Chapter 2

Then stretch away, my gallant steed! Thy mission is a noble one: You bear the father to the son, And sweet relief to bitter need; You bear the stranger to his friends; You bear the pilgrim to the shrine, And back again the prayer he sends That God will prosper me and mine,-- The star that on thy forehead gleams Has blossomed in our brightest dreams. Then speed thee on thy glorious race! The mother waits thy ringing pace; The father leans an anxious ear The thunder of thy hoofs to hear; The lover listens, far away, To catch thy keen exultant neigh; And, where thy breathings roll and rise, The husband strains his eager eyes, And laugh of wife and baby-glee Ring out to greet and welcome thee. Then stretch away! and when at last The master's hand shall gently check Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, The world will pat thee on the neck.

HIS MOTHER'S WAY

Tomps 'ud allus haf to say Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way."-- _He_ lived hard-like--never jined Any church of any kind.-- "It was Mother's way," says he, "To be good enough fer _me_ And her too,--and certinly Lord has heerd _her_ pray!" Propped up on his dyin' bed,-- "Shore as Heaven's overhead, I'm a-goin' there," he said--- "It was Mother's way."

JAP MILLER.

Jap Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit! When _he_ starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit!-- 'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' else But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts: He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax, And prove the pore man pays 'em all--and them's about the fac's!-- Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball-- Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all.

And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer.-- There's where the feller's strength lays,--he's so common-like and plain,-- They haint no dude about old Jap, you bet you--nary grain! They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his head, And did n't make no differunce what anybody said,-- He didn't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes; But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes.

He's fer the pore man ever' time! And in the last campaign He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine and the rain, And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust, And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and cuss'd! He'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you know, Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show! And I'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old Jap norate Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State!

W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun, Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run! Do n't matter what _his_ views is, when he states the same to you, They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two: You _can't_ take issue with him--er, at least, they haint no sense In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.-- The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does, And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz!

A SOUTHERN SINGER.

Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls."

Herein are blown from out the South Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- As sweet in voice as, in perfume, The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

Such sumptuous languor lures the sense-- Such luxury of indolence-- The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur, With water-lilies watching her.

You waken, thrilling at the trill Of some wild bird that seems to spill The silence full of winey drips Of song that Fancy sips and sips.

Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough The chipmunk stripes himself from view, You pause to lop a creamy spray Of elder-blossoms by the way.

Or where the morning dew is yet Gray on the topmost rail, you set A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet Your vaulting shadow in the wheat.

On lordly swards, of suave incline, Entessellate with shade and shine, You shall misdoubt your lowly birth, Clad on as one of princely worth:

The falcon on your wrist shall ride-- Your milk-white Arab side by side With one of raven-black.--You fain Would kiss the hand that holds the rein.

Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer! Sing us back home--from there to here; Grant your high grace and wit, but we Most honor your simplicity.--

Herein are blown from out the South Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth-- As sweet in voice as, in perfume, The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

A DREAM OF AUTUMN.

Mellow hazes, lowly trailing Over wood and meadow, veiling Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing Sailor-like to foreign lands; And the north-wind overleaping Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping Wrecks of roses where the weeping Willows wring their helpless hands.

Flared, like Titan torches flinging Flakes of flame and embers, springing From the vale the trees stand swinging In the moaning atmosphere; While in dead'ning-lands the lowing Of the cattle, sadder growing, Fills the sense to overflowing With the sorrow of the year.

Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter Sings the brook in rippled meter Under boughs that lithely teeter Lorn birds, answering from the shores Through the viny, shady-shiny Interspaces, shot with tiny Flying motes that fleck the winy Wave-engraven sycamores.

Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled Over Harvest's battle-piain; And the sudden whir and whistle Of the quail that, like a missile, Whizzes over thorn and thistle, And, a missile, drops again.

Muffled voices, hid in thickets Where the redbird stops to stick its Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets Of the truant's rustic trap; And the sound of laughter ringing Where, within the wild-vine swinging, Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging Purple clusters in her lap.

Rich as wine, the sunset flashes Round the tilted world, and dashes Up the sloping west and splashes Red foam over sky and sea-- Till my dream of Autumn, paling In the splendor all-prevailing, Like a sallow leaf goes sailing Down the silence solemnly.

TOM VAN ARDEN.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own-- Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour: Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it-- I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?-- Bachelors, we must confess, Boast of "single blessedness" To the world, but not alone-- Man's best sorrow is his own!

And the saddest truth is this,-- Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them: Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summertime.

When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth, We look back on it to-day Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-- "Better to have loved and lost!" Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the glasses while I bend To prod up the failing fire . . . You are restless:--I presume There's a dampness in the room.-- Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs! . . .

Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance, And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls.-- _Feats of mountebanks, depend_!-- Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the fire-light leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,-- I propose a health to those Who have _homes_, and home's repose, Wife- and child-love without end! . . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

JUST TO BE GOOD.

Just to be good-- This is enough--enough! O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, Do we not feel how more than any gold Would be the blameless life we led of old While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss? Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough!

It is enough-- Enough--just to be good! To lift our hearts where they are understood; To let the thirst for worldly power and place Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough!

HOME AT NIGHT.

When chirping crickets fainter cry, And pale stars blossom in the sky, And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom And blurred the butterfly:

When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, And up the tiger-lily stalk The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls And glimmers down the garden-walls:

When buzzing things, with double wings Of crisp and raspish flutterings, Go whizzing by so very nigh One thinks of fangs and stings:--

O then, within, is stilled the din Of crib she rocks the baby in, And heart and gate and latch's weight Are lifted--and the lips of Kate.

THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD.

The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung-- Unlettered all of mind and tongue; Unmastered, unmolested--made Most wholly frank and unafraid: Untaught of any school--unvexed Of law or creed--all unperplexed-- Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled, An all imperfect-perfect child-- A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you And I do tardy honor to, And so, profane the sanctities Of our most sacred memories. Who, growing thus from boy to man, That dares not be American? Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz-- Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does.

The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not Much wider than the stable-lot Between the house and highway fence That bounds the home his father rents. His playmates mostly are the ducks And chickens, and the boy that "shucks Corn by the shock," and talks of town, And whether eggs are "up" or "down," And prophesies in boastful tone Of "owning horses of his own," And "being his own man," and "when He gets to be, what he'll do then."-- Takes out his jack-knife dreamily And makes the Folk-Child two or three Crude corn-stalk figures,--a wee span Of horses and a little man.

The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise And wide and round as Brownies' eyes: The smile they wear is ever blent With all-expectant wonderment,-- On homeliest things they bend a look As rapt as o'er a picture-book, And seem to ask, whate'er befall, The happy reason of it all:-- Why grass is all so glad a green, And leaves--and what their lispings mean;-- Why buds grow on the boughs, and why They burst in blossom by and by-- As though the orchard in the breeze Had shook and popped its _popcorn-trees_, To lure and whet, as well they might, Some seven-league giant's appetite!

The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face Has scant refinement, caste or grace,-- From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek, It bears the grimy water-streak Of rinsings such as some long rain Might drool across the window-pane Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, As some lorn team drives by for town. His brow is elfed with wispish hair, With tangles in it here and there, As though the warlocks snarled it so At midmirk when the moon sagged low, And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, And children moaned themselves awake, With fingers clutched, and starting sight Blind as the blackness of the night!

The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he In all the wealth of poverty! He owns nor title nor estate, Nor speech but half articulate,-- He owns nor princely robe nor crown;-- Yet, draped in patched and faded brown, He owns the bird-songs of the hills-- The laughter of the April rills; And his are all the diamonds set. In Morning's dewy coronet,-- And his the Dusk's first minted stars That twinkle through the pasture-bars, And litter all the skies at night With glittering scraps of silver light;-- The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, In beaten gold, belongs to him.

JACK THE GIANT KILLER.

_Bad Boy's Version_.

Tell you a story--an' it's a fac':-- Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack, An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;" An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows-- Th' horns an' all--an' pigs an' sows! But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh! So awful sharp 'at he could go An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do! An' _one_ ole Gi'nt, he had four Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore"-- An' he wuz feered o' Jack--'cause he, _Jack_, he killed six--five--ten--three, An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him: An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim 'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore"-- Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door: But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum Clean acrost; an' when he come To th' uther side, he thist put on His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone! You could n't see him at all!--An' so He slewed the "griffuns"--_boff_, you know! Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,-- "Whoever kin this trumput blow Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!" An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed Th' castul-gates wide open, an' Nen tuck his gold sword in his han', An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore," An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!-- Wisht 'at _I'd_ been Jack!--don't you?

WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED.

O it was but a dream I had While the musician played!-- And here the sky, and here the glad Old ocean kissed the glade-- And here the laughing ripples ran, And here the roses grew That threw a kiss to every man That voyaged with the crew.

Our silken sails in lazy folds Drooped in the breathless breeze: As o'er a field of marigolds Our eyes swam o'er the seas; While here the eddies lisped and purled Around the island's rim, And up from out the underworld We saw the mermen swim.

And it was dawn and middle-day And midnight--for the moon On silver rounds across the bay Had climbed the skies of June-- And there the glowing, glorious king Of day ruled o'er his realm, With stars of midnight glittering About his diadem.

