Part 6

And so from these joys without number, Ere aught of the glitter was gone, He went to his dream-laden slumber, Where on plays the music, and on. For him all the revel is maddest, For him not a flag has been furled, The tiredest, sleepiest, gladdest And stickiest lad in the world!

THE BARRIERS

Scrub out his freckles, ’twas Nature who gave ’em; Silence his whistle and comb out his hair, Muffle his footsteps, for People--Lord save ’em em-- Want something noiseless and soulless and fair; Bleach out the spots where the Summer sun kissed him, Still all the tunes and the bird calls he knew, Then, when he’s boy no more, who could resist him? Sun and the Wind, here’s a lesson for you.

Sun and the Wind and the freshness of showers, How could you tempt him to revel and roam Past the long hedges and through the wild flowers? Did you not know it would cost him a home? Did you not know when the gay bluebird glistened Up on the bough and with wonder he rose, Rose with his heart beating glad, as he listened, Did you not know it would freckle his nose?

Hide your heads, Daisies, that wave over yonder, Gleam in the sunlight and dance by the creek, You bade him leave the pale shadow and wander-- Did you not know he might freckle his cheek? You, too, the larks through the green meadows winging, Did you not tempt him with glad song and free? Why did you not let him learn through your singing He would be outcast through following thee?

Heartless blackberries, you led him from shelter; Nuts, without shame, you did bid him to climb; Butterflies bright, that he chased helter-skelter, Have you no shame for the depths of your crime? What if the heart of him beats but the truer, What if the soul of him still sweeter grows, What if the eyes of him sparkle the truer, Do you not see you have freckled his nose?

Scrub out the freckles--oh, well, doesn’t matter; Maybe they’ll wash out with plentiful tears; Muffle his footsteps, that no boyish patter Rise to offend supersensitive ears; Bid him not whistle the songs the fields taught him, Let him be pale, still, anaemic, and thin, Teach him and bleach him, and when you have got him Thoroughly colorless, let him come in!

THE PLAINT OF THE NEW DOLL

We dot a doll to our house; It tum on Trissmus day; It wuzn’t hangin’ on a tree; It tum some uzzer way; ’Ey wouldn’t let me play wiz it, ’Ey said ’at it might fall; En so it laid ’ere all day long En squall en squall en squall.

’E funniestes’ ’ittle sing, Espeshully fer a doll; En Mamma told me wen it tum It wuzn’t dressed at all; ’Ey only let me take one peek, I ast ’em if I tould ’Es press to see if it would squeak Like my own dolly would.

En ’en ’ey laughed en laughed en laughed, En wouldn’t tell me why; I dess tant ’magine why ’ey laughed, It ain’t no use t’ try; En how ’ey fussed en fussed en fussed En I dess almos’ all ’E uncles en ’e aunts I dot Tum in to see ’at doll.

En ’en ’ey laughed en Papa laughed ’Es like a silly boy; I never saw growed up folks make Such fuss about a toy. I dess I dot mos’ fifteen dolls, ’E nices’ ever wuz, En never tissed one half as much As my own Papa does.

I dess ’ey’ve everyone fordot ’At I’m ’eir little dirl; ’Ey haven’t changed my dress today, My hair’s all out of turl; ’Ey’s tandy on my face an’ hands, I don’t look nice at all, ’Ey’ve everyone fordotten me Fer dess a nasty doll!

I wis’ ’et I tould det it onct; I’d frow it all about, En knock it--so! En slap it--so! En shake its sawdust out; En ’en w’en ’ey saw how it looked I dess know ’ey’d all be Ez dlad ez tould be ’ess t’ have One little dirl--like me!

A CHILD’S ALMANAC

My Mamma says ’at w’en it rains ’Ey’re washin’ Heaven’s window-panes An’ careless angels ’ist do fill ’Eir pails too full an’ ’atway spill Some water down on us. ’At’s w’y It rains some days w’en maybe I Would like to play. An’ ’en she says It’s ’ist ’em angels’ carelessness ’At makes ’em raindrops fall ’at way At picnics an’ on circus day.

