Part 2

Hear the green woods cry and call, Through the Summer to the Fall, “We are waiting, waiting, waiting, with a welcome for you all!” Hear the lads take up the cry, With an echo, shrill and high: “We are coming, coming, coming, for vacation time is nigh!”

How the skies are blue and fair, How the clover scents the air With a witchery of fragrance that is delicate and rare! How the blossoms bud and blow, And the great waves flood and flow In the ocean of boy happiness, like billows, to and fro!

Ah, my heart goes back and sighs When the piping calls and cries From the hearts of merry youngsters like a song of triumph rise! And I would that rune and rhyme Might be splendid and sublime In my heart to tell the story of a boy’s vacation time!

A BOY’S CHOICE

I’d ruther take a w’ippin’ ’an a scoldin’ any day, ’Cuz a w’ippin’ makes you tingle, but you go right out an’ play, An’ after w’ile you’re over it an’ ’en at dinner, w’y, Your mother’s awful sorry an’ she brings a piece of pie An’ says she hates to do it, ’cuz it hurts her ’ist as bad As it does anybody w’en she w’ips her little lad.

An’ ’en at night she kisses you an’ puts you into bed An’ tucks the covers in an’ says you’re Mamma’s Turly-head, An’ my! she’s ’ist so lovely! An’ she sits beside of you ’Ist ’cuz she feels so sorry over w’at she had to do. An’ ’en she leaves the candle burn an’ says for you to call If you want anything from her, an’ you ain’t scairt at all!

But w’en you get a scoldin’ she don’t never bring you pie, Becuz you’ll surely break her heart; an’ ’en she starts to cry; An’ my! you feel so sorry, an’ you wisht she wouldn’t, ’cuz It shows you how you’ve grieved her an’ how turble bad you wuz. An’ all day long she never smiles; an’ w’en you go to bed She never leaves the candle burn or calls you Turly-head.

An’ sometimes you see big, w’ite things a-lookin’ at your bed, ’At makes you scairt an’ pull the covers up above your head, An’ ’en you s’pose how would you feel if Mamma wuz to die, An’ biumby you feel so bad ’at you ’ist start to cry. So w’en she looks at you so hurt an’ talks to you ’at way-- I’d ruther take a w’ippin’ ’an a scoldin’ any day!

A DISCOURAGED KINDERGARTNER

’Is mornin’ mamma told me ’At I mus’ be awful dood, ’Tuz I’m startin’ on my schooldays An’ I promised her I would. But I’m awful much ’iscouraged ’Tuz I tried so hard to det All the lessons teacher gave me, But I tant read yet!

My! it’s awful long till dinner, An’ I couldn’t hardly wait Wen I dot done wif my letters An’ I wrote ’em on my slate, An’ I’m ’shamed to tell my mamma ’At I dess she’ll have to let Me go back again tomorrow, ’Tuz I tant read yet.

She’ll be awful disappointed, ’Tuz I’ve been there half a day, An’ she’ll think I didn’t study Or it wouldn’t be that way. But I don’t s’pose I tan help it, An’ it does no dood to fret, ’Tuz I’ve been to school all mornin’ An’ I tant read yet.

I dess our teacher’s stupid, ’Tuz she didn’t seem to care W’en I went right up an’ told her Were she’s sittin’ in her chair, ’At I’m awful much ’iscouraged An’ my Mamma she would fret ’Tuz I’ve been to school all mornin’ An’ I tant read yet.

An’ ’en she started laughin’, It’s as true as I’m alive, An’ ast how old I am, an’ ’en I told her half past five, An’ ’en she tame an’ tissed me, ’Tuz my eyes are dettin’ wet, An’ told me not to worry ’Tuz I tant read yet.

I dess if she had Mother Goose She’d be ’isturbed herself, If she ’ud go an’ det it Down f’m off th’ lib’ry shelf, An’ ’en w’en it is open, I dess she’s apt to fret If she’s been to school all mornin’ An’ she tant read yet!

THE DELUSION OF GHOSTS

Sometimes when I got to do errands at night An’ th’ moon is all dark an’ th’ ain’t any light, An’ th’ wind, when it blows, makes a shivery sound, An’ everything seems awful still all around; Sometimes when a hoot-owl goes “Woo-oo-oo-oo!” My legs feel so funny; I’m all goose-flesh, too. An’ maybe I’m startled when I hear it call, But I ain’t a bit scairt; I’m thes’ nervous, that’s all.

