Part 2

He bade the battalion form in fours, and led us away in the dark.

We lamed our legs on the heavy road and a long rain cooled our blood

And every time we raised a foot we could hear the suck of the mud.

At noon we came--a weary lot--to the top of a big clay hill,

And below were miles of infantry--the whole bunch standing still.

The league-long hills are striped with blue, the valley is lined with gray,

And between the armies of North and South are blossoming fields of May.

There's a mighty cheer in the Southern host as, led by the fife and drum,

To the front of the lines with a fearless tread our baby cadets have come.

"Forward!" The air is quaking now; a shrill- voiced, angry yell

Answers the roar of the musketry and the scream of the rifled shell.

The gray ranks rushing, horse and foot, at the flaming wall of blue

Break a hole in its centre, and some one shouts: "See the little cadets go through!"

A shell shoots out of its hood of smoke, and slows mid-air and leaps

At our corps that is crossing a field of wheat, and we stagger and fall in heaps;

We close the ranks, and they break again, when a dozen more fall dying;

And some too hurt to use their guns stand up with the others trying.

"Lie down an' give 'em a volley, boys--quick there, every one!

"Lie down, you little devils!--Down! It's better to die than run."

And huddling under the tender wheat, the living lay down with the dead,

And you couldn't have lifted your finger then without touching a piece of lead.

"Look up in the sky and see the shells go over a-whiskin' their tails";

"Better not lift yer hand too high or the bullets 'll trim yer nails."

Said the captain, "Forward, you who can!" In a jiffy I'm off on my feet

An' up to their muzzles a-clubbin' my gun, an' the Yanks have begun a retreat.

Said a wounded boy, peering over the grain, "Hurrah! See our banner a-flyin'!

"Wish I was there, but I can't get up--I wonder if _I'm_ a-dyin'?

"O Jim! did you ever hear of a man that lived that was hit in the head?

"Say, Jim! did you ever hear of a man that lived-- My God! Jim's dead!"

A mist, like a web that is heavy with prey, is caught in the green o' the fields;

It breaks and is parted as if a soul were struggling where it yields;

The twilight deepens and hushes all, save the beat beating of distant drums,

And over the shuddering deep of the air a wave of silence comes.

By lantern light we found the boys where under the wheat they lay

As if sleep--soft-fingered, compelling sleep!--had come in the midst of play.

The captain said of the bloody charge and the soldiers who fought so well:

"The army had to follow the boys if they entered the flames o' hell."

PICTURE, SOUND AND SONG

The battle roar is ended and the twilight falls again,

The bugles have blown, the hosts have flown save they in the dusky grain.

And lo! the shaking barley tells where the wounded writhe and roll;

With a panting breath at the pass of death the body fights for the soul.

Some rise to retreat and they die on their feet in this terrible fight for the soul.

And horses urged by the spur of Death are galloping over the grain;

Their hoofs are red, their riders are dead, and loose are the stirrup and rein.

A ghost in the saddle is riding them down, the spurs of Pain at his heels;

They are cut to the bone, they rush and they groan, as a wake in the barley reels:

And faces rise with haggard eyes where the wake in the barley reels.

The blue and the gray lie face to face and their fingers harrow the loam,

There's a sob and a prayer in the smoky air as their winged thoughts fly home.

The Devil of war has dimmed the sky with the breath of his iron lungs,

And he gluts his ear on the note of fear in the cry of the fevered tongues;

Like the toll of a bell at the gate of hell is the wail of the fevered tongues.

One rising, walked from the bullet shock, seems to reel 'neath the weight of his head,

He feels for his gun and starts to run and falls in a hollow--dead.

The wagons are coming and over each the light of a lantern swings,

And a holy thought to the soul is brought, as the voice of a driver sings;

And the cry of pain in the trampled grain is hushed as the driver sings:

My country, 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing.

THE VEN'SON-TREE

The busy cranes go back an' forth, a-ploughin' up the sky,

The wild goose drag comes down the wind an' goes a-roarin' by;

The song-birds sow their music in the blue fields over me

An' it seems to grow up into thoughts about the ven'son-tree.

The apple-blossoms scatter down--a scented summer snow,

An' man an' wind an' cloud an' sun have all begun to sow.