My Mamma says ’at w’en it snows ’Ey’re angels pickin’ geese, she knows, An’ ’stead o’ usin’ ’em t’ stuff ’Eir pillow cases, ’ey ’ist puff An’ blow an’ don’t clear up ’eir muss Till all ’em feathers fall on us. An’ she says ’ey ’ist pick ’atway ’Cuz ’ey want geese f’r Tris’mus day, An’ ’at’s w’y ’ere’s ’e mostes’ snow Right close t’ Tris’mus time, you know.

My Mamma says w’en wind ’ist roars An’ blows, ’at’s w’en ’e angels snores, But w’en it lightnings, she says, w’y, ’Ey’re scratchin’ matches on ’e sky. An’ w’en it rumbles ’bove our heads ’Ey’re movin’ furniture an’ beds Up ’ere, an’ cleanin’ house an’ shakes ’Eir moth balls out an’ ’at’s w’at makes It hail. An’ weather, she ’ist ’clares Is ’ist w’at angels does upstairs.

THE LOSER

The sun withheld its light that day; that night the stars were dim; The portent of the earth and sky was ominous for him; There was no gladness in the world; the fields held no delight; The day of all his joys dissolved and melted into night; He rubbed his pitching arms and felt the muscles rise and fall; He wondered what the cruel fate that lost the game of ball; He wandered idly by the brook, forsaken and alone, To be a hero nevermore, unsung, unwept, unknown.

’Twas only yesterday he was the idol of the team! Those cheers and loud hurrahs he heard--could they have been a dream? They called him Tim the Tiger then! Small boys by scores he saw To bear his glove, his coat, his shoes, with gratitude and awe. With joy they saw his arm laid bare--that mighty arm and brown That wound itself about his head and mowed the batsmen down; And when he went upon the field, the mighty cheer for him Showed how their hopes of victory were all bound up in Tim!

It was but yesterday he bore the laurels on his brow, But who, alas! is there so low to do him honor now? His heart swells, bursting in his chest; the heart so bruised and sore; Could he but go back on the field and pitch that game once more! The tears fall from his eyes like rain, the hot and angry tears, No sorrow has he known like this in all his fifteen years; How will he meet the Tigers now? How look intothe eyes Of those who staked their all on him and saw him lose the prize?

To school he walks secluded ways where once with pride he strode, With awestruck youngsters all about, the middle of the road; Far from the madding crowd he stands upon the playground there His honors fallen like the leaves in Autumn’s frosty air; A humble Tiger is he now, and small boys pass him by With cruel sneers where once he heard the cheers ring shrill and high; And Reddy Blake, the Cyclone Curve, is pitcher forthe team, While he’s but the somnambulist of a quick-vanished dream!

BACK TO SCHOOL

Fell in the creek twice yesterday! Slipped and slid from a load of hay, Stepped on a stone and bruised my toe; Hardly walk ’cause I’m blistered so; Hit my knee till it’s blue and black, Sat in the sun and burned my back When I went to swim, but my, I’m glad! Best vacation I ever had.

Slid off the old red barn last week. Wind all gone so I couldn’t speak When they laid me in upon the bed And put cold water on my head. Got poison-ivy on my legs When I went in the weeds to look for eggs; But I’ve had more fun since I don’t know when! Hate to go back to school again.

Burned my hands till they’re awful sore When the calf ran out of the big barn door And I tried to hold the rope and fell Most twenty feet down the old dry well. Lost my hat that was almost new, In the great big lake, when the high wind blew; And my pants are torn from many a climb, But I never had such a summer-time.

Ate poison berries by the creek Till they thought I’d die, I felt so sick; But they gave me ipecac to take, And it cured up all my stomach-ache! Got stung by bees, but I got stung best When I started home with a hornet’s nest, And I all swelled up; but I’m gone down now, And it’s all in a boy’s life, anyhow!

Nose all peeled till it’s red and rough, Hands all brown, but I’m awful tough From the exercise, and I’m big and strong, ’Cause I hoed in a corn-field all day long. And my uncle said that I might stay For harvest-time, and he’d give me pay; And I’d like to stay, but I have to go Back home to school, ’cause my Ma said so.

DISENCHANTMENTS

Here is the brook where the bold pirates ferried, Swashbuckling wretches, cold-blooded, unkind; Here is the tree where vast treasure was buried, Doubloons we dug for but never could find. How things have changed since these waters were riven, Splashed with our paddles and churned into foam! Since the dark nights when the pickaxe was driven Where the lost treasure lay under the loam!

Here is the wood with its fastness unbounded, Whence the red savage stole noiselessly out, Warning us not till his warwhoop was sounded, Leaving us scalped on the greensward about. How things have changed from the steed and the stirrup, Flintlock and tomahawk whittled from lath, Where our blood ran there’s no fluid but syrup From the sap maples along our war path!

Here is the plain where our scouts reconnoitred, Crawling and creeping through morass and glade, Sighting some bloodthirsty savage who loitered Near by the scene of some scalp-lifting raid. How things have changed since the red deer went leaping, Since came the bison by hundreds to browse, Silent the plain where our brave scouts went creeping, Save for the lowing of far distant cows.

Here is the cave where our clans were assembled, Guarded by sentries, nor traitor could reach; Ghostly and tomb-like, where heroes dissembled Blood-chilling fears in their boldness of speech. Bruce had a refuge here, Wallace lay wounded, Hallowed its clammy walls, safe its retreat, Once ’twas a labyrinth, gloomy, unsounded, ’Tis but a gravel pit, just off the street.

How things have changed in the years since we knew them, Pirate and redskin and treasure and clan; Men walk beside them and past them and through them, Giving no heed that our blood there once ran; Making no sign for the struggles that swept them, Flintlock and scalplock, raid, warfare, and strife, How things have changed since we cherished and kept them! All of the romance has gone out of life!

A RAINY NIGHT

’Bout eight o’clock first night that we Were down at the academy ’Twas awful rainy out, and so We both of us stayed in, you know; But we could hear the wind and rain Come splashing on the window-pane; And after while, why, Henry Stout Put up the curtain and looked out, And said, “My! Ain’t she coming down! I wish I was in Beaverstown.”

And then nobody spoke at all, Just listened to the rain-drops fall; And Henry sniffled up his nose Because he had a cold, I s’pose. And then he said, “I wonder how Our folks are getting on by now.” And I said, “Oh, I guess all right. My! Ain’t it rainy out to-night!” And Henry gave a great big sigh And swallowed hard--and so did I.

And then he said, “My! Such a noise! I guess there’s lots of homesick boys Around tonight.” And I said, “Oh,”-- Just careless like--“Oh, I don’t know.” And then he said, “I guess Jim Brown Is glad he stayed in Beaverstown And didn’t have to come down here.” And I said, “Do your eyes feel queer? I got a speck in mine, I guess, They water so.” And he said, “Yes.”

And then he looked and tried to smile, And we kept still for quite a while, And heard it rain; and then he said, “I s’pose our folks are gone to bed And sound asleep by now, I guess.” And then I swallowed and said, “Yes.” So then we both got into bed And heard it rain; and then he said, “My! Ain’t she just a-pouring down! I wish I was in Beaverstown.”

KITCHEN MIRACLES

In Aunt Amelia’s kitchen there are many wonders done, Such miracles are wrought as never seen beneath the sun: A pumpkin from the garden--just a yellow sphere that lies Beneath her skilful handling ripens quickly into pies; The corn grows into fritters, you must marvel at the change; The apples change to dumplings in the glowing kitchen range She waves her hands above it, and the milk is cottage cheese. You merely watch her, and you see such miracles as these.

She finds it easy, quite, to make blueberries into rolls; And eggs are changed to omelets above the glowing coals; And sometimes when she’s fixing the materials for pies She turns cider into mince-meat right before your very eyes! Sometimes she makes a currant roll--you would not think she could-- Or makes a peach turn over, or does something just as good; But she says quite the hardest task that ever she has found Is, when she has her boys at tea, to make these things go ’round!

JIM BRADY’S BIG BROTHER

Jim Brady’s big brother’s a wonderful lad, And wonderful, wonderful muscles he had; He swung by one arm from the limb of a tree And hung there while Jim counted up forty-three Just as slow as he could; and he leaped at a bound Across a wide creek and lit square on the ground Just as light as a deer; and the things he can do, So Jimmy told us, you would hardly think true.

Jim Brady’s big brother could throw a fly ball From center to home just like nothing at all; And often while playing a game he would stand And take a high fly with just only one hand; Jim Brady showed us where he knocked a home run And won the big game when it stood three to one Against the home team, and Jim Brady, he showed The place where it lit in the old wagon road!

Jim Brady’s big brother could bat up a fly That you hardly could see, for it went up so high; He’d bring up his muscle and break any string That you tied on his arm like it wasn’t a thing! He used to turn handsprings, and cart-wheels, and he Could jump through his hands just as slick as could be, And circuses often would want him to go And be in the ring, but his mother said no.

Jim Brady’s big brother would often make bets With boys that he’d turn two complete summersets From off of the spring-board before he would dive, And you’d hardly think he would come up alive; And nobody ever who went there to swim Could do it, but it was just easy for him; And they’d all be scared, so Jim said, when he’d stay In under and come up a half mile away.

Jim Brady’s big brother, so Jim said, could run Five miles in a race just as easy as one. Right often he walked on his hands half a block And could have walked more if he’d wanted to walk! And Jimmy says wait till he comes home from school, Where he is gone now, and some day, when it’s cool, He’ll get him to prove everything to be true That Jimmy told us his big brother could do!

THE SCAPEGOAT

If anybody comes in late To dinner and don’t shut the gate, Or doesn’t sweep the porch, or go Right out and shovel off the snow, Or bring in wood or wipe his feet, Or leave the woodshed nice and neat-- It’s me!

If anybody doesn’t think To carry out the cow a drink, Or tracks mud on the kitchen floor, Or doesn’t shut the cellar door, Or leaves the broom out on the stoop, Or doesn’t close the chicken coop-- It’s me!

If anybody doesn’t bring The hammer in, or breaks a thing, Or dulls the axe, or doesn’t know What has become of so-and-so That’s lost for maybe six weeks past, If anybody had it last-- It’s me!

If anything is lost or gone, They’ve got some one to blame it on; I get the blame for all the rest Because I am the little-est; And if they have to blame some one For what is or what isn’t done-- It’s me!

A TRAGEDY OF CENTER FIELD

He muffed the fly that lost the game; he never did before; The boys don’t think he’ll ever be light-hearted any more. Our captain didn’t say a word; he just picked up his bat And started home with downcast head--what words could equal that? Nobody spoke on our whole side, or didn’t even ask How Stubby came to muff the fly. Bud Hicks picked up his mask And sighed an awful sorry sigh. Stub Weeks is not the same-- Our boys don’t think he ever will, because he lost the game.

Nobody asked him to explain. They couldn’t understand How Stubby dropped it when he had the ball right in his hand. It sailed from Pudgy Williams’ bat and soared just like a bird To center field where Stubby was. Nobody hardly stirred Because it was so critical, but Bud Hicks gave a shout, He knew a fly in center field was just as good as out When Stubby Weeks was under it. And then he gave a cry Of agony too great for words when Stubby muffed the fly.

Our boys all slowly walked away, and even Red Blake’s team Were too surprised to cheer because it seemed just like a dream. And over there in center field Stub Weeks was dreaming, too, As though he was Napoleon and this was Waterloo. The blow was such an awful one he acted sort of stunned, And then he walked in from the field expecting to be shunned Forevermore by all his friends. His throat was hoarse and dry; We knew his heart was broken then because he muffed the fly.

He saw us all pick up our things and walk away, and then The awful stain upon his name came back to him again. He thought of how it should have been--the loud hurrahs and cheers, And leaned against the back-stop fence and drenched it with his tears, Till all the boys felt sorry then, and told him not to mind Because the sun was in his eyes and must have made him blind. But weeks and weeks have passed since then--his heart is awful sore, Our boys don’t think he’ll ever be light-hearted any more!

IN SWIMMING

’Ist boys--th’ kind you used t’ know, What-d’-y’-call-him, So-and-so An’ What’s-His-Name--an’ every one ’Ist full o’ health an’ out for fun. No meanness in a one of us, ’Ist brown an’ strong an’ mischievous, ’Cuz that’s th’ way ’at boys all grow-- ’Ist boys--th’ kind you used t’ know.

