croak in his angered eye that glows_ _With the lurid lightning’s streak;_ _While the rushes drown in the watery frown_ _That his bursting passions leak._

_And I can see through the sky—the sky—_ _As clear as a piece of glass;_ _And I can tell you the how and why_ _Of the things that come to pass—_ _And whether the dead are there instead,_ _Or under the graveyard grass._

_To your Sovereign lord all hail—all hail!—_ _To your Prince on his throne so grim!_ _Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail_ _Their heads in the dust to him;_ _And the wide world sing: Long live the King,_ _And grace to his royal whim!_

“TWIGGS AND TUDENS”

If my old school-chum and room-mate John Skinner is alive to-day—and no doubt he _is_ alive, and quite so, being, when last heard from, the very alert and effective Train Dispatcher at Butler, Indiana,—he will not have forgotten a certain night in early June (the 8th) of 1870, in “Old Number ’Leven” of the Dunbar House, Greenfield, when he and I sat the long night through, getting ready a famous issue of our old school-paper, “The Criterion.” And he will remember, too, the queer old man who occupied, but that one night, the room just opposite our own, Number 13. For reasons wholly aside from any superstitious dread connected with the numerals, 13 was not a desirable room; its locality was alien to all accommodations, and its comforts, like its furnishings, were extremely meagre. In fact, it was the room usually assigned to the tramp-printer, who, in those days, was an institution; or again, it was the local habitation of the oft-recurring transient customer who was too incapacitated to select a room himself when he retired—or rather, when he was personally retired by “the hostler,” as the gentlemanly night-clerk of that era was habitually designated.

As both Skinner and myself—between fitful terms of school—had respectively served as “printer’s devil” in the two rival newspaper offices of the town, it was natural for us to find a ready interest in anything pertaining to the newspaper business; and so it was, perhaps, that we had been selected, by our own approval and that of our fellow-students of The Graded Schools, to fill the rather exalted office of editing “The Criterion.” Certain it is that the rather abrupt rise from the lowly duties of the “roller” to the editorial management of a paper of our own (even if issued in handwriting) we accepted as a natural right; and, vested in our new power of office, we were largely “shaping the whisper of the throne” about our way.

And upon this particular evening it was, as John and I had fairly squared ourselves for the work of the night, that we heard the clatter and shuffle of feet on the side-stairs, and, an instant later, the hostler establishing some poor unfortunate in 13, just across the hall.

“Listen!” said John, as we heard an old man’s voice through the open transom of our door,—“listen at that!”

It was an utterance peculiarly refined, in language as well as intonation. A low, mild, rather apologetic voice, gently assuring the hostler that “everything was very snug and comfortable indeed—so far as the _compartment_ was concerned—but would not the _attendant_ kindly supply a better light, together with pen-and-ink—and just a sheet or two of paper,—if he would be so very good as to find a pardon for so very troublesome a guest.”

“Hain’t no writin’-paper,” said the hostler, briefly,—“and the big lamps is all in use. These fellers here in ’Leven might let you have some paper and—Hain’t _you_ got a lead-pencil?”

“Oh, no matter!” came the impatient yet kindly answer of the old voice—“no matter at all, my good fellow!—Good night—good night!”

We waited till the sullen, clumpy footsteps down the hall and stair had died away.

Then Skinner, with a handful of foolscap, opened our door; and, with an indorsing smile from me, crossed the hall and tapped at 13—was admitted—entered, and very quietly closed the door behind him, evidently that I might not be disturbed.

I wrote on in silence for quite a time. It was, in fact, a full half-hour before John had returned,—and with a face and eye absolutely blazing with delight.

“An old printer,” whispered John, answering my look,—“and we’re in luck:—He’s a _genius_, ’y God! and an Englishman, and knows Dickens _personally_—used to write races with him, and’s got a manuscript of his in his ‘portmanteau,’ as he calls an old oil-cloth knapsack with one lung clean gone. Excuse this extra light.—Old man’s lamp’s like a sore eye, and he’s going to touch up the Dickens sketch for _us_! _Hear?_—_For us_—for ‘The Criterion.’ Says he can’t sleep—he’s in distress—has a presentiment—some dear friend is dying—or dead now—and he must write—_write_!”

