Chapter 5

Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming Through the window, sets its gleaming, With a softened silver sparkle in the dim and dusky hall, With its tassel torn and tattered, And its blade, deep-bruised and battered, Like a veteran, scarred and weary, hangs the old sword on the wall.

None can tell its stirring story, None can sing its deeds of glory, None can say which cause it struck for, or from what limp hand it fell; On the battle-field they found it, Where the dead lay thick around it-- Friend and foe--a gory tangle--tossed and torn by shot and shell.

Who, I wonder, was its wearer, Was its stricken soldier bearer? Was he some proud Southern stripling, tall and straight and brave and true? Dusky locks and lashes had he? Or was he some Northern laddie, Fresh and fair, with cheeks of roses, and with eyes and coat of blue?

From New England's fields of daisies, Or from Dixie's bowered mazes, Rode he proudly forth to conflict? What, I wonder, was his name? Did some sister, wife, or mother, Mourn a husband, son, or brother? Did some sweetheart look with longing for a love who never came?

Fruitless question! Fate forever Keeps its secret, answering never. But the grim old blade shall blossom on this mild Memorial Day; I will wreathe its hilt with roses For the soldier who reposes Somewhere 'neath the Southern grasses in his garb of blue or gray.

May the flowers be fair above him, May the bright buds bend and love him, May his sleep be deep and dreamless till the last great bugle-call; And may North and South be nearer To each other's heart, and dearer, For the memory of their heroes and the old swords on the wall.

* * * * *

NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE

Pavements a-frying in street and in square, Never a breeze in the blistering air, Never a place where a fellow can run Out of the shine of the sizzling sun: "General Humidity" having his way, Killing us off by the hundred a day; Mercury climbing the tube like a shot,-- Suffering Caesar! I tell you it's hot!

Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck, Necktie and bosom and wristbands a wreck, Handkerchief dripping and worn to a shred Mopping and scouring my face and my head; Simply ablaze from my head to my feet, Back all afire with the prickles of heat,-- Not on my cuticle one easy spot,-- Jiminy Moses! I tell you it's _hot_!

Give me a fan and a seat in the shade, Bring me a bucket of iced lemonade; Dress me in naught but the thinnest of clothes, Start up the windmill and turn on the hose: Set me afloat from my toes to my chin, Open the ice-box and fasten me in,-- If it should freeze me, why, that matters not,-- Brimstone and blazes! I tell you it's HOT!

* * * * *

SUMMER NIGHTS AT GRANDPA'S

Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't they soft and still! Just the curtains rustlin' on the window-sill, And the wind a-blowin', warm and wet and sweet-- Smellin' like the meadows or the fields of wheat; Just the bullfrogs pipin' in amongst the grass, Where the water's shinin' like a lookin'-glass; Just a dog a-barkin' somewheres up along, So far off his yelpin' 's like a kind of song.

Summer nights at Grandpa's--hear the crickets sing, And the water bubblin' down beside the spring; Hear the cattle chewin' fodder in the shed, And an owl a-hootin' high up overhead; Hear the "way-off noises," faint and awful far-- So mixed-up a feller do'n't know what they are-- But so sort er lazy that they seem ter keep Sayin' over 'n' over, "Sonny, go ter sleep."

Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't it fun ter lay In the early mornin' when it's gettin' day-- When the sun is risin' and it's fresh and cool, And you 're feelin' happy coz there ain't no school?-- When you hear the crowin' as the rooster wakes, And you think of breakfast and the buckwheat cakes; Sleepin' in the city's too much fuss and noise; Summer nights at Grandpa's are the things for boys.

* * * * *

GRANDFATHER'S "SUMMER SWEETS"

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe. Out on the gnarled old tree, Out where the robin redbreasts pipe, And buzzes the bumblebee; Swinging high on the bending bough, Scenting the lazy breeze, What is the gods' ambrosia now To apples of gold like these?

Ruddy the blush of their maiden cheeks After the sunbeam's kiss-- Every quivering leaflet speaks, Telling a tale of bliss; Telling of dainties hung about, Each in a verdant wreath, Shimmering satin all without, Honey and cream beneath.

Would ye haste to the banquet rare, Taste of the feast sublime? Brush from the brow the lines of care, Scoff at the touch of Time? Come in the glow of the olden days, Come with a youthful face, Come through the old familiar ways, Up from the dear, old place.

Barefoot, trip through the meadow lane, Laughing at bruise and scratch; Come, with your hands all rich with stain Fresh from the blackberry patch; Come where the orchard spreads its store And the breath of the clover greets; Quick! they are waiting you here once more,-- Grandfather's "summer sweets."