Oncet me an’ Joe Simpson wuz walkin’ one night A’ past th’ old graveyard, an’ saw somethin’ white ’Et looked like a ghost, standin’ right in th’ road, An’ my, Joe wuz scairt! ’Cuz he said ’et he knowed It wuz surely a ghost; an’ I wisseled, becuz When you wissel you scare ’em; an’ all that it wuz Wuz a great, big, white cow; an’ it thes’ walked away, An’ I wuzn’t no more scairt ’n if it wuz day!

’Cuz I don’t b’lieve in ghosts, an’ I’d thes’ as lieve go A’ past any graveyard an’ walk awful slow, An’ wissel, an’ sit on th’ top of th’ fence, ’Cuz th’ ain’t any ghosts if you got any sense. An’ when we saw that big white thing by th’ road ’Et Joe wuz so scairt of, I wuzn’t. I knowed All th’ time it’s no ghost. I wuz nervous becuz I knowed what it wuzn’t, but not what it wuz!

A STORY OF SELF-SACRIFICE

Pop took me to the circus ’cause it disappoints me so To have to stay at home, although he doesn’t care to go; He’s seen it all so many times, the wagons and the tents; The cages of wild animals and herds of elephants; This morning he went down with me to watch the big parade, He was so dreadful busy that he oughtn’t to have stayed, He said he’d seen it all before and all the reason he Went down and watched it coming was because it’s new to me.

Then we walked to the circus grounds and Pop he says: “I guess You want a glass of lemonade, of course,” and I says: “Yes.” And he bought one for each of us, and when he drank his he Told me he drank it only just to keep me company; And then he says, “The sideshow is, I s’pose, the same old sell, But everybody’s goin’ in, so we might just as well.” He said he’d seen it all before, and all the reason he Went in and saw it was because it was all new to me.

Well, by and by we both came out and went in the big tent, And saw the lions and tigers and the bigges’ elephant With chains on his front corner and an awful funny nose That looks around for peanuts that the crowd of people throws; And Pop, he bought some peanuts and it curled its nose around Until it found most every one that he threw on the ground; He said he’d seen it all before, and all the reason he Stayed there and threw ’em was because it was all new to me.

Well, then the band began to play the liveliestest tune, And Pop, he says he guessed the show would open pretty soon; So we went in the other tent, and Pop, he says to me: “I guess we’ll get some reserved seats so you will surely see.” And then some lovely ladies came and stood there on the ground, And jumped up on the horses while the horses ran around; Pop said he’d seen it all before, and all the reason he Looked at the ladies was because it was all new to me.

Well, finally it’s over, but a man came out to say That they’re going to have a concert, and Pop said we’d better stay; He said they’re always just the same and always such a sell, But lots of folks was staying and he guessed we might as well. Then by and by we’re home again, and Mamma wants to know What kind of circus was it, and Pop said, “The same old show,” And said he’d seen it all before and all the reason he Had stayed and seen it all was ’cause it’s all so new to me.

THE LOST CHILD

I ’member when they cut my curls not very long ago, Because they looked just like a girl’s, and I’m a boy, you know; I used to wear ’em awful long, and once my Pa, he said, It’s time I had my curls cut off and wore short hair instead; Because I’m big enough for that; and then they took the shears And snipped my curls off one by one right close up to my ears, But every time a curl came off, my Mother, she just hid Her face a little bit and cried. I wonder why she did!

And after while she picked one up and held it in her hand With something shining in her eyes I didn’t understand; She petted it as if it was a little boy or girl, And acted fond of it when it was nothing but a curl. And after while they’re all cut off and down there on the floor, And I looked much more like a boy than I had been before, But there was something in her eyes she tried and tried and tried To brush away, but still it came. I wonder why she cried.

And after while I’m all trimmed off, and then my Pa, he said, I’m not a baby any more, but I’m a boy instead, And he is awful proud of me, and then my Ma, she smiled And said we found a boy that day and lost a little child; So I said I would hunt for him and bring him back but then She said she was afraid that he would not come back again; And picked the curls I had all up from off the floor and hid Them in her bureau drawer and cried. I wonder why she did.