The green hopes come a-sproutin' up somewhere inside o' me,

An' it's time we ought to see the sprouts upon the ven'son-tree.

The velvet leaves the willow an' adorns the ven'son bough,

There's new silk in the tree-top an' the coat o' horse an' cow.

The woods are trimmed fer weddin's, an' are all in Sunday clo's,

An' the bark upon the ven'son-tree is redder than a rose.

The days are still an' smoky, an' the nights are growin' cold,

The maples are a-drippin' blood, the beeches drippin' gold;

The briers are above my head, the brakes above my knee,

An' the bark is gettin' kind o' blue upon the ven'son- tree.

What makes the big trees shake an' groan as if they all had sinned?

'Tis God A'mighty's reaper with the horses o' the wind.

He will hitch with chains o' lightnin', He will urge with thunder call,

He will try the rotten-hearted till they reel an' break an' fall.

The leaves are driftin' in the breeze, an' gathered where they lie

Are the colors o' the sunset an' the smell o' the windy sky;

The squirrels whisk, with loaded mouths, an' stop an' say to me:

"It's time to gether in the fruit upon the ven'son- tree."

"What makes ye look so anxious an' what makes ye speak so low?"

"It's 'cause I'm thinkin' of a place where I'm a-goin' to go.

"This here I've, been a-tinkerin' which lays acrost my knee

"Is the axe that I'm a-usin' fer to fell the ven'son- tree."

I've polished up the iron an' I've covered it with ile, Its bit is only half an inch, its helve is half a mile.

(The singer blows an imitation of the startled deer) "Whew! what's that so pesky--why, it kind o' frightened me?"

"It's the wind a blowin' through the top o' the cute ol' ven'son-tree."

HIM AN' ME

_Being a story of the Adirondacks told by me in the words of him who had borne with buck-fever and bad marksmanship until, having been long out of meat and patiencey he put his confidence in me and we sallied forth._

We'd greased our tongues with bacon 'til they'd shy at food an' fork

An' the trails o' thought were slippery an' slopin' towards New York;

An' our gizzards shook an' trembled an' were most uncommon hot

An' the oaths were slippin' easy from the tongue o' Philo Scott.

Then skyward rose a flapjack an' a hefty oath he swore

An' he spoke of all his sufferin' which he couldn't stan' no more;

An' the flapjack got to jumpin' like a rabbit on the run

As he give his compliments to them who couldn't p'int a gun.

He told how deer would let 'em come an' stan' an' rest an' shoot

An' how bold an' how insultin' they would eye the tenderfoot;

How he--Fide Scott--was hankerin' fer suthin' fit to eat

"------!" says he. "Le's you an' me go out an'

find some meat."

We paddled off a-whisperin' beneath the long birch limbs

An' we snooked along as silent as a sucker when he swims;

I could hear him slow his paddle as eroun' the turns he bore;

I could hear his neck a-creakin' while his eye run up the shore.

An' soon we come acrost a buck as big an' bold as sin

An' Philo took t' swallerin' to keep his feelin's in;

An' every time he swallered, as he slowly swung eroun',

I could hear his Adam's apple go a-squeakin' up an' down.

He sot an' worked his paddle jest as skilful as he could

An' we went on slow an' careless, like a chunk o' floatin' wood:

An' I kind o' shook an' shivered an' the pesky ol' canoe

It seemed to feel as I did, for it shook an' shivered too.

I sot there, full o' deviltry, a-p'intin' with the gun,

An' we come up clost and closter, but the deer he didn't run;

An' Philo shet his teeth so hard he split his brier- root

As he held his breath a-waitin' an' expectin' me to shoot.

I could kind o' feel him hanker, I could kind o' hear him think,

An' we'd come so nigh the animal we didn't dast to wink,

But I kep' on a-p'intin' of the rifle at the deer

Jest as if I was expectin' fer to stick it in his ear.

An' Philo tetched the gunnel soft an' shook it with his knee;

I kind o' felt him nudgin' an' a-wishin' he was me,

But I kep' on a-p'intin', with a foolish kind o' grin,

Enjoyin' all the wickedness that he was holdin' in.

An' of a sudden I could feel a tremble in his feet;

I knew that he was gettin' mad an' fillin' up with heat.

