Part 8

If he goes shinning up a tree: “Don’t do that, dear!” If he should be Astride a roof I know I’ll hear Her call to him: “Don’t do that, dear!” His life is all “Don’t this,” “Don’t that,” “Don’t loose the dog,” “Don’t chase the cat,” “Don’t go,” “Don’t stay,” “Don’t there,” “Don’t here,” “Don’t do that, dear!” “Don’t do that, dear!”

Sometimes he seems to me as still As any mouse until a shrill “Don’t do that, dear!” falls on the air And drives him swift away from there. So when he finds another spot: “Don’t do that, dear!” and he says: “What?” And she replies and cannot say say-- But--“Well, don’t do it, anyway!”

EXTINGUISHED

The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled”-- When Tommy Gibbs stood up to speak he had it in his head, But when he saw the schoolroom full of visitors, he knew, From his weak knees and parching tongue, the words had all fled, too.

“The boy stood on the burning deck”--a second time he tried, But he forgot about the boy, or if he lived or died; He only knew the burning deck was something nice and cool Beside the rostrum where he stood that awful day in school.

“The boy stood on the burning deck”--he felt the flames and smoke. His tongue was thick, his mouth was dry, he felt that he would choke. And from the far back seats he heard a whisper run about: “Come back here, Tom, and take your seat. They’ve put the fire out!”

THE UNCHEERED HERO

Tim Brooks he studies awful hard And faithful all the year, But goes out in the school house yard And never gets a cheer; And Billy Gibbs, he shirks and frets-- He hates to work at all-- But you should hear the cheer he gets Because he hits the ball.

Tim Brooks he always leads his class And gets his lessons done; But Billy Gibbs lets hours pass Just thinking up some fun; But no one cheers and throws his hat And says: “Hurrah for Tim!” But when Bill Gibbs goes up to bat The boys all cheer for him.

Bill Gibbs he suffers awful pain When he comes to recite; He cannot do his sums again Or get his grammar right; Then teacher calls on Timmy Brooks And points to him with pride, But when we play a game she looks And cheers for Bill outside.

Sometimes Tim Brooks he sees the game And watches Bill at bat, He gets excited just the same And cheers and throws his hat; But when he has his sums in school And Bill is watching him, Bill quite forgets the Golden Rule And never cheers for Tim.

I guess I’d rather be like Tim Than Billy Gibbs, but when The boys outside are cheering him It sounds quite pleasant then; And it must sometimes seem quite hard To study all the year, And go out in the school house yard But never get a cheer!

OLD HALLOWE’EN FRIENDS

Oho! Mr. Ghost, with your raiment of white, Come to frighten me out of my wits in the night! With your eyes flaming forth like two coals and your breath Bearing fire that would scare a poor mortal to death; With your rows of great teeth grinning widely at me And your loose-hanging gown flapping under the tree In the orchard out there--Oh! I know how you’re made, And the youngsters who made you, so I’m not afraid.

Oho! Mr. Ghost, I am waiting for you; You’re an old friend of mine, both trustworthy and true; For that big head of yours that near gave me a fright Was in somebody’s pumpkin patch only last night. And out of my window not two hours ago I saw your head scooped out by Bill, Jack, and Joe; And I saw you stuck up on the end of a lath Before you were stationed right here in my path.

Oho! Mr. Ghost, with your garments so fine! I know what became of that sheet on the line In the neighbor’s back yard, newly washed and alone, It is hiding that lath that you use for backbone. And the candle that burned in the kitchen last night Lights those cavernous eyes that near gave me a fright; Indeed, you are made from such odds and such ends That I feel we’re the warmest of very old friends.

And those sepulchral groans you are making at me, I know whence they come--from that big apple tree That is right behind you--I have heard them before; They were begging for cake at the side kitchen door. So you see, Mr. Ghost, with your pumpkin and lath, With your candle and sheet, when I came up the path I heard a boy chuckle up there in the tree, And that is the reason you can’t frighten me!

A REFUGE IN DISTRESS

A fellow’s father he looks wise Of office work and such, But when it comes to things like what A boy wants, he ain’t much. For when it comes to cuts or warts Or stone bruise on your toes, A fellow’s father don’t know, but A fellow’s mother knows.

A fellow’s father he looks wise And says: “A-hem! A-hem!” But when it comes to cakes and pies, What does he know of them? He knows the price of wheat and rye And corn and oats, it’s true, But if you get the leg ache, why, He don’t know what to do.

And if you burned your back the time That you went in to swim, And want some stuff to heal it, why, You never go to him, Because he doesn’t know a thing About such things as those, But you just bet, and don’t forget, A fellow’s mother knows.