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe, Out on the gnarled, old tree-- Out where the robin redbreasts pipe, And buzzes the bumblebee; Swinging high on the bending bough, Scenting the lazy breeze, What is the gods' ambrosia now To apples of gold like these?

* * * * *

MIDSUMMER

Sun like a furnace hung up overhead, Burnin' and blazin' and blisterin' red; Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep, One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep; Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin' still, Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,--Labor and laziness callin' to me: "Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?"

There's the old cornfield out there in the sun, Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done; There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout, Seemin' ter stump me ter come clean 'em out; But, there's the river, so clear and so cool, There's the white lilies afloat on the pool, Scentin' the shade 'neath the old maple tree-- "Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?"

Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat, Down by the river a robin sings sweet, Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say: "Who's the chump talkin' of _workin_' to-day?" Robin's song tells how the pickerel wait Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait; I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know: But, "Where's the fishin'-pole? Hang the old hoe!"

* * * * *

"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S"

Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they're with us once agin, With the grasses wet and shinin', and the air so clear and thin, When the cheery face of Natur' seems ter want ter let yer know That she's done with lazy summer and is brimmin' full of "go"; When yer hear the cattle callin' and the hens a-singin' out, And the pigeons happy cooin' as they flutter 'round about, And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels, Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.

There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe; There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine, And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin' on the vine; And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves, Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves; And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place, And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.

Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass, Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass, Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat, Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that; And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane, Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,-- For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew When _he_ went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too.

Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul, And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time; And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here; That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn, But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.

* * * * *

NOVEMBER'S COME

Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller! Struttin' round so big and proud. Pretty quick I guess your beller Won't be goin' quite so loud. Say, I'd run and hide, I bet you, And I'd leave off eatin' some, Else the choppin'-block'll get you,-- Don't you know November's come?

Don't you know that Grandma's makin' Loads of mince and pun'kin pies? Don't you smell those goodies cookin'? Can't you see 'em? Where's your eyes? Tell that rooster there that's crowin', Cute folks now are keepin' mum; _They_ don't show how fat they 're growin' When they know November's come.

'Member when you tried ter lick me? Yes, you did, and hurt me, too! Thought't was big ter chase and pick me,-- Well, I'll soon be pickin' you. Oh, I know you 're big and hearty, So you needn't strut and drum,-- Better make your will out, smarty, 'Cause, you know, November's come.

"Gobble! gobble!" oh, no matter! Pretty quick you'll change your tune; You'll be dead and in a platter, And _I'll_ gobble pretty soon. 'F I was you I'd stop my puffin', And I'd look most awful glum;-- Hope they give you lots of stuffin'! _Ain't_ you glad November's come?

* * * * *

THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME

A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white, The buildings blots of blackness, the windows gems of light, A moon, now clear, now hidden, as in its headlong race The north wind drags the cloud-wrack in tatters o'er its face; Mailed twigs that click and clatter upon the tossing tree, And, like a giant's chanting, the deep voice of the sea, As 'mid the stranded ice-cakes the bursting breakers foam,-- The old familiar picture--a winter night at home.

The old familiar picture--the firelight rich and red, The lamplight soft and mellow, the shadowed beams o'erhead; And father with his paper, and mother, calm and sweet, Mending the red yarn stockings stubbed through by careless feet. The little attic bedroom, the window 'neath the eaves, Decked by the Frost King's brushes with silvered sprays and leaves; The rattling sash which gossips with idle gusts that roam About the ice-fringed gables--the winter nights at home.

What would I give to climb them--those narrow stairs so steep,-- And reach that little chamber, and sleep a boy's sweet sleep! What would I give to view it--that old house by the sea-- Filled with the dear lost faces which made it home for me! The sobbing wind sings softly the song of long ago, And in that country churchyard the graves are draped in snow; But there, beyond the arches of Heaven's star-jeweled dome, Perhaps they know I'm dreaming of winter nights at home.