DOUGHNUTTING TIME

Wunst w’en our girl wuz makin’ pies an’ doughnuts--’ist a lot-- We stood around with great, big eyes, ’cuz we boys like ’em hot; An’ w’en she dropped ’em in the lard they sizzled ’ist like fun. An’ w’en she takes ’em out it’s hard to keep from takin’ one.

An’ ’en she says: “You boys’ll get all spattered up with grease, An’ biumby she says she’ll let us have ’ist one apiece; So I took one for me an’ one for little James McBride, The widow’s only orfunt son ’at’s waitin’ there outside.

An’ Henry, he took one ’ist for himself an’ Nellie Flynn, ’At’s waitin’ at the kitchen door an’ dassent to come in Becuz her mother told her not, an’ Johnny, he took two, ’Cuz Amy Brennan likes ’em hot, ’ist like we chinnern do.

’En Henry happened ’ist to think he didn’t get a one For little Ebenezer Brink, the carpet beater’s son, Who never gets ’em home becuz he says he ain’t quite sure But thinks perhaps the reason wuz his folkses are too poor.

An’ ’en I give my own away to little Willie Beggs ’At fell way down his stairs one day an’ give him crooked legs, ’Cuz Willie always seems to know w’en our girl’s goin’ to bake, He wouldn’t ast for none-oh, no! But, my! he’s fond of cake.

So I went back an’ ’en I got another one for me Right out the kettle, smokin’ hot an’ brown as it could be, An’ John, he got one, too, becuz he give his own to Clare, An’ w’en our girl, she looked, there wuz ’ist two small doughnuts there!

My! She wuz angry w’en she looked an’ saw ’ist them two there, An’ says she knew ’at she had cooked a crock full an’ to spare, She says it’s awful ’scouragin’ to bake an’ fret an’ fuss, An’ w’en she thinks she’s got ’em in the crock they’re all in us!

A MODERN MIRACLE

Once w’en I’m sick th’ doctor come An’ ’en I put my tongue ’way out, An’ he says, “H-m-m! Nurse, get me some Warm water, please.” An’ in about A minute, w’y, she did an’ ’en He put a glass thing into it An’ ’en he wiped it off again An’ put it in my mouth a bit.

’En after w’ile he took it out An’ held it up w’ere he could see, An’ ’en he says, “H-m-m! ’Ist about Too high a half of a degree.” An’ ’en Ma asked him if I’m bad An’ he says “Nope!” ’ist gruff an’ cross ’An says “W’y you can’t kill a lad, An’ if you do it ain’t much loss!”

An’ ’en she’s mad an’ he ’ist bust Out laughin’ an’ he says, “Don’t fret, He’s goin’ t’ be all right, I trust. W’y he ain’t even half dead yet.” An’ ’en he felt my pulse, ’at way, An’ patted me upon my head An’ says “There ain’t no school today, ’Cuz one of th’ trustees is dead!”

An’ my, I’m awful sorry w’en He told me that. An’ ’en he said “He’ll be all right by noon.” An’ ’en He went away. An’ Ma says “Ned, How do you feel?” An’ ’en, you know, Since Doctor told me that, somehow, I’m awful sick a while ago, But, my! I’m almost well right now!

NERVOUSTOWN

Oh, there’s never a noise in Nervoustown; Not the cry of a youngster; and up or down There’s never a cheer or a whistle shrill; Just silence, like that of the grave, so still; The horses trot with a muffled tread, But the place seems lonesome and drear and dead, For a cloth-bound head and a nervous frown Are all you may see in Nervoustown.

Sh-h! you must walk with noiseless tread For there’s many a hot and aching head; The doors are closed and the blinds are down, For it must be dark in Nervoustown. And you mustn’t whistle or shout or cheer Or slam the doors! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Lest a cloth-bound head and a terrible frown Poke out at you from Nervoustown.

Oh, there’s never a person there but goes On the very tip of his tippy-toes; Nor ever a lad has heard at all Of follow-my-leader or rude baseball; It’s much as your life is worth to yell, The flowers can’t grow for the camphor-smell; While a big policeman, up and down, Cries “Sh-h!” through the streets of Nervoustown.

And a little boy, who didn’t know, Once years and years and years ago, Gave three loud, lusty cheers one day For something or other, I can’t say, And they snipped his head off--Oh! Oh! Oh! With big, red, rusty shears, you know, And cloth-bound heads bobbed up and down With gladness all through Nervoustown.