And if your nose is sunburned, till It’s all peeled off, and you Go to him for some healin’ stuff, He don’t know what to do. He’s just as helpless as can be, But when a fellow goes And asks his mother, why, you see, A fellow’s mother knows.

A fellow’s father knows a lot, But it ain’t any use, So if a fellow’s really got The leg ache or a bruise, Or if there’s anything he wants He gets right up and goes And asks his mother, for, you see, A fellow’s mother knows.

THE LOST HEART

Back among the trees and trellises, along the leaf-strewn lane, Sitting on the bank of the mill stream and dreaming dreams again, Drinking water sweet as nectar from the bucket at the well, In the orchard’s leaf and silence, watching windfalls as they fell, Trying here, at five and thirty, just to be a boy again, To recall the joys of boyhood and forget the cares of men; But I listen to a lesson in the twitter of the wren: When the boy’s heart turns to man’s it never throbs the same again.

Once the sun marks noon of lifetime, once the morning steals away, Once the shadows growing shorter and then fall the other way, Once the play time ends at manhood, once the frolicking is done, Once the face is turned from dawning to the setting of the sun, You may sit among the flowers that you plucked and threw away, Turn the leaves of Time all backward, try to read them as you may, You may kindle fires of Memory, you may sit and watch the flame, But there’s something changed within you that can never be the same.

You may lay aside the burden of your troubles as you will, But the bent and sunken shoulders tell the story to you still; The story of the troubles and the trials that are sealed From the simple hearts of children, and to men alone revealed. The sorrow dulls, the sigh is stilled, the sore hearts soothed are, The smarting wound is healed again, but always leaves a scar, The fire of youth burns only once, and dies in its dead flame, The simple heart of boyhood that can never be the same.

So I sit among the trellises and trees and wonder why: Clear the air as in my boyhood and as blue the unflecked sky, Full the leaves as ever blowing, sweet the bird songs and as free, But the boy’s heart that throbbed to them is untuned and dead in me. There’s a longing, longing, longing, speaking in a deep-drawn sigh, For the heart that throbbed in boyhood, cloudless as the azure sky; For the heart that was the sunlight and the air--that tongue nor pen Can ever paint or picture--that I cannot know again.

VERSES OF A LITTLE CHILD

Never care as she lies asleep, Dear little lassie with red-brown hair; Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep, Keep for the little one slumbering there. Never a dream as she lies so still, Never a dream but of Fairyland, Fairyland and the flowers that fill Her bed, and the lilies within her hand.

Never a tear as she lies at rest, Now or ever or evermore; Never a sorrow to bruise her breast, Ever the gladness of fairylore. Never the rough way to bruise her feet, Never or ever a discord sound, Only the murmur of music sweet, And the laughing of Cherubim, all around.

Never a sigh from the silent lips, For the dollies all carefully laid away; Only the music of laughter slips Out of the realm of the sunlit day. Never or ever a thought or care, For the little hat with its flowered wreath, Bearing a vision of red-brown hair Flying in tangled curls beneath.

Dead? Ah, no! She is just asleep, Asleep where the dreams and daisies are; Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep, Keep in the light of a twinkling star. Asleep, and the odors of flowers fill Her bed, and the lilies within her hand; Asleep, and the whispering angels still Her sighs with the dreams of Fairyland.

GOLDEN DAYS IN SLOWVILLE

These are golden days in Slowville; there is gladness up and down; For they’re sticking circus posters ’round the little country town. Flaming sheets of red and yellow on its every barn and fence Tell of wonders aggregated disregardful of expense. Tell of wildernesses threaded for the fierce Bigrigmajig; Tell of jungle-beasts made captive and of marvels small and big, “In a most stupendous spectacle of splendor and renown,” Say the flaming circus posters in the little country town.

They have wielded monster brushes from the dewy hours of morn, They have covered half of Jones’s barn with grandeur heaven-born; They have pictured fluffy ladies on the backs of dashing steeds, They have ornamented Slowville with a wealth of daring deeds; They have left a Ripperumptus on the back of Robbin’s fence, Captured in the wilds of Africa at marvelous expense; They’ve a retinue of big-eyed lads as they move up and down When they put up circus posters in the little country town.

Oh! the multicolored marvels done in wonder-rousing haste With a broad red barn for background and no means but brush and paste. “Hi, there, Jimmy! See the monkeys!” All the air is shrill with cries As the likenesses of wild beasts are upreared in gorgeous dyes; There’s the fierce Ornithorinktus and the dreadful Whatisnot, The blood-sweating Crinklawoozum and the awful Bingleswat. Tent and sideshow, flag and streamer, elephant, parade, and clown-- Oh! they’re sticking circus posters ’round the little country town.