* * * * *

"THE LITTLE FELLER'S STOCKIN'"

O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill, And the frosty Christmas holly shines and sparkles on the hill, And the Christmas sleigh-bells jingle and the Christmas laughter rings, As the last stray shoppers hurry, takin' home the Christmas things; And up yonder in the attic there's a little trundle bed Where there's Christmas dreams a-dancin' through a sleepy, curly head; And it's "Merry Christmas," Mary, once agin fer me and you, With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

'Tisn't silk, that little stockin', and it isn't much fer show, And the darns are pretty plenty 'round about the heel and toe, And the color's kind er faded, and it's sort er worn and old, But it really is surprisin' what a lot of love 'twill hold; And the little hand that hung it by the chimney there along Has a grip upon our heartstrings that is mighty firm and strong; So old Santy won't fergit it, though it isn't fine and new,-- That plain little worsted stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

And the crops may fail and leave us with our plans all knocked ter smash, And the mortgage may hang heavy, and the bills use up the cash, But whenever comes the season, jest so long's we've got a dime, There'll be somethin' in that stockin'--won't there, Mary?--every time. And if in amongst our sunshine there's a shower or two of rain, Why, we'll face it bravely smilin', and we'll try not ter complain, Long as Christmas comes and finds us here together, me and you, With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

* * * * *

THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER

You know the story--it's centuries old-- How the Ant and the Grasshopper met, we're told, On a blustering day, when the wind was cold And the trees were bare and brown; And the Grasshopper, being a careless blade, Who all the summer had danced and played, Now came to the rich old Ant for aid, And the latter "turned him down."

It's only fancy, but I suppose That the Grasshopper wore his summer clothes, And stood there kicking his frozen toes And shaking his bones apart; And the Ant, with a sealskin coat and hat, Commanded the Grasshopper, brusque and flat, To "Dance through the winter," and things like that, Which he thought were "cute" and "smart."

But, mind you, the Ant, all summer long, Had heard the Grasshopper's merry song, And had laughed with the rest of the happy throng At the bubbling notes of glee; And he said to himself, as his cash he lent, Or started out to collect his rent, "The shif'less fool do'n't charge a cent,-- I'm getting the whole show free."

I've never been told how the pair came out-- The Grasshopper starved to death, no doubt, And the Ant grew richer, and had the gout, As most of his brethren do; I know that it's better to save one's pelf, And the Ant is considered a wise old elf, But I like the Grasshopper more myself,-- Though that is between we two.

* * * * *

THE CROAKER

Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool, Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool, Where bushes over the water hung, And grasses nodded and rushes swung-- Just where the brook flowed out of the bog-- There lived a gouty and mean old Frog, Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak, And do just nothing but croak and croak.

'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know, What _is_ the trouble down there below? Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?" The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot! Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime, For me to look at the livelong time. 'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke, And voiced his woes in a mournful croak.

"But you're looking _down!_" the Blackbird said. "Look at the blossoms overhead; Look at the lovely summer skies; Look at the bees and butterflies-- Look _up_, old fellow! Why, bless your soul, You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!" But still, with his gurgling sob and choke, The Frog continued to croak and croak.

And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near, Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here: Don't shed your tears over him, for he Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be! He's one of the kind who _won't_ be glad; It makes him happy to think he's sad. _I'll_ tell you something--and it's no joke-- Don't waste your pity on those who croak!"

* * * * *

THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy, In the sunny little garden where I wandered when a boy! Oh, the morning-glories twining 'mongst the shining sunflowers tall, And the clematis a-tangle in the angle of the wall! How the mignonette's sweet blooming was perfuming all the walks, Where the hollyhocks stood proudly with their blossom-dotted stalks; While the old-maids' pinks were nodding groups of gossips, here and there, And the bluebells swung so lightly in the lazy, hazy air!

Then the sleepy poppies, stooping low their drooping, drowsy heads, And the modest young sweet-williams hiding in their shady beds! By the edges of the hedges, where the spiders' webs were spun, How the marigolds lay, yellow as the mellow summer sun That made all the grass a-dapple 'neath the leafy apple tree, Whence you heard the locust drumming and the humming of the bee; While the soft breeze in the trellis, where the roses used to grow, Sent the silken petals flying like a scented shower of snow!

Oh, the quaint old-fashioned garden, and the pathways cool and sweet, With the dewy branches splashing flashing jewels o'er my feet! And the dear old-fashioned blossoms, and the old home where they grew, And the mother-hands that plucked them, and the mother-love I knew! Ah, of all earth's fragrant flowers in the bowers on her breast, Sure the blooms which memory brings us are the brightest and the best; And the fairest, rarest blossoms ne'er could win my love, I know, Like the sweet old-fashioned posies mother tended long ago.

* * * * *

THE LIGHT-KEEPER

For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore; For years the surge has tossed its kelp and wrack about my door; I've heard the sea-wind sing its song in whispers 'round the place, And fought it when it flung the sand, like needles, in my face. I've seen the sun-rays turn the roof ter blist'rin', tarry coal; I've seen the ice-drift clog the bay from foamin' shoal ter shoal; I've faced the winter's snow and sleet, I've felt the summer's shower, But every night I've lit the lamp up yonder in the tower.