But, oh, it’s gloomy in Nervoustown, With the doors tight shut and the blinds all down, Where the frightened lad his whole life goes On the very tips of his tippy-toes, Where the hens don’t cluck and the birds don’t sing, And even the church bells dare not ring Lest a cloth-bound head with a terrible frown Poke out at them from Nervoustown.

SONG OF SUMMER DAYS

Sing a song of hollow logs, Chirp of cricket, croak of frogs, Cry of wild bird, hum of bees, Dancing leaves and whisp’ring trees; Legs all bare and dusty toes, Ruddy cheeks and freckled nose, Splash of brook and swish of line, Where the song that’s half so fine?

Sing a song of summer days, Leafy nooks and shady ways, Nodding roses, apples red, Clover like a carpet spread; Sing a song of running brooks, Cans of bait and fishing hooks, Dewy hollows, yellow moons, Birds a-pipe with merry tunes.

Sing a song of skies of blue, Eden’s garden made anew, Scarlet hedges, leafy lanes, Vine-embowered sills and panes; Stretch of meadows, splashed with dew, Silver clouds with sunlight through, Cry of loon and pipe of wren, Sing and call it home again.

WHAT MOTHER DOESN’T KNOW

Sometimes w’en I got to pile wood in the yard, ’Ist wringin’ with sweat ’cuz I’m workin’ so hard, An’ see all the neighbors’ boys startin’ to fish, I can’t hardly work any more, an’ I wish ’At I wuz a-goin’ an’ ’en right away I run an’ ast Ma if I can’t go today, An’ she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can run Off an’ fish ’ist as soon as your work is all done.

You must work while you work, You must play while you play An’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.” An’ mebbe it’s so, But my goodness! to go With the boys ’at’s gone fishin’!--I guess she dunno!

Sometimes w’en I got to hoe garden an’ hear The boys playin’ ball in the next lot, so near I hear ’em all cheerin’ an’ see ’em all score, I can’t hardly stand it to hoe any more. So ’en I ast Ma if I can’t go an’ play An’ promise to hoe twict as much the next day, But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can run Off an’ play ’ist as soon as your work is all done.

You must work while you work, You must play while you play An’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.” An’ mebbe it’s so, But, my goodness! to hoe W’en you hear ’em a-playin’!--I guess she dunno.

Sometimes w’en the snow gets all piled up so deep On the walk ’at she tells me to go out an’ sweep It all off, an’ Sam Russell comes by with his sled, My broom ’at I’m usin’ gets heavy as lead. An’ I can’t hardly sweep, an’ I ast Ma if I Can’t go out a-slidin’ an’ sweep by an’ by, But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can run Off and slide ’ist as soon as your work is all done.

You must work while you work, You must play while you play An’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.” An’ mebbe it’s so, But to have to sweep snow W’en the boys are a-slidin’!--I guess she dunno.

SO LONESOME NOW

Over t’ Henry Murray’s, why, They always had lots an’ lots o’ pie, An’ toy automobiles an’ v’locipedes An’ walkin’ toys, like a fellow reads About sometimes, but he seldom sees, An’ swings out under th’ big oak trees, An’ childurn a-playin’ on every bough-- But my! It is turrible lonesome now.

Over t’ Henry Murray’s, why, His mother an’ father ’ist seemed t’ try An’ see if they couldn’t get some new toys For Henry an’ all of us other boys ’At played with him; an’ she used t’ make Th’ dandiest currant an’ raisin cake, An’ boys ’ist flocked there like flies, somehow-- But my! It is turrible lonesome now.

Over’t Henry Murray’s, why, His mother ’ud see you goin’ by An’ ast you why you didn’t come an’ play With Henry an’ all of his toys, some day. An’ every Christmas she’d have a tree With presents, th’ finest you ever see, An’ nobody got forgot, somehow-- But my! It is turrible lonesome now.

An’ over t’ Henry Murray’s, why, We boys ’ist look while we’re goin’ by, An’ see all his toys layin’ there outside. Once Big Bill Skinner broke down an’ cried An’ says he don’t care--it was ’ist too bad, ’Cause Henry was all of th’ boy they had. An’ th’ swings ’ist hang from th’ big oak bough bough-- An’ my! It is turrible lonesome now.