These are sleepless nights in Slowville; sleepless nights and anxious days; There’s a hoarding of stray pennies got in half a hundred ways; There are lads in wonder raptured; open-mouthed, with bulging eyes, Where the marvelous menageries from gorgeous posters rise; Oh! there’s glory, glory, glory in the chariots arrayed, There’s rapture in the promise of the splendorous parade; And new life has come to Slowville and is surging up and down Since they put up circus posters in the little country town.

THE HEART OF A CHILD

Give me thy happy heart, Oh little child! Where love springs like the sweetest flower, wild, From all its virgin soil, and radiantly Reflects its fresh, unsullied purity.

Give me thy heart, that knows not heat or hate, Nor passion thrills, nor grief makes desolate, When love, lone, reigned, and Life but smiled and smiled, Give me thy spotless heart, Oh little child!

Give me thine artless tongue that to deceive Knows not; but lisps to laugh and wakes to weave In whispered words diviner melody Of love than speaks in grandest symphony.

Give me thine eyes that see but happiness, Nor aught of else in all the hours that bless Thy childhood time, nor any graver ray Than the glad sunshine of an endless day.

Would we could cleanse our hearts and make them young, As when were sweeter chimes of childhood rung From them, and when were flowers springing wild From the untrampled soil, Oh little child!

THE STRENUOUS LIFE

That is your father, dear Just going out the door; Oh, he’s been living here For seven years or more! In business he’s so deep He has no time to fret With little girls, but keep Up hope--we’ll meet him yet!

That is your mother, dear, Just getting in the car, She knows that you are here And also who you are! But what with clubs to meet And bridge to play, you see, With hours so short and fleet She’s turned you o’er to me.

But there, my dear, don’t fret, Or let those blue eyes blur, Some time I know you’ll get Acquainted, too, with her. Why, sometimes, in the night When angels vigil keep, She asks if you’re all right And when you went to sleep!

I think you’d like them both, I think they’d both like you, But what with “higher growth” And many things to do They’re simply rushed to death, But there, my dear, don’t cry, If they should stop for breath We’ll meet them bye and bye.

A SONG OF MOTHERHOOD

Sew, sew, sew! For there’s many a rent to mend; There’s a stitch to take and a dress to make, For where do her labors end? Sew, sew, sew! For a rent in a dress she spies, Then it’s needle and thread and an aching head And see how the needle flies!

Brush, brush, brush! For there’s many a boy to clean, And start to school with a slate and rule, With a breakfast to get between. Comb, comb, comb! In the minute she has to spare, For what is so wild--unreconciled As the wastes of a youngster’s hair?

Sweep, sweep, sweep! Oh, follow the flashing broom, And with towel bound her forehead round She goes from room to room. Dust, dust, dust! As down on her knees she kneels, For there’s much to do in the hour or two Of interval ’twixt meals.

Bake, bake, bake! For the cookie jar piled high But yesterday in some curious way Is empty again, Oh my! Stir, stir, stir, in the froth of yellow and white, For well she knows how the story goes Of a small boy’s appetite.

Scrub, scrub, scrub! For the floor that was spick and span, Alas, alack! has a muddy track Where some thoughtless youngster ran. Splash, splash, splash! For the dishes of thrice a day Are piled up high to wash and dry And put on the shelves away.

Patch, patch, patch! And oh for a pantaloon That would not tear or rip or wear In the course of an afternoon! Patch, patch, patch! And see how the needle flies, For a mother knows how the fabric goes Where the seat of trouble lies.

Toil, toil, toil! For when do her labors end, With a dress to make and a cake to bake And dresses and hose to mend? Stew, stew, stew! Fret and worry and fuss, And who of us knows of the frets and woes In the days when she mothered us?

YOUTH

Don’t you recall when apples grew, Oh, twice as big as now? When fish, however they were few, Were monster ones somehow? When Gaines’s mill-dam made a roar As though the water hurled Were gathered in a mighty store From all the wide, wide world?

Don’t you remember when the trees, The oak trees and the beech, Were lost in clouds on days like these And eyes could hardly reach Their waving tops? When noonday skies Were oh, such deeper blue? When Jack’s great bean stalk in our eyes Just grew and grew and grew?

And there were bells, so more than fine, Of blue and white and red, Upon the morning glory vine That climbed up on the shed, To be a wonder and delight, So fresh and full of dew, To bud and open in a night night-- I see them now--don’t you?

Don’t you remember when the caves Were thick and full of gloom, Where captive maidens, once, like slaves, Were chained in some damp room? When twilight rustling in the brush Was some fierce beast? A cow It was, but cows at dusk are--Hush! I think I hear one now.

Come, take a little trip with me, Forget the things that fret, For you may close your eyes and see Some things that I forget. Why, I’ve seen Bluebeard’s hidden room And Cinderella’s shoe! And I have seen where violets bloom bloom-- So blue! So blue! So blue!