His breath come fast an' faster, but he couldn't say a damn--

He'd the feelin's of a panther an' the quiet of a lamb.

An' his foot come creepin' for'ards an' he tetched me with his boot

An' he whispered low an' anxious, an says he: "Why don't ye shoot?''

An' the buck he see the time had come fer him an' us to part

An' away he ran as Philo pulled the trigger of his heart.

He had panthers in his bosom, he had horns upon his mind;

An' the panthers spit an' rassied an' their fur riz up behind;

An' he gored me with his languidge an' he clawed me with his eye

'Til I wisht that, when I done him dirt, I hadn't been so nigh.

He scairt the fish beneath us an' the birds upon the shore

An' he spoke of all his sufferin' which he couldn't stan' no more;

Then he sot an' thought an' muttered as he pushed a mile er so

Like a man that's lost an' weary on the mountain of his woe.

An' he eyed me over cur'ous an' with pity on his face

An' he seemed to be a sortin' words to make 'em fit the case.

"Of all the harmless critters that I ever met," says he,

"There ain't not none more harmlesser--my God!-- than what you be."

An' he added, kind o' sorrowful, an' hove a mighty sigh:

"I'd be 'shamed t' meet another deer an' look him in the eye.

God knows a man that p'ints so never orter hev no grub,

What game are you expectin' fer t' slaughter with a club?"

An' I answered with a riddle: "It has head an' eyes an' feet

An' is black an' white an' harmless, but a fearful thing to meet;

It's a long an' pesky animal as any in the county;

Can't ye guess?--I've ketched a pome an' I'll give ye half the bounty."

A VOICE OF THE FIELDS

The red was on the clover an' the blue was in the sky;

There was music in the meadow, there was dancing in the rye,

An' I heard her call the scattered flock in pastures far away

An' the echo in the wooded hills: "Co' day! Co' day! Co' day!"

O fair was she--my lady love--an' lithe as the willow-tree,

An' like a miser's money are her parting words t' me.

O the years are long an' lonesome since my sweet- heart went away!

An' I think o' her as I call the flocks: "Co' day! Co' day! Co' day!"

Her cheeks have stole the clover's red, her lips the odored air,

An' the glow o' the morning sunlight she took away in her hair;

Her voice had the meadow music, her form an' her laughing eye

Have taken the blue o' the heavens an' the grace o' the bending rye.

My love has robbed the summer day--the field, the sky, the dell,

She has carried their treasurers with her, she has taken my heart as well;

An' if ever, in the further fields, her feet should go astray

May she hear the good God calling her: "Co' day! Co' day! Co' day!"

THE WEAVER'S DYE

There's many a hue an' some I knew in the skeins of a weaver old--

Ah, there is the white o' the lily hand an' the glow o' the silky gold!

An' the crimson missed in the lips we kissed an' the blue o' the maiden's eye;

O, look at the wonderful web of life, an' look at the weaver's dye!

THE SLUMBER SHIP

A LULLABY

Jack Tot is as big as a baby's thumb,

And his dinner is only a drop and a crumb And a wee little sailor is he.

Heigh ho!

A very fine sailor is he.

He made his boat of a walnut shell;

He sails her at night, and he steers her well With the wing of a bumblebee.

Heigh ho!

The wing of a bumblebee.

She is rigged with the hair of a lady's curl,

And her lantern is made of a gleaming pearl,

And it never goes out in a gale.

Heigh ho!

It never goes out in a gale.

Her mast is made of a very long thorn;

She's a bell for the fog, and a cricket's horn,

And a spider spun her sail.

Heigh ho!

A spider he spun her sail.

She carries a cargo of baby souls,

And she crosses the terrible Nightmare Shoals,

On her way to the Isles of Rest.

Heigh ho!

The beautiful Isles of Rest.

The Slumber Sea is the sea she sails,

While the skipper is telling incredible tales With many a merry jest.

Ho! ho!

He's fond of a merry jest.

When the little folks yawn they're ready to go,

And the skipper is lifting his sail--he ho!

In the swell how the little folks nod!

Ha! ha!

Just see how the little folks nod!

He fluttered his wing as they ast him to sing an' he tried fer t' clear out his throat;

He hemmed an' he hawed an' he hawked an' he cawed

But he couldn' deliver a note.

The swallow was there an' he ushered each pair in his linsey an' claw-hammer coat.