This is, in briefest outline, the curious history of the subjoined sketch, especially curious for the reason that the following morning’s cablegram announced that the great novelist, Charles Dickens, had been stricken suddenly and seriously the night previous. On the day of this announcement—even as “The Criterion” was being read to perfunctorily interested visitors of The Greenfield Graded Schools—came the further announcement of Mr. Dickens’s death. The old printer’s manuscript, here reproduced, is, as originally, captioned—

TWIGGS AND TUDENS

“Now who’d want a more cosier little home than me and Tude’s got here?” asked Mr. Twiggs, as his twinkling eyes swept caressingly around the cheery little room in which he, alone, stood one chill December evening as the great St. Paul’s was drawling six.

“This ain’t no princely hall with all its gorgeous paraphanaly, as the play-bills says; but it’s what I calls a’ ‘interior,’ which for meller comfort and cheerful surroundin’s ain’t to be ekalled by no other ‘flat’ on the boundless, never-endin’ stage of this existence!” And as the exuberant Mr. Twiggs rendered this observation, he felt called upon to smile and bow most graciously to an invisible audience, whose wild approval he in turn interpreted by an enthusiastic clapping of his hands and the cry of “Ongcore!” in a dozen different keys—this strange acclamation being made the more grotesque by a great green parrot perched upon the mantel, which, in a voice less musical than penetrating, chimed in with “Hooray for Twiggs and Tudens!” a very great number of times.

“Tude’s a queer girl,” said Mr. Twiggs, subsiding into a reflective calm, broken only by the puffing of his pipe, and the occasional articulation of a thought, as it loitered through his mind. “Tude’s a queer girl!—a werry queer girl!” repeated Mr. Twiggs, pausing again, with a long whiff at his pipe, and marking the graceful swoop the smoke made as it dipped and disappeared up the wide, black-throated chimney; and then, as though dropping into confidence with the great fat kettle on the coals, that steamed and bubbled with some inner paroxysm, he added, “And queer and nothink short, is the lines for Tude, eh?

“Now s’posin’,” he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a tone whose careful intonation might have suggested a more than ordinary depth of wisdom and sagacity,—“s’posin’ a pore chap like me, as ain’t no property only this-’ere ‘little crooked house,’ as Tude calls it, and some o’ the properties I ’andles at the Drury—as I was a-sayin’,—s’posin’ now a’ old rough chap like me was jest to tell her all about herself, and who she is and all, and not no kith or kin o’ mine, let alone a daughter, as _she_ thinks—What do you reckon now ’ud be the upshot, eh?” And as Mr. Twiggs propounded this mysterious query he jabbed the poker prankishly in the short-ribs of the grate, at which the pot, as though humoring a joke it failed to comprehend wholly, set up a chuckling of such asthmatic violence that its smothered cachinnations tilted its copper lid till Mr. Twiggs was obliged to dash a cup of water in its face.

“And Tude’s a-comin’ of a’ age, too,” continued Mr. Twiggs, “when a more tenderer pertecter than a father, so to speak, wouldn’t be out o’ keepin’ with the nat’ral order o’ things, seein’ as how she’s sorto’ startin’ for herself-like now. And it’s a question in my mind, if it ain’t my bounden duty as her father—or ruther, who has been a father to her all her life—to kindo’ tell her jest how things is, and all—and how _I_ am, and everythink,—and how I feel as though I ort’o stand by her, as I allus have, and allus _have_ had her welfare in view, and kindo’ feel as how I allus—ort’o kindo’—ort’o kindo’”—and here Mr. Twiggs’s voice fell into silence so abruptly that the drowsy parrot started from its trance-like quiet and cried “Ortokindo! Ortokindo!” with such a strength of seeming mockery that it was brushed violently to the floor by the angry hand of Mr. Twiggs and went backing awkwardly beneath the table.

“Blow me,” said Mr. Twiggs, “if the knowin’ impidence of that-’ere bird ain’t astonishin’!” And then, after a serious controversy with the draught of his pipe, he went on with his deliberations.