’Ist boys--th’ kind you used t’ be. What! Never climbed an apple tree An’ shook ’em down? Why, Mister, you-- You never was a boy, real true. I’ll bet ’at you was mischievous As you could be. You’re foolin’ us ’Cuz you can’t help but see ’at we Are boys--’ist like you used t’ be.

Of course we ought t’ be at school, But my! The water’s nice an’ cool An’ when it calls you, w’y, you ’ist Can’t be a real boy an’ resist. An’ say! We caught a fish down there ’Most two feet long--right close t’ w’ere You’re standin’ now. Now don’t you see We’re boys--’ist like you used t’ be?

Say, you ain’t goin’ t’ tell our Ma ’At you was passin’ by an’ saw Us swimmin’ here. W’y, Mister, you Won’t never feel right if you do. Don’t be a tattle-tale! W’y, say, If you should give us boys away You couldn’t never bear to see A boy--’ist like you used t’ be.

Come on, now! You ain’t goin’ t’ tell On us. I know it, ’ist as well As anythin’. You wouldn’t hurt Her feelin’s ’ist t’ do us dirt. You won’t? Thanks, Mister. You’re a brick. We’re goin’ home, Sir, pretty quick. It’s awful fine here, ’cuz, y’ see, We’re boys--’ist like you used t’ be.

AN UNUSUAL CHUM

Henry Blake’s father goes fishing with him, And goes in the creek so’s to teach him to swim; He talks to him just like they’re awful close chums And sometimes at night he helps Henry do sums; And once he showed Henry how he used to make A basket by whittling a peach stone and take The bark off of willows for whistles although He hadn’t made one since a long time ago.

Henry Blake’s father is just like his chum, And when he goes fishing he lets Henry come; He fixes two seats on the bank of the brook And shows Henry how to put frogs on his hook; And sometimes he laughs in the jolliest way At some little thing that he hears Henry say, And dips up a drink in his hat like you do When only just boys go a-fishing with you.

Henry Blake’s father will take him and stay Somewhere in the woods for a half holiday And wear his old clothes and bring home a big sack Of hick’ries and walnuts to help Henry crack; And sit on a dead log somewhere in the shade To eat big sandwiches his mother has made; And Henry Blake’s father, he don’t seem as though He’s more than his uncle, he likes Henry so!

AND JUST THEN

Don’t you remember when the ship, the pirate ship, that flew The black flag with the gleaming skull, in the fierce gale that blew, Went on the rocks? I think it was upon the Spanish Main; The sails were torn to tatters and there fell a driving rain, The air was pierced with cries of fear, shocks followed upon shocks, “Come, man the lifeboats,” called the mate, “the ship is on the rocks!” And just when lightnings rent the air and all the sky was red, Your mother said, “You’ve read enough, my boy! It’s time for bed!”

Don’t you remember when the score stood six to six, until The very ending of the game and every heart stood still? The Red Sox pitcher took his place, while not a watcher stirred, A hit, a pass, an error and a runner got to third. Don’t you remember, as you read, you almost heard the crack As bat met ball and you could feel cold chills go down your back? And just as you had but a page to find which players led, Your mother said, “You’ve read enough, my boy! It’s time for bed!”

Don’t you remember when Wild Bill and Deadshot Dick, the scout, Were prisoned in the rocky cave with redskins all about, With all their ammunition gone, nor food to eat, as they Had been a thousand times before, but always got away? The war-whoops rang out fierce and shrill. Said Dick, “I have a plan; We will escape or sell our lives as dearly as we can.” And just as you turned o’er the page to see what plans they’d lay, The clock struck nine--your mother came and took the book away.

Oh, Captain Kidd, it seemed to me when you went on the rock You always timed the hour of it to be at nine o’clock! And Dick, the scout, the redskins came and fell on you with rage Just when my boyhood bed time came and I turned down the page! And Spike, the wizard of the slab, who mowed the batsmen down Like blades of grass, the hero of the little country town, You seemed to time the crisis of your fiercest game, someway, At nine o’clock, when Mother came and took the book away!

AFTERWARD