Chapter 6

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to me, one and all! Toilers upon the sea, list to the Fog-horn's call! List to my buzzing cry! list, as I growl and groan: Here is the sullen shore where the white-toothed breakers moan; Where the silky ripples run with the wolf-like wave behind, To leap on the struggling wreck and worry and gnaw and grind, To toss on the cruel crag the dead with his streaming hair! Toilers upon the sea, here are the rocks! Beware!"

"Hear! hear! hear! Hark to my stormy shriek! Toilers upon the sea, the Whistling-buoy would speak! List to my sobbing shout! list, for my word is brief: Death is beneath me here! death on the sunken reef Where the jagged ledge is hid and the slimy seaweeds grow, And the long kelp streamers wave in the dark green depths below, Where, under the shell-clad hulk, the gaunt shark makes his lair,-- Toilers upon the sea, here is the reef! Beware!"

* * * * *

And then, o'er the silent sea, an answer from unseen lips, Comes in through the great, gray fog, the word from the mist-bound ships,-- A chorus of bell and horn, faint and afar and clear,-- "Thanks, O Guard of the Deep! Watchers, we hear! we hear!"

* * * * *

"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN"

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," Ter sparkle in the sun; He do'n't parade with gay cockade, And posies in his gun; He ain't no "pretty soldier boy," So lovely, spick and span,-- He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Reg'lar Army man; The marchin', parchin', Pipe-clay starchin', Reg'lar Army man.

He ain't at home in Sunday-school, Nor yet a social tea, And on the day he gets his pay He's apt to spend it free; He ain't no temp'rance advocate, He likes ter fill the "can," He's kind er rough, and maybe, tough, The Reg'lar Army man; The r'arin', tearin', Sometimes swearin', Reg'lar Army man.

No State'll call him "noble son," He ain't no ladies' pet, But, let a row start anyhow, They'll send for him, you bet! He "do'n't cut any ice" at all In Fash'n's social plan,-- He gits the job ter face a mob, The Reg'lar Army man; The millin', drilling Made fer killin', Reg'lar Army man.

They ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off ter war, He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach" From mayor or governor; He packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, Ter start the fight and start it right, The Reg'lar Army man; The rattlin', battlin', Colt or Gatlin', Reg'lar Army man.

He makes no fuss about the job, He do'n't talk big or brave,-- He knows he's in ter fight and win, Or help fill up a grave; He ain't no "Mama's darlin'," but He does the best he can, And he's the chap that wins the scrap, The Reg'lar Army man; The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Reg'lar Army man.

* * * * *

FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY

A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell, Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from hell; A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread, With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red; Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose, The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk, Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work.

Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown, And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down; And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare, And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air; Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet, He hums a tune, and looks straight down six stories to the street; Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade, But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid.

Sometimes he climbs long ladders, through a fiery, burning rain To reach a pallid face that glares behind a crackling pane; Sometimes he feels his foothold shake with giddy swing and sway, And barely leaps to safety as the crashing roof gives way; Sometimes, penned in and stifling fast, he waits, with courage grim, And hears the willing axes ply that strive to rescue him; But sometime, somewhere, somehow, help may come a bit too late For Fireman Mike O'Rafferty of Engine Twenty-eight.

And then the morning paper may have half a column filled With, "Fire at Bullion's Warehouse," and the line, "A Fireman Killed"; And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead, And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball; But, maybe, on the other side, on God's great roll of fame, Plain Fireman Mike O'Rafferty'll be counted just the same.

* * * * *

LITTLE BARE FEET

Little bare feet, sunburned and brown, Patterin', patterin' up and down, Dancin' over the kitchen floor, Light as the foam-flakes on the shore,-- Right on the go from morn till late, From the garden path ter the old front gate,-- There hain't no music ter me so sweet As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet.

When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea, Them little bare feet trot there with me, And a shrill little voice I love'll say: "Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day." And I know when my dory comes ter land, There's a spry little form somewheres on hand; And the very fust sound my ears'll meet Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet.

Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed Yer prints of love in my worn old breast! And I sometimes think, when I come ter die, 'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by; That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear That little child's voice, so sweet and clear; That even there, on the golden street, I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet.

* * * * *

A RAINY DAY

Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,-- Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complainin', And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.

Like a stormy mornin' now, with the water dashin' From the eaves and from the spouts, foamin' and a-splashin', With the leaves and twigs around, shinin' wet and drippin', Shakin' in the wind with drops every-which-way skippin'.

Like ter see the gusts of rain, where there's naught ter hinder, Sail acrost the fields and come "spat" against the winder, Streakin' down along the panes, floodin' sills and ledges, Makin' little fountains, like, in the sash's edges.

Like ter see the brooks and ponds dimpled up all over, Like ter see the di'mon's shine on the bendin' clover, Like ter see the happy ducks in the puddles sailin' And the stuck-up rooster all draggled, wet and trailin'.

But I like it best inside, with the fire a-gleamin', And myself, with chores all done, settin' round and dreaming With the kitten on my knee, and the kettle hummin', And the rain-drops on the roof, "Home, Sweet Home" a-drummin'.

Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together, Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complaining And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.

* * * * *

THE HAND-ORGAN BALL

When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down. And hushed is the roar and the din, When Evening is cooling the sweltering town, 'Tis then that the frolics begin; And up in dim "Finnegan's Court," on the pavement, Shut in by the loom of the tenement's wall, 'Neath the swinging arc-light, on a warm summer's night, They gather to dance at the hand-organ ball.

'Tis not a society function, you see, But quite an informal affair; The costumes are varied, yet simple and free, And gems are exceedingly rare; The ladies are gowned in their calicoes, fetching, And coatless and cool are the gentlemen, all. In a jacket, they say, one's not rated _au fait_ By the finicky guests at the hand-organ ball.

There's "Ikey," the newsboy, and "Muggsy" who "shines"; There's Beppo who peddles "banan'"; There's A. Lincoln Johnson, whose "Pa" kalsomines-- His skin has a very deep tan; There's Rosy, the cash-girl, and Mame, who ties bundles, And Maggie, who works in the factory, tall; She's much in demand, for she "pivots so grand," She's really the belle of the hand-organ ball.

Professor Spaghetti the music supplies, From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime; His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies, Is merrily thumping the rollicking time; The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper, The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall, And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball.

The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street, The mothers lean out from the windows to see, While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet, And tenement babies crow loud in their glee; And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,-- Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;-- There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light, In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball.

* * * * *

"JIM"

Want to see me, hey, old chap? Want to curl up in my lap, Do yer, Jim? See him sit and purr and blink-- Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him?

Little kitten, nothin' more, When we found him at the door. In the cold, And the baby, half undressed, Picked him up, and he was jest All she'd hold.

Put him up fer me to see, And she says, so 'cute, says she, "Baby's cat." And we never had the heart Fer to keep them two apart After that.

Seem's if _I must_ hear the beat Of her toddlin' little feet 'Round about; Seem to see her tucked in bed, With the kitten's furry head Peekin' out.

Seem's if I could hear her say, In the cunnin' baby way That she had: "Say 'dood-night' to Jimmie, do, 'Coz if 'oo fordetted to He'd feel bad."

Miss her dreadful, don't we, boy? Day do'n't seem to bring no joy With the dawn; Look's if night was everywhere,-- But there's glory over there Where she's gone.

Seems as if my heart would break, But I love yer for her sake, Don't I, Jim? See him sit and purr and blink, Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him?

* * * * *

IN MOTHER'S ROOM

In Mother's room still stands the chair Beside the sunny window, where The flowers she loved now lightly stir In April's breeze, as though they were Forlorn without her loving care.

Her books, her work-box, all are there, And still the snowy curtains bear The soft, sweet scent of lavender In Mother's room.

Oh, spot so cool, and fresh, and fair, Where dwelt a soul so pure and rare, On me your fragrant peace confer, Make my life sweet with thoughts of her, As lavender makes sweet the air In Mother's room.

* * * * *

SUNSET-LAND

Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,-- If you look, as the sun sinks low, Where the cloud-hills rise in the western skies, Each one with its crest aglow, O'er the rosy sea, where the purple isles Have beaches of golden sand, To the fleecy height of the great cloud, white, You may catch a gleam of the twinkling light At the harbor of Sunset-land.

It's a wonderful place, little boy, little boy, And its city is Sugarplum Town, Where the slightest breeze through the candy trees Will tumble the bon-bons down; Where the fountains sprinkle their lemonade In syrupy, cooling streams; And they pave each street with a goody, sweet, And mark them off in a manner neat, With borders of chocolate creams.

