Part 9

I am sitting here and dreaming with the mellow lamplight streaming Through the vine-embowered window in a yellow filigree; On the fragrant air come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing, ’Tis the slumber song of childhood that is murmuring to me; And some subtle fancy creeping lulls my senses half to sleeping As the misty shapes of bugaboos go dreamily along, All my sorrows disappearing, as a tired lad I’m hearing Once again my mother’s Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.

LOVERS’ LANE

How good to remember Life’s June from September, The days that were fairer than ever again; When hearts held no sorrow to last o’er the morrow And heads were brimful of the wisdom of ten; No skies were e’er bluer, no heart was e’er truer Than mine when I waited in sunshine or rain With joy that enriched me for one who bewitched me And bade me to wait till she came down the lane.

Our trysting-place gaining, my eyes they were straining Afar down the road, and my lips hummed a tune That held all the sweetness of first love’s completeness The whiles that I waited at morning and noon; For last when we parted, beloved, fond hearted, She pledged me to wait for her, sunshine or rain, And so I kept humming, I knew she was coming, A girl queen in gingham, somewhere down the lane.

And there with a vision of futures Elysian I traced both our names with my toe in the dust, And not a temptation could alter my station As knight of the faithful heart, true to its trust.

With ecstasy thrilling, I heard a far trilling So sweeter than bird song, and heard it again, The heart of the maiden, care-free and joy-laden, Was borne on the music I heard down the lane.

Ah, who knows the story of Life and its glory, The unending bliss of the days that were then; And who knows the sweetness of first love’s completeness Who has not the wisdom of thirteen and ten? For back went a trilling to her that was spilling Its burden of gladness through all of the air, With infinite yearning her message returning To show I was true and awaited her there.

Oh, hearts that are older, what secrets I told her! What dreams of the future, of grown girl and boy! For what of the weather, when two walk together The pathway to school in the heyday of joy? When hours are but measures of innocent pleasures, When days brim with gladness, as winecups to drain, When Life learns the sweetness of first love’s completeness In waiting for Her as she comes down the lane!

DADDY KNOWS

Let us dry our tears now, laddie, Let us put aside our woes; Let us go and talk to daddy, For I’m sure that daddy knows. Let us take him what we’ve broken, Be it heart or hope or toy, And the tale may bide unspoken, For he used to be a boy.

He has been through all the sorrows Of a lad at nine or ten; He has seen the dawn of morrows When the sun shone bright again; His own heart has been near breaking, Oh, more times than I can tell, And has often known the aching That a boy’s heart knows so well.

I am sure he well remembers, In his calendar of days, When the boy-heart was December’s, Though the sun and flowers were May’s. He has lived a boy’s life, laddie, And he knows just how it goes; Let us go and talk to daddy, For I’m sure that daddy knows.

Let us tell him all about it, How the sting of it is there, And I have not any doubt it Will be easier to bear; For he’s trodden every byway, He has fathomed every joy, He has traveled every highway In the wide world of a boy.

He will put aside the worries That his day may follow through, For the great heart of him hurries At the call for help from you. He will help us mend the broken Heart of ours or hope or toy, And the tale may bide unspoken-- For he used to be a boy.

TO CHILDREN AT THE HEARTH

It is you, my dears, and the gladness You bring to the tasks to do, Who can lessen this old world’s sadness By as much as the joy of you. It is you, my dears, and your glory Of sunshine and word and song Who can make life a sweeter story Wherever you smile along.

It is you, my dears, with your beauty And freshness of mind and heart Who must offer your share of duty And play yet a nobler part. For the world, it has need of beauty And youth that is fine and new, And the call you may hear to duty Is for you, my dears--just you.

It is you, my dears, that the sages Have written their counsels to, It is you, my dears, that the ages Leave legacies to--just you. And remember that every letter That Wisdom has graven through The years, so the world be better, Is for you, my dears--just you.

It is you who must be the bravest To fight, if the cause be true; It is you who must be the gravest In word and in deed--just you. It is you who must be the strongest To stand till the battle’s through, And you who must smile the longest And never despair--just you.

It is you, my dears, and your glory Of gladness and youth and smile, Who shall help to say if the story Of life and the world’s worth while. For the years of all time have shaped us, And the lore of the Ages, too, And to say if the Truth’s escaped us Is for you, my dears--just you.

A TOAST TO THE SMALL BOY

He knows the vagrant country roads Where sleepily they wind; He has his pockets full of toads, His smile is broad and kind; His dreams of lands and seas--who knows? His joys are never still, And whistling through the world he goes, The rugged small boy--Bill!

His world is full of song and shine, His days are all his own; His nights are full of plans so fine That youngsters all have known; With all the joy that health can give His ruddy pulses thrill, And, bless me, how he loves to live, This rugged small boy--Bill!

His trousers know the ample patch, His shoes gape at the toes, But see him gladly toe the scratch For any chum he knows; The heart of him is good as gold, And songs of gladness spill From his red lips, this sunny-souled And rugged small boy--Bill!

His scratch-scarred legs are never tired, His eyes bright-souled and starred, His heart with hopeful youth is fired, His sunny soul unscarred; The world is his, the fields, the trees, The brook, the wood, the hill, To do his will, as he may please, This rugged small boy--Bill!

He knows the song of life by heart, In fancy he may weave Such dreams as make the pulses start, A King of Make-Believe; And when I speak with him I hear Truth ripple like a rill From him, and gladness and good cheer, This rugged small boy--Bill!

Oh, bide thee, bide thee, overlong, Health, happiness, and youth; Be glad thy heart and light thy song And pure and clear thy truth! Nor cloud to dim thy sunny ways, Nor aught to bring thee ill, And year on year of perfect days, My rugged small boy--Bill!

AN ADVENTUROUS DAY

One time in vacation we boys all left town To stay in the country for Sunday; and down By Deacon Gray’s pasture a rabbit came out Right close to the highway and looked all about Until it saw us and it started to run Right down the highroad like a shot from a gun; So Billy Beggs threw off his coat and his hat And chased it till both of its ears were down flat, And, my, it just ran as if it saw a ghost, And Bill ran so fast that he caught it--almost!

And under the bridge where it crosses the creek We saw some fish swimming and darting as quick As a flash in the water, and one fish would flop Himself till he almost would come to the top; So then we got down on the bridge and we tied A pin on a string and dropped it down the side With a bug on the pin, and the fishes would look While Billy Beggs wiggled the bug on the hook; And one fish was hungry and came up so close That Bill gave a jerk and he caught it--almost!

And over by Skinner’s a big hawk flew by And lit on a stump that was not very high, But didn’t see us and we crawled up quite slow Through the grass to the stump with a big stone to throw; And Billy Beggs said that the hawk was asleep For it never stirred once; and the grass was so deep That we got to within a few feet from the stump, And Billy Beggs peeked, and his heart gave a thump; And when he got ever and ever so close He stood up and threw and he hit it--almost!

And then it got cloudy and thundered and then It lightened just awful and thundered again; It rained some big drops and we started to run To get in the barn till the shower was done; And lightning just spattered and crackled and flashed And we were all scared as could be, and we splashed All through mud and water, and then a big crack Of lightning came down and Bill Beggs hollered back From ’way up ahead, just as pale as a ghost, And said that last lightning had struck him--almost!

And over by Griggs’s somebody came out And hollered to us when we’re all just about So tired we could drop, and they took us right in By the big kitchen fire ’cause we’re wet to the skin; And Mrs. Griggs gave us some blankets to wear While all of our clothes were hung over a chair; And she made some tea till she got us warmed through And then the storm stopped and the sky got all blue; And Billy Beggs told her the flash came so close That he ’membered the whole of the Lord’s Prayer--almost!

POEM OF THE FORAGERS

School’s out, and homeward with the ebbing day They come--Tom Jones, Jim Brooks and Eddie Gray; And half a million others far or near, Not much unlike the boys I know right here; With empty dinnerpails and schoolbooks slung Across their shoulders by a strap. The tongue Of boyhood at the kitchen door gives cry: “Ma, can’t I have a doughnut, or some pie?” For, say, the appetite of boys is prime And cannot be content till suppertime.

’Tis four o’clock, and I can hear them go-- A million youngsters--homeward, fast and slow; The drowsy schoolroom clock has dragged its hands Across its face until Time’s signal stands At long-awaited four--that blessed hour When schoolbooks close and teachers lose the power That despot rulers have--and flags unfurled Lead schoolboy armies to a waiting world! And up the back steps bound returning feet: “Ma, can’t I go and get a bite to eat?”

School’s out--what ransacking of cooky jars! What letting down of pantry gates and bars! What dipping into barrels here and there, With heads far down and feet high up in air, For Winesaps, Baldwins, Pippins! What a charge Upon the jars of jam and loaves baked large And round and brown--what a tumultuous cry: “Ma, can’t I have a little piece of pie?” And so this schoolboy army waxes fat Upon its foraged commissariat!

Thanks are due to the Editors of The Saturday Evening Post, The Century Magazine, The New York Times, and The Youth’s Companion, in which papers the greater number of these verses originally appeared, for permission to reprint.