I've seen the sunset flood the earth with streams of rosy light, And every foot of sea-line specked with twinklin' sails of white; I've woke ter find the sky a mess of scud and smoky wreath, A blind wind-devil overhead and hell let loose beneath. And then ter watch the rollers pound on ledges, bars and rips, And pray fer them that go, O Lord, down ter the sea in ships! Ter see the lamp, when darkness comes, throw out its shinin' track, And think of that one gleamin' speck in all the world of black.

And often, through a night like that, I've waited fer the day That broke and showed a lonesome sea, a sky all cold and gray; And, may be, on the spit below, where sea-gulls whirl and screech, I've seen a somethin' stretched among the fresh weed on the beach; A draggled, frozen somethin', in the ocean's tangled scum, That meant a woman waitin' fer a man who'd never come; And all the drop of comfort in my sorrer I could git Was this: "I done my best ter save; thank God, the lamp was lit."

And there's lots of comfort, really, to a strugglin' mortal's breast In the sayin', if it's truthful, of "I done my level best"; It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right, No matter if yer rule a land or if yer tend a light. My lot is humble, but I've kept that lamp a-burnin' clear, And so, I reckon, when I die I'll know which course ter steer; The waves may roar around me and the darkness hide the view, But the lights'll mark the channel and the Lord'll tow me through.

* * * * *

THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE SHORE

It stands at the bend where the road has its end, And the blackberries nod on the vine; And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown, Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine. The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked, And the grasses grow high at the door, But hid in my heart is an altar, apart, To the little old house by the shore.

For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare, With the blossoms that clustered above, When a mother's dear face gave a charm to the place As she sang at her labor of love. And the breeze, as it strays through the window and plays With the dust and the leaves on the floor, Is a memory sweet of the pattering feet In the little old house by the shore.

And again in my ears, through the dream of the years, They whisper, the playmates of old, The brother whose eyes were a glimpse of the skies, The sister with ringlets of gold; And Father comes late to the path at the gate, As he did when the fishing was o'er, And the echoes ring out, at our welcoming shout, From the little old house by the shore.

But the night-wind has blown and the vision has flown, And the sound of the children is still, And the shadowy mist, like a spirit, has kissed The graves by the church on the hill; But softly, afar, sing the waves on the bar, A song of the sunshine of yore: A lullaby deep for the loved ones who sleep Near the little old house by the shore.

* * * * *

WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT

When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance Through the wiry sedge-grass near the shore; How the ripples spark in the sunbeam's glance, As they madly tumble the pebbles o'er! The barnacled rocks emerging seem, As their beards of seaweed are tossed about, Like giants who wake from a troubled dream And laugh for joy when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how the shining sands, Like silver, glisten, and gleam, and glow; How the sea-gulls whirl, in their joyous bands, O'er the shoals where the breakers come and go! The coal-black driftwood, gleaming wet, Relic of by-gone vessel stout, With its clinging shells, seems a bar of jet, Studded with pearls, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how the breezes blow The nodding plumes of the pine-trees through; How the far-off ships, like flakes of snow, Are lightly sprinkled upon the blue! The Sea, as he moves in his slow retreat, Like a warrior struggling for each redoubt, But with flashing lances the sand-bars meet And drive him back, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, how each limpid pool Reflects the sky and the fleecy cloud; How the rills, like children set free from school, Prattle and plash and sing aloud! The shore-birds cheerily call, the while They dart and circle in merry rout,-- The face of the ocean seems to smile And the earth to laugh, when the tide goes out.

When the tide goes out, as the years roll by, And Life sweeps on to the outer bar, And I feel the chill of the depths that lie Beyond the shoals where the breakers are, I will not rail at a kindly Fate, Or welcome Age with a peevish pout, But still, with a heart of Youth, await The final wave, when the tide goes out.

* * * * *

THE WATCHERS

When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore, And the tossing waves grow dim, and the white sails flash no more, Then, over the shrouded sea, where the winding mist-wreaths creep, The deep-voiced Watchers call, the Watchers who guard the Deep.

* * * * *

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to the word I bring! Toilers upon the sea, list to the Bell-buoy's ring! List, as I clash and clang! list, as I toss and toll! Under me yawns the grave, under me lies the shoal Where the whirling eddies wait to grapple the drowning crew, And the hungry quicksand hides the bones of the ship it slew. Swift on the outward tack! quick, to the seaward bear! Toilers upon the sea, here is the shoal! Beware!"