It's a children's town, little boy, little boy, With a great big jail, you know, Where "grown-ups" stay who are heard to say, "Now don't!" or "You mustn't do so." And half of the time it is Fourth of July, And 'tis Christmas all the rest, With plenty of toys that will make a noise, For Santa is king of this realm of joys, And knows what a lad likes best.

Shall I tell you the way, little boy, little boy, To get to this country, bright? When you're snug in bed, and your prayers are said, You must shut up your eyelids tight; And wait till the sleepy old Sandman comes And gives you his kindly hand, And then you'll float in a drowsy boat, O'er the sea of rose to the cloud, remote, And the wonderful Sunset-land.

* * * * *

THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE

Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks, Your valleys forest laden, your cliffs where Echo speaks; And ye, who by the prairies your childhood's joys have seen, Sing of your waving grasses, your velvet miles of green: But when my memory wanders down to the dear old home I hear, amid my dreaming, the seething of the foam, The wet wind through the pine trees, the sobbing crash and roar, The mighty surge and thunder of the surf along the shore.

I see upon the sand-dunes the beach-grass sway and swing, I see the whirling sea-birds sweep by on graceful wing, I see the silver breakers leap high on shoal and bar, And hear the bell-buoy tolling his lonely note afar. The green salt-meadows fling me their salty, sweet perfume, I hear, through miles of dimness, the watchful fog-horn boom; Once more, beneath the blackness of night's great roof-tree high, The wild geese chant their marches athwart the arching sky.

The dear old Cape! I love it! I love its hills of sand, The sea-wind singing o'er it, the seaweed on its strand; The bright blue ocean 'round it, the clear blue sky o'erhead; The fishing boats, the dripping nets, the white sails filled and spread;-- For each heart has its picture, and each its own home song, The sights and sounds which move it when Youth's fair memories throng; And when, down dreamland pathways, a boy, I stroll once more, I hear the mighty music of the surf along the shore.

* * * * *

AT EVENTIDE

The tired breezes are tucked to rest In the cloud-beds far away; The waves are pressed to the placid breast Of the dreaming, gleaming bay; The shore line swims in a hazy heat, Asleep in the sea and sky, And the muffled beat where the breakers meet Is a soft, sweet lullaby.

The pine-clad hill has a crimson crown Of glittering sunset glows; The roofs of brown in the distant town Are bathed in a blush of rose; The radiant ripples shine and shift In shimmering shreds of gold; The seaweeds lift and drowse and drift, And the jellies fill and fold.

The great sun sinks, and the gray fog heaps His cloak on the silent sea; The night-wind creeps where the ocean sleeps, And the wavelets wake in glee; Across the bay, like a silver star, There twinkles the harbor-light, And faint and far from the outer bar The sea-birds call "Good-night."

* * * * *

INDEX TO FIRST LINES

* * * * *

A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell

A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes

A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white

Almost every other evenin', jest as reg'lar as the clock

"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that

Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,--

For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore

From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe

He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere"

Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!

Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair

I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind

I never was naturally vicious;

I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent

I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me

I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty

I'm pretty nearly certain that 't was 'bout two weeks ago,--

I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap

In Mother's room still stands the chair

In the gleam and gloom of the April weather

It's a wonderful world we're in, my dear

It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed

It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill

It stands at the bend where the road has its end

Jason White has come ter town

Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road

Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,--

Little bare feet, sunburned and brown,

Little foot, whose lightest pat

Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run out-doors and play;

My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold

My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three

My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at;

Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation

O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill

O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me

Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they 're with us once agin

Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago

Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town

Oh, the song of the Sea--

Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth

Oh, the wild November wind

Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair

Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy

Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town

On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm

Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool

Our Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys

Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer;

Pavements a-frying in street and in square

Say, I've got a little brother

She's little and modest and purty

Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late

South Pokus is religious,--that's the honest, livin' truth;

Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't they soft and still!

Sun like a furnace hung up overhead

Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone

The fog was so thick yer could cut it

The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust

The tired breezes are tucked to rest

To my office window, gray

Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest

Want to see me, hey, old chap?

_We'd_ never thought of takin' 'em,--'twas Mary Ann's idee,--

When Ezry, that's my sister's son, came home from furrin parts

When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes!

When the farm work's done, at the set of sun

When the great, gray fog comes in, and the damp clouds cloak the shore

When the hot summer daylight is dyin'

When the Lord breathes his wrath above the bosom of the waters

When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance

When the toil of day is over

When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down

Where leap the long Atlantic swells

Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming

Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks

You know the story--it's centuries old--

THE END