AFTER THE YEARS

When you went back to the old home place had the mountain become a hill? Had the raging river your boyhood knew shrunk down to a peaceful rill? Were the monster trees in the old front yard but half of their former size? Was something gone--and you don’t know what what--from the blue of the arching skies? Was the swimming-hole but a muddy pool when once it was crystal clear? Were the apples but half as big and red as they were in that other year?

When you went back to the old home place did the red barn seem so small It didn’t look like the one you’d known? Was the mighty waterfall That used to roar in your boyish ears but a little dash of spray That fell so light you could hardly hear a dozen feet away? Were the corn rows only half as long as they were in the long ago, When you measured them with aching arms and the weight of a heavy hoe?

When you went back to the old home place had the mill pond dwindled down? Was Main Street only a muddy track in the heart of a sleepy town? And the well that was fathoms, fathoms deep, with its wheel and creaking chain, Did it seem to you like a shrunken thing when you looked at it again? Was something gone of the bygone days, from the sod and the arch of sky That we used to see when we played as boys in the old days--you and I?

Nay, Heart, the mountain rises high as it did of yore; the rill Was a river once and the boys near by see a raging river still. The well is fathoms, fathoms deep and the apples ripe and red; The sod is cool and green and soft, and the sky up overhead Is blue and clear, and the days are rare and glad as they used to be-- But where is the Heart of the olden time--hast thou brought it back with thee?

A VERSE TO MEMORY

Now Memory, like a little child, Takes me by one soft hand, By dreams of keen delight beguiled We stray through Flowerland; And like the child, sweet Memory By many a by-way strays, Plucks flowers and bears them back to me To fashion my bouquets.

By many sweet, secluded ways She wanders, far or near; A rose upon my garland lays Bejeweled with a tear; The rose of some far-flown ideal, A fragrance, ah, how rare! My fingers close but to reveal The ashes crumbling there.

Now tinkling laughter ripples clear As some new flower she spies, Some far-forgotten joys appear As fairy faces rise. My thoughts in revel, flower-wreathed, Heart-full, my garlands lie, While on the scented air is breathed A greeting and good-bye.

Come, Child, away! The frolic ends, The flower in ashes, dead; The perfume with the air that blends We’ll bear away instead. Here at the hedge we kiss and part, Some sterner duties find. Bear all the sweetness in the heart But leave the flowers behind.

Thank God, thank God for Memory, Half smile and half a tear; The flowers are there eternally, And when the days are drear, In through the tangled hedge of days We wander, hand in hand, And I may dream, while Memory strays, A child is Flowerland.

LEST I FORGET

When from my earliest abode in boyhood’s merry days I strode, Oh, well do I remember how my mother came--I see her now-- And, standing in the old front door, repeated to me o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and William, wear your other hat. Please, William, don’t forget my note, and William, wear your overcoat. And William, hurry on your way, or you’ll be late to school today.” And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear Came floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.

When from my lessons, shirked or done, came homeward I at waning sun, Oh, well do I remember how my mother came--I see her now-- And greeted me at that front door with admonitions o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and wipe your feet upon the mat, And do not slam the door and wake the baby, William, and please take This package down to Howe and Hatch and tell them that it doesn’t match, And don’t forget to hurry back, because the kitchen fire is slack”; And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear Come floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.

I’m married now--at man’s estate, and yet, quite mournful to relate, My wife it is who, as before, comes with me to the new front door, And standing there, bombards me for a block or two, and o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t you wet your feet, and William, don’t forget the meat, And William, don’t forget to mail my letter promptly, and don’t fail To pay the ice bill, order wood; and William, would you be so good As to stop in at Jones’s store and get a bit of ribbon for The baby’s hair?”--and so ’tis yet--lest I forget--lest I forget!

ECHO OF A SONG

To my fancy, idly roaming, comes a picture of the gloaming, Comes a fragrance from the blossoms of the lilac and the rose; With the yellow lamplight streaming I am sitting here and dreaming Of a half-forgotten twilight whence a mellow memory flows; To my listening ears come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing, I’ve a sense of sweet contentment as the sounds are borne along; ’Tis a mother who is tuning her fond heart to love and crooning To her laddie such a Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.

Ah, how well do I remember when by crackling spark and ember The old-fashioned oaken rocker moved with rhythmic sweep and slow; With her feet upon the fender, in a cadence low and tender, Floated forth that slumber anthem of a childhood long ago. There were goblins in the gloaming and the half-closed eyes went roaming Through the twilight for the ghostly shapes of bugaboos along; Now the sandman’s slyly creeping and a tired lad half sleeping When she sings to him that Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.