The bobolink tried fer t' flirt with the bride, in a way that was sassy an' bold,

An' the notes that he took as he shivered an' shook

Had a sound like the jingle o' gold.

He sat on a brier an' laughed at the choir an' told 'em the music was old.

The sexton he came--Mr. Spider by name--a citizen hairy an' gray.

His rope in a steeple, he called the good people

That live in the land o' the hay.

The ants an' the squgs an' the crickets an' bugs came out in a mighty array.

A number came down from ole Barleytown an' the neighborin' city o' Rye.

An' the little black people each climbed up a steeple, An' sat lookin' up at the sky;

They came fer t' see what a weddin' might be an' they furnished the cake an' the pie.

OLD HOME, GOOD-BYE!

The day is passing; I have tarried long;

My way leads far through paths I fear to try;

But as I go I'll cheer my heart with song--

Old home, good-bye!

In hallowed scenes what feet have trod thy stage!

The babe, the maiden leaving home to wed;

The young man going forth by duty led

And faltering age.

And some, returning from far distant lands,

Fainting and sick their ways to thee have wended

To feel the sweet ministry of loving hands,

Their journeys ended.

Thou hadst a soul--thy goodly prop' and stay

That kept the log, the compass and the chart,

And showed the way for many a trusting heart--

The long, long way!

O humble home! thou hadst a secret door

Through which I looked, betimes, with wondering eye

On splendors that no palace ever wore

In days gone by.

From narrow walls thy lamp gave glad release

And shone afar on distant lands and powers;

A sweet voice sang of love and heavenly peace

And made them ours.

Thou hadst a magic window, broad and high--

The light and glory of the morning shone

Through it, however dark the day had grown

Or bleak the sky.

Its panes, like mighty lenses, brought to view

A fairer home; I saw in depths above

The timber of the old home in the new--

The oak of love.

THE RUSTIC DANCE

To Jones's tavern, near the ancient woods,

Drive young and old from distant neighborhoods.

Here comes old Crocket with his great bass horn--

Its tone less fit for melody than scorn.

Down through its wrinkled tubes, from first to last,

A century's caravan of song has passed.

The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun,

With noisy kisses punctuate the fun.

Some youths look on, too bashful to assist

And bear the sweet disgrace of being kissed.

The fiddler comes--his heart a merry store,

And shouts of welcome greet him at the door.

Unlettered man--how rude the jest he flings!

But mark his power to wake the tuneful strings!

The old folks smile and tell how, long ago,

Their feet obeyed the swaying of his bow;

And how the God-sent magic of his art

To thoughts of love inclined the youthful heart,

And shook the bonds of care from aged men

Who 'neath the spell returned to youth again.

He taps the fiddle-back as 'twere a drum;

The raw recruits in Cupid's army come;

And heeding not the praise his playing wins,

The ebullition of his soul begins.

The zeal of Crocket turned to scornful sound,

Pursues the measure like a baying hound.

The fiddle's notes pour forth like showers of rain,

The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain,

And midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred,

The thunder of the old bass horn is heard.

Beside the glowing fire, with smiles serene,

An aged couple sit and view the scene.

Grandfather's ears the reveille have caught,

And thronging memories fill the camps of thought.

His heels strike on the floor, with measured beat,

As if to ease a tickling in his feet.

Year after year, for love of kith and kin.

Grandmother's hands have had to toil and spin;

But since the palsy all their cunning stole

Her mind is spinning raiment for the soul,

Of spotless white and beauty fit to wear,

When comes the Bridegroom and the end of care.

So goes the dance until the night is gone

And chanticleer proclaims the breaking dawn.

The waning stars show pale to wearied eyes

And seem to dance cotillions in the skies;

As if, forsooth, upon the journey home

Terpsichore's music filled the starry dome.

Blest be the dance! with noisy pleasure rife

Enough to temper all the woe in life;

What magic power its capering measures hold

To keep the hearts of men from growing old!

Stem Father Time, rejoicing in the scene,

Forbears to reap while yet the fields are green.

TO A DEAD CLASSMATE

He started on the left road and I went on the right,

We were young and strong and the way was long and we travelled day an' night;

And O the haste and O the waste! and the rush of the busy throng!

The worried eye, and the quick good-bye, and the need to hurry along!

Odd times we met on the main highway and told our hopes and fears,

And after every parting came a wider flood of years.

I love to tell of the last farewell, and this is the way it ran:

"I don't know when I'll see you again--take care of yourself, ol' man."

Put the Beta pin upon his breast, with rosemary and rue,

The cap and gown, the scarlet and brown and the symbol of '82,

And lay him low with a simple word as the loving eye grows dim:

"He took care of more than his share--O Christ! take care of him."

The snow is falling on the head and aye the heart grows cold;

The new friend comes to claim a share of that we gave the old,

And men forget while the eye is wet and bend to the lug of the load,

And whether or when they will meet you again is ever a chance of the road.

The babes are boys, the boys are men, and slowly, year by year,

New faces throng the storied halls and old ones disappear.

As the hair is grayed and the red lips fade let friend be friend, for aye

We come and go and ere we know have spoken a long good-bye.

TO MY FRIEND A. B.

The veil of care is lifted from his face!

How smooth the brow where toil had left its trace!

How confident the look, how calm the eyes

Once keen with life and restless enterprise!

And gone the lines that marked the spirit's haste

To do its work, nor any moment waste.

Imperial peace and beauty crown his head,

God's superscription writ upon the dead.

Behold, herein, his dream, his inmost thought

As if in time-washed Parian marble wrought.

Truly he read the law we must obey:

Man moulds the image and God gives the clay,

And if it's cast of God or C├Žsar is

To each all render what is rightly his.

Thousands at noontide are climbing the hills under Nain, like an army

Fleeing the carnage of war, seeking where it may rest and take counsel;

Some with the blind or the palsied, some bearing the sick on their shoulders,

Lagging but laboring hard, so they be not too far from the Prophet;

Some bringing only a burden of deep and inveterate longing.

Hard by the gate of the city their Captain halts and is waiting.

Closer the multitude presses and widens afar on the hillside;

Thronged are the ways to the city with eager and hastening comers.

Heard ye? A man was delivered from death by his power, and the story

Crosses the murmuring host like a wave passing over the waters,

How at the touch of his finger this day, the dead rose and was living.

Hushed are the people; the Prophet is speaking; his hand is uplifted--

Lo! the frail hand that ere long was to stop the mad rush of the tempest.

Quickly their voices are hushed, and the fear of Jehovah is on them.

Jesus stood high on a hillock. His face, so divinely impassioned,

Shone with the light that of old had illumined the dreams of the prophets.

Gently he spake, like a shepherd who calleth his flock to green pastures.

Hiding her face and apart from the people, a woman stood weeping,

Daughter of woe! on a rosary strung with her tears ever counting

Treasures her heart had surrendered and writ on her brow was the record.

Hope and the love of her kindred and peace and all pleasure had left her

Chained to the pillar of life like a captive, and Shame was her keeper.

Long spake the Prophet, and scarcely had finished when came the afflicted,

Loudly entreating: "Make way for the blind!" and the people were parted,

Silent with pity, and many were suffered to pass; but the woman

Felt no miraculous touch, for the press kept her back and rebuked her.

"Why comest thou to the Prophet?" they said. "Get thee hence and be silent;

"He hath no mercy for thee or thy kind"; and the woman stood weeping.

Now when the even was come over Nain, and the bridge of the twilight,

Silently floating aloft on the deepening flood of the shadows,

Rested its timbers of gold on the summits of Tabor and Hermon,

Jesus came, weary, to sup at the house of one Simon, a Pharisee,

Dwelling at Nain. Far behind him the woman came, following slowly;

Entered the gate in the dusk, and when all were reclining at supper,

Stood by the Prophet, afraid, like a soul that has come to its judgment,

Weeping, her head bowing low, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders.

Then there was silence, and Jesus was moved, so he spake to the woman:

"Daughter, what grieves thee so sore?" and she spake not, but dumb with her weeping

Sank at his feet; and her tears fell upon them like rain, and she kissed them.

Simon, amazed when the Prophet forbade not the woman to touch him,

Rose to rebuke her; but seeing His face, how it shone with compassion,

Waited; and Jesus then spake: "I have somewhat to say to thee, Simon.

"A man had two debtors of pence, and the one owed five hundred,