A LITTLE LOVE STORY

She understands. I do not need to go And tell her she is all the world to me. I never speak a word to let her know I will be faithful till Eternity, But when, upon the way to school, she sees Me come with two red apples in my hands And hears me say: “Please, Sally Jane, take these,” It is no wonder that she understands.

Or when she sees me at the old front gate With my new sled right after the first snow, And from her window calls to me to wait Until she asks her Mother can she go, I do not need to tell her why I come In my fur cap with mittens on my hands, For even if my feelings make me dumb She looks at me and then she understands.

Or if she whispers something when in school, As children are quite often apt to do, Forgetting all about the teacher’s rule, And teacher says to Sally: “Was that you?” Why then I see how scared she is and rise Up in my seat and hold up both my hands And take the blame--she looks into my eyes eyes-- I do not need to speak--she understands.

Or if she has the measles so I dare Not go up to her house, but I can look In through the window and she sees me there, And if I bring a dandy story book And leave it on the fence post where the nurse Can come and take it in, and if my hands Have written, “Dear, I hope you’ll be no worse,” I do not need to speak--she understands.

I do not need to tell her how I feel-- She only has to watch the things I do; She knows my heart is true to her as steel, And if it rains or if the sky is blue I wait for her to walk to school with me, And carry all her school-books in my hands, And I am just as happy as can be, And so is she--because she understands.

ON A NOISELESS FOURTH

On a noiseless street stood a crackerless lad with a screechless fife and a headless drum, Venting his glee in a voiceless shout, as a blareless band, all still and dumb, Came down the length of the avenue, and a bugle corps blew a noteless blare, While a screechless rocket with noiseless hiss cut a fireless path through the silent air. The blareless band played a soundless tune and the crackerless lad gave a voiceless shout As the rippling folds of the unfurled flag from the upheld standard fluttered out. “Hurrah!” he cried with a voiceless cry, put forth from his lips in a speechless way. “Hurrah for the guns of Lexington and the noiseless Independence Day!”

Then far away down the village street a smokeless gun belched a soundless roar, A popless cracker fizzless died, and the band played a blareless tune once more; The clickless guns of the village guards with a thudless sound dropped on the ground. The marshal left his neighless horse, and the voiceless mob ranged all around; A fizzless pinwheel silent whirred, and the drum corps joined in a tootless screech, The lips of the village speaker moved in the tongueless strains of a wordless speech. Then a graceless benediction fell, and the crackerless lad, in a voiceless way, Gave a soundless shout for Bunker Hill and the noiseless Independence Day.

Oh, the pulseless thrill of the noiseless guns and the tootless fifes and the headless drums, The heartless joy of the crackerless lad, as the soundless pageant noiseless comes Down the village street, and the sightless glow of the hissless rocket’s fireless glare With noiseless swish from the silent earth through the measureless breadth of the lightless air! But a fingerless youth of the olden time, when crackers popped and cannons roared, Looked on the scene with much disgust and the look of a lad who is greatly bored; And he cried aloud--’twas the only sound that was heard, not made in a voiceless way: “Dog-gone the guns at Bunker Hill and the noiseless Independence Day!”

CONSCIOUS IGNORANCE

I’m only ’ist a little girl, An’ w’en I want to play An’ Mamma says don’t go outside Our yard this livelong day, An’ w’en some other girls ’ey come An’ pester me to go, It may be wrong, but I’m so young, How does she s’pose I know?

An’ ’en w’en she goes out sometimes An’ says: “Now go to bed At eight o’clock this very night,” I ’member what she said. But w’en the mantel clock strikes eight An’ I don’t want to go, It may be wrong, but I’m so young, How does she s’pose I know?

An’ w’en she says: “Now, don’t go near The cookie jar this day,” I want some cookies awful much An’ try to stay away. But all the time I’m hungry for Some cookies, an’ I go-- It may be wrong, but I’m so young, How does she s’pose I know?

I’m only ’ist a little girl Not more ’n six years old, An’ my, I always try to do E’zactly as I’m told. But w’en I make ’ist one mistake, My Ma ought not to go An’ punish me, ’cause I’m so young, How does she s’pose I know?

THE PLAYTIME OF BACHELOR BILL