“Lor! it were jest scrumptious to see Tude in ‘The Iron Chest’ last night! Now, I ain’t no actur myself,—I’ve been on, of course, a thousand times as ‘fillin’,’ ‘sogers’ and ‘peasants’ and the like, where I never had no lines, on’y in the ‘choruses’; but if I don’t know nothin’ but ‘All hail!—All hail!’ I’ve had the experience of bein’ under the baleful hinfluence of the hoppery-glass, and I’m free to say it air a ticklish position and no mistake. But _Tude_! w’y, bless you, she warn’t the first bit flustered, was she? ’Peared-like she jest felt perfectly at home-like—like her mother afore her! And I’m dashed if I didn’t feel the cold chills a-creepin’ and a-crawlin’ when she was a-singin’ ‘Down by the river there grows a green willer and a-weepin’ all night with the bank for her piller’; and when she come to the part about wantin’ to be buried there ’while the winds was a-blowin’ close by the stream where her tears was a-flowin’, and over her corpse to keep the green willers growin’,’ I’m d—d if I didn’t blubber right out!” And as the highly sympathetic Mr. Twiggs delivered this acknowledgment, he stroked the inner corners of his eyes, and rubbed his thumb and finger on his trousers.

“It were a tryin’ thing, though,” he went on, his mellow features settling into a look not at all in keeping with his shiny complexion—“it were a tryin’ thing, and it _air_ a tryin’ thing to see them lovely arms o’ hern a-twinin’ so lovin’-like around that-’ere Stanley’s neck and a-kissin’ of him—as she’s obleeged to do, of course—as the ‘properties’ of the play demands; but I’m blowed if she wouldn’t do it quite so nat’ral-like I’d feel easier. Blow me!” he broke off savagely, starting up and flinging his pipe in the ashes, “I’m about a-comin’ to the conclusion I ain’t got no more courage’n a blasted school-boy! Here I am old enough to be her father—mighty nigh it—and yet I’m actually afeard to speak up and tell her jest how things is, and all, and how I feel like I—like I—ort’o—ort’o—”

“_Ortokindo! Ortokindo!_” shrieked the parrot, clinging in a reversed position to the under-round of a chair.—“_Ortokindo! Ortokindo! Tude’s come home!—Tude’s come home!_” And as though in happy proof of this latter assertion, the gentle Mr. Twiggs found his chubby neck encircled by a pair of rosy arms, and felt upon his cheek the sudden pressure of a pair of lips that thrilled his old heart to the core. And then the noisy bird dropped from its perch and marched pompously from its place of concealment, trailing its rusty wings and shrieking, “Tude’s come home!” at the top of its brazen voice.

“Shet up!” screamed Mr. Twiggs, with a pretended gust of rage, kicking lamely at the feathered oracle; “I’ll ‘Tude’s-come-home’ ye! W’y, a feller can’t hear his _ears_ for your infernal squawkin’!” And then, turning toward the serious eyes that peered rebukingly into his own, his voice fell gentle as a woman’s: “Well, there, Tudens, I beg parding; I do indeed. Don’t look at me thataway. I know I’m a great, rough, good-for—”But a warm, swift kiss cut short the utterance; and as the girl drew back, still holding the bright old face between her tender palms, he said simply, “You’re a queer girl, Tudens; a queer girl.”

“Ha! am I?” said the girl, in quite evident heroics and quotation, starting back with a theatrical flourish and falling into a fantastic attitude.—“‘Troth, I am sorry for it; me poor father’s heart is bursting with gratichude, and he would fain ease it by pouring out his thanks to his benefactor.’”

“Werry good! Werry good, indeed!” said Mr. Twiggs, gazing wistfully upon the graceful figure of the girl. “You’re a-growin’ more wonderful’ clever in your ‘presence’ every day, Tude. You don’t think o’ nothink else but your actin’, do ye, now?” And, as Mr. Twiggs concluded his observations, a something very like a sigh came faltering from his lips.

“Why, listen there! Ah-ha!” laughed Tude, clapping her hands and dancing gayly around his chair.—“Why, you old melancholy Dane, you! are you actually _sighing_?” Then, dropping into a tragic air of deep contrition, she continued: “‘But, believe me, I would not question you, but to console you, Wilford. I would scorn to pry into any one’s grief, much more yours, Wilford, to satisfy a busy curiosity.’”