The seagull reeled on languid wing In circles round the mast, We heard the songs the sirens sing As we went sailing past; And up and down the golden sands A thousand fairy throngs Flung at us from their flashing hands The echoes of their songs.

O it was but a dream I had While the musician played-- For here the sky, and here the glad Old ocean kissed the glade; And here the laughing ripples ran, And here the roses grew That threw a kiss to every man That voyaged with the crew.

AUGUST.

A day of torpor in the sullen heat Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, With drowsy eyes, and dream.

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; The sun glares ever like an evil eye, And withers flower and leaf.

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote The thresher lies deserted, like some old Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat Upon a sea of gold.

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird Above an empty nest, and truant boys Along the river's shady margin heard-- A harmony of noise--

A melody of wrangling voices blent With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent To mimic waterfalls.

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, The sifted glances of the sun appear In splinterings of spray.

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on His journey to the sky.

And down across the valley's drooping sweep, Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, The forest stands in silence, drinking deep Its purple wine of shade.

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; The sailor-vision voyages the skies And carries into chaos everything That freights the weary eyes:

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night.

TO HEAR HER SING.

To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays.

It is to hear the robin trill At morning, or the whip-poor-will At dusk, when stars are blossoming-- To hear her sing--to hear her sing!

To hear her sing--it is to hear The laugh of childhood ringing clear In woody path or grassy lane Our feet may never fare again.

Faint, far away as Memory dwells, It is to hear the village bells At twilight, as the truant hears Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

Such joy it is to hear her sing, We fall in love with everything-- The simple things of every day Grow lovelier than words can say.

The idle brooks that purl across The gleaming pebbles and the moss, We love no less than classic streams-- The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.

To hear her sing--with folded eyes, It is, beneath Venetian skies, To hear the gondoliers' refrain, Or troubadours of sunny Spain.--

To hear the bulbul's voice that shook The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: What wonder we in homage bring Our hearts to her--to hear her sing!

BEING HIS MOTHER.

Being his mother--when he goes away I would not hold him overlong, and so Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay, Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow; Let his remembered features, as I pray, Smile ever on me! Ah! what stress of love Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise: Its fullest speech ever to be denied Mine own--being his mother! All thereof Thou knowest only, looking from the skies As when not Christ alone was crucified.

JUNE AT WOODRUFF.

Out at Woodruff Place--afar From the city's glare and jar, With the leafy trees, instead Of the awnings, overhead; With the shadows cool and sweet, For the fever of the street; With the silence, like a prayer, Breathing round us everywhere.

Gracious anchorage, at last, From the billows of the vast Tide of life that comes and goes, Whence and where nobody knows-- Moving, like a skeptic's thought, Out of nowhere into naught. Touch and tame us with thy grace, Placid calm of Woodruff Place!

Weave a wreath of beechen leaves For the brow that throbs and grieves O'er the ledger, bloody-lined, 'Neath the sun-struck window-blind! Send the breath of woodland bloom Through the sick man's prison room, Till his old farm-home shall swim Sweet in mind to hearten him!

Out at Woodruff Place the Muse Dips her sandal in the dews, Sacredly as night and dawn Baptize lilied grove and lawn: Woody path, or paven way-- She doth haunt them night and day,-- Sun or moonlight through the trees, To her eyes, are melodies.

Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear Through night-scenes, are songs to her-- Tinted lilts and choiring hues, Blent with children's glad halloos; Then belated lays that fade Into midnight's serenade-- Vine-like words and zithern-strings Twined through ali her slumberings.

Blesséd be each hearthstone set Neighboring the violet! Blessed every rooftree prayed Over by the beech's shadel Blessed doorway, opening where We may look on Nature--there Hand to hand and face to face-- Storied realm, or Woodruff Place.

FARMER WHIPPLE.--BACHELOR.

It's a mystery to see me--a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more-- A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day!

I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate A little in beginning so's to set the matter straight As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife-- Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life!

I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five-- Three brothers and a sister--I'm the only one alive,-- Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways, You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise.

The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat-- We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that! But someway we sort o' _suited_-like! and Mother she'd declare She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair

Than _we_ was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year', And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!-- W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve!

I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride In thinkin' all depended on _me_ now to pervide Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place With sleeves rolled up--and workin', with a mighty smilin' face.--

Fer _sompin' else_ was workin'! but not a word I said Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,-- "Someday I'd mayby marry, and _a brother's_ love was one Thing--a _lover's_ was another!" was the way the notion run!

I remember onc't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done-- When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one-- I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day-- A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way!

And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane: I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain Well--when she turned and _kissed_ me, _with her arm around me--law_! I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw!