Chapter 8

In fancy, always, at thy desk, thrown wide, Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly-- The rarest rhymes of every land and sea And curious tongue--thine old face glorified,-- Thou haltest thy glib quill, and, laughing-eyed, Givest hale welcome even unto me, Profaning thus thine attic's sanctity, To briefly visit, yet to still abide Enthralled there of thy sorcery of wit, And thy songs' most exceeding dear conceits. O lips, cleft to the ripe core of all sweets, With poems, like nectar, issuing therefrom, Thy gentle utterances do overcome My listening heart and all the love of it!

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES.

In spring, when the green gits back in the trees, And the sun comes out and stays, And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze, And you think of yer barefoot days; When you ort to work and you want to not, And you and yer wife agrees It's time to spade up the garden lot, When the green gits back in the trees-- Well! work is the least o' _my_ idees When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

When the green gits back in the trees, and bees Is a-buzzin' aroun' agin, In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please Old gait they bum roun' in; When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood, And the crick 's riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, And the green gits back in the trees,-- I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, The time when the green gits back in the trees!

When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertime Is all pulled out and gone! And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, And the sweat it starts out on A feller's forred, a-gittin' down At the old spring on his knees-- I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun' When the green gits back in the trees-- Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please-- When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

AT BROAD RIPPLE.

Ah, Luxury! Beyond the heat And dust of town, with dangling feet, Astride the rock below the dam, In the cool shadows where the calm Rests on the stream again, and all Is silent save the waterfall,-- bait my hook and cast my line, And feel the best of life is mine.

No high ambition may I claim-- angle not for lordly game Of trout, or bass, or wary bream-- black perch reaches the extreme Of my desires; and "goggle-eyes" Are not a thing that I despise; A sunfish, or a "chub," or "cat"-- A "silver-side"--yea, even that!

In eloquent tranquility The waters lisp and talk to me. Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks, As some proud bass an instant shakes His glittering armor in the sun, And romping ripples, one by one, Come dallying across the space Where undulates my smiling face.

The river's story flowing by, Forever sweet to ear and eye, Forever tenderly begun-- Forever new and never done. Thus lulled and sheltered in a shade Where never feverish cares invade, I bait my hook and cast my line, And feel the best of life is mine.

WHEN OLD JACK DIED.

I.

When old Jack died, we staid from school (they said, At home, we needn't go that day), and none Of us ate any breakfast--only one, And that was Papa--and his eyes were red When he came round where we were, by the shed Where Jack was lying, half way in the sun And half way in the shade. When we begun To cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his head And went away; and Mamma, she went back Into the kitchen. Then, for a long while, All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried. We thought so many good things of Old Jack, And funny things--although we didn't smile--We couldn't only cry when Old Jack died.

II.

When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend Had suddenly gone from us; that some face That we had loved to fondle and embrace From babyhood, no more would condescend To smile on us forever. We might bend With tearful eyes above him, interlace Our chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race, Plead with him, call and coax--aye, we might send The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist, (If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain, Snapped thumbs, called "speak," and he had not replied; We might have gone down on our knees and kissed The tousled ears, and yet they must remain Deaf, motionless, we knew--when Old Jack died.

III.

When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way, That all the other dogs in town were pained With our bereavement, and some that were chained, Even, unslipped their collars on that day To visit Jack in state, as though to pay A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned To sigh "Poor dog!" remembering how they Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because, For love of them he leaped to lick their hands-- Now, that he could not, were they satisfied? We children thought that, as we crossed his paws, And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands, Wrote "Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack died.

DOC SIFERS.

Of all the doctors I could cite you to in this-'ere town Doc Sifers is my favorite, jes' take him up and down! Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big Bear, And Sifers' standin's jes' as good as ary doctor's there!

There's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh, But I'll buck Sifers 'ginst 'em all and down 'em any day! Most old Wick ever knowed, I s'pose, was _whisky!_ Wurgler--well, He et morphine--ef actions shows, and facts' reliable!

But Sifers--though he ain't no sot, he's got his faults; and yit When you _git_ Sifers one't, you've got _a doctor_, don't fergit! He ain't much at his office, er his house, er anywhere You'd natchurly think certain far to ketch the feller there.--

But don't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous notions--as The feller says; his odd-come-shorts, like smart men mostly has. He'll more'n like be potter'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; er in Some back lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin.

Er at the workbench, planin' things; er buildin' little traps To ketch birds; galvenizin' rings; er graftin' plums, perhaps. Make anything! good as the best!--a gunstock--er a flute; He whittled out a set o' chesstmen one't o' laurel root,

Durin' the Army--got his trade o' surgeon there--I own To-day a finger-ring Doc made out of a Sesesh bone! An' glued a fiddle one't far me--jes' all so busted you 'D a throwed the thing away, but he fixed her as good as new!

And take Doc, now, in _ager_, say, er _biles_, er _rheumatiz_, And all afflictions thataway, and he's the best they is! Er janders--milksick--I don't keer--k-yore anything he tries-- A abscess; getherin' in yer yeer; er granilated eyes!

There was the Widder Daubenspeck they all give up far dead; A blame cowbuncle on her neck, and clean out of her head! First had this doctor, what's-his-name, from "Puddlesburg," and then This little red-head, "Burnin' Shame" they call him--Dr. Glenn.

And they "consulted" on the case, and claimed she'd haf to die,-- I jes' was joggin' by the place, and heerd her dorter cry, And stops and calls her to the fence; and I-says-I, "Let me Send Sifers--bet you fifteen cents he'll k-yore her!" "Well," says she,

"Light out!" she says: And, lipp-tee-cut! I loped in town, and rid 'Bout two hours more to find him, but I kussed him when I did! He was down at the Gunsmith Shop a-stuffin' birds! Says he, "My sulky's broke." Says I, "You hop right on and ride with me!"

I got him there.--"Well, Aunty, ten days k-yores you," Sifers said, "But what's yer idy livin' when yer jes' as good as dead?" And there's Dave Banks--jes' back from war without a scratch--one day Got ketched up in a sickle-bar, a reaper runaway.--

His shoulders, arms, and hands and legs jes' sawed in strips! And Jake Dunn starts far Sifers--feller begs to shoot him far God-sake. Doc, 'course, was gone, but he had penned the notice, "At Big Bear-- Be back to-morry; Gone to 'tend the Bee Convention there."

But Jake, he tracked him--rid and rode the whole endurin' night! And 'bout the time the roosters crowed they both hove into sight. Doc had to ampitate, but 'greed to save Dave's arms, and swore He could a-saved his legs ef he'd ben there the day before.

Like when his wife's own mother died 'fore Sifers could be found, And all the neighbors far and wide a' all jes' chasin' round; Tel finally--I had to laugh--it's jes' like Doc, you know,-- Was learnin' far to telegraph, down at the old deepo.

But all they're faultin' Sifers far, there's none of 'em kin say He's biggoty, er keerless, er not posted anyway; He ain't built on the common plan of doctors now-a-days, He's jes' a great, big, brainy man--that's where the trouble lays!

AT NOON--AND MIDNIGHT.

Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his own The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed--yet he awake--alone! alone! In vain he courted sleep;--one thought would ever in his heart arise,-- The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.

Slowly on lifted arm he raised and listened. All was still as death; He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened yet, with bated breath: Still silently, as though he prayed, his lips moved lightly as she slept-- For God was with him, and he laid his face with hers and wept.

A WILD IRISHMAN.

Not very many years ago the writer was for some months stationed at South Bend, a thriving little city of northern Indiana, its main population on the one side of the St. Joseph river, but quite a respectable fraction thereof taking its industrial way to the opposite shore, and there gaining an audience and a hearing in the rather imposing growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories, and the consequent rapid appearance of multitudinous neat cottages, tenement houses and business blocks. A stranger, entering South Bend proper on any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for its prosperous appearance--its flagged and bowldered streets--its handsome mercantile blocks, banks, and business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people on the streets throughout the day, and these seeming, for the most part, merely idlers, and in no wise accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of their surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled at the situation. But when evening comes, and the outlying foundries, sewing-machine, wagon, plow, and other "works," together with the paper-mills and all the nameless industries--when the operations of all these are suspended for the day, and the workmen and workwomen loosed from labor--then, as this vast army suddenly invades and overflows bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stranger will fully comprehend the why and wherefore of the city's high prosperity. And, once acquainted with the people there, the fortunate sojourner will find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as certainly, he will meet with a social spirit and a wholesouled heartiness that will make the place a lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of many world-known notables, and a host of local celebrities, the chief of which latter class I found, during my stay there, in the person of Tommy Stafford, or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called him.

"Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters," said Major Blowney, my employer, one afternoon, "you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before you say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, cleverest chap in all your travels. What d'ye say, Stockford?" And the Major paused in his work of charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun and turned to await his partner's response.

Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the shield-sign he was lettering, slowly smiling as he dipped and trailed his pencil through the ivory black upon a bit of broken glass and said, in his deliberate, half-absent-minded way,--"Is it Tommy you're telling him about?" and then, with a gradual broadening of the smile, he went on, "Well, I should say so. Tommy! What's come of the fellow, anyway? I haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor, on his trial for shakin' up that fast-horse man."

"The fast-horse man got just exactly what he needed, too," said the genial Major, laughing, and mopping his perspiring brow. "The fellow was barkin' up the wrong stump when he tackled Tommy! Got beat in the trade, at his own game, you know, and wound up by an insult that no Irishman would take; and Tommy just naturally wore out the hall carpet of the old hotel with him!"

"And then collared and led him to the mayor's office himself, they say!"

"Oh, he did!" said the Major, with a dash of pride in the confirmation; "that's Tommy all over!"

"Funny trial, wasn't it?" continued the ruminating Stockford.

"Wasn't it though?" laughed the Major.

"The porter's testimony: You see, he was for Tommy, of course, and on examination testified that the horse-man struck Tommy first. And there Tommy broke in with: 'He's a-meanin' well, yer Honor, but he's lyin' to ye--he's lyin' to ye. No livin' man iver struck me first--nor last, nayther, for the matter o' that!' And I thought--the--court--would--die!" concluded the Major, in a like imminent state of merriment.

"Yes, and he said if he struck him first," supplemented Stockford, "he'd like to know why the horseman was 'wearin' all the black eyes, and the blood, and the boomps on the head of um!' And it's that talk of his that got him off with so light a fine!"

"As it always does," said the Major, coming to himself abruptly and looking at his watch. "Stock', you say you're not going along with our duck-shooting party this time? The old Kankakee is just lousy with 'em this season!"

"Can't go possibly," said Stockford, "not on account of the work at all, but the folks at home ain't just as well as I'd like to see them, and I'll stay here till they're better. Next time I'll try and be ready for you. Going to take Tommy, of course?"

"Of course! Got to have 'The Wild Irishman' with us! I'm going around to find him now." Then turning to me the Major continued, "Suppose you get on your coat and hat and come along? It's the best chance you'll ever have to meet Tommy. It's late anyhow, and Stockford'll get along without you. Come on."

"Certainly," said Stockford; "go ahead. And you can take him ducking, too, if he wants to go."

"But he doesn't want to go--and won't go," replied the Major with a commiserative glance at me. "Says he doesn't know a duck from a poll-parrot--nor how to load a shotgun--and couldn't hit a house if he were inside of it and the door shut. Admits that he nearly killed his uncle once, on the other side of a tree, with a squirrel runnin' down it. Don't want him along!"

Reaching the street with the genial Major, he gave me this advice: "Now, when you meet Tommy, you mustn't take all he says for dead earnest, and you mustn't believe, because he talks loud, and in italics every other word, that he wants to do all the talking and won't be interfered with. That's the way he's apt to strike folks at first--but it's their mistake, not his. Talk back to him--controvert him whenever he's aggressive in the utterance of his opinions, and if you're only honest in the announcement of your own ideas and beliefs, he'll like you all the better for standing by them. He's quick-tempered, and perhaps a trifle sensitive, so share your greater patience with him, and he'll pay you back by fighting for you at the drop of the hat. In short, he's as nearly typical of his gallant country's brave, impetuous, fun-loving individuality as such a likeness can exist."

"But is he quarrelsome?" I asked.

"Not at all. There's the trouble. If he'd only quarrel there'd be no harm done. Quarreling's cheap, and Tommy's extravagant. A big blacksmith here, the other day, kicked some boy out of his shop, and Tommy, on his cart, happened to be passing at the time; and he just jumped off without a word, and went in and worked on that fellow for about three minutes, with such disastrous results that they couldn't tell his shop from a slaughter-house; paid an assault and battery fine, and gave the boy a dollar beside, and the whole thing was a positive luxury to him. But I guess we'd better drop the subject, for here's his cart, and here's Tommy. Hi! there, you Far-down 'Irish Mick!" called the Major, in affected antipathy, "been out raiding the honest farmers' hen-roosts again, have you?"

We had halted at a corner grocery and produce store, as I took it, and the smooth-faced, shave-headed man in woolen shirt, short vest, and suspenderless trousers so boisterously addressed by the Major, was just lifting from the back of his cart a coop of cackling chickens.

"Arrah! ye blasted Kerryonian!" replied the handsome fellow, depositing the coop on the curb and straightening his tall, slender figure; "I were jist thinking of yez and the ducks, and here ye come quackin' into the prisence of r'yalty, wid yer canvas-back suit upon ye and the shwim-skins bechuxt yer toes! How air yez, anyhow--and air we startin' for the Kankakee by the nixt post?"

"We're to start just as soon as we get the boys together," said the Major, shaking hands. "The crowd's to be at Andrews' by 4, and it's fully that now; so come on at once. We'll go 'round by Munson's and have Hi send a boy to look after your horse. Come; and I want to introduce my friend here to you, and we'll all want to smoke and jabber a little in appropriate seclusion. Come on." And the impatient Major had linked arms with his hesitating ally and myself, and was turning the corner of the street.

"It's an hour's work I have yet wid the squawkers," mildly protested Tommy, still hanging back and stepping a trifle high; "but, as one Irishman would say til another, 'Ye're wrong, but I'm wid ye!'"

And five minutes later the three of us had joined a very jolly party in a snug back room, with

"The chamber walls depicted all around With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, And the hurt deer,"

and where, as well, drifted over the olfactory intelligence a certain subtle, warm-breathed aroma, that genially combatted the chill and darkness of the day without, and, resurrecting long-dead Christmases, brimmed the grateful memory with all comfortable cheer.

A dozen hearty voices greeted the appearance of Tommy and the Major, the latter adroitly pushing the jovial Irishman to the front, with a mock-heroic introduction to the general company, at the conclusion of which Tommy, with his hat tucked under the left elbow, stood bowing with a grace of pose and presence Lord Chesterfield might have applauded.

"Gintlemen," said Tommy, settling back upon his heels and admiringly contemplating the group; "Gintlemen, I congratu-late yez wid a pride that shoves the thumbs o' me into the arrum-holes of me weshkit! At the inshtigation of the bowld O'Blowney--axin' the gintleman's pardon--I am here wid no silver tongue of illoquence to para-lyze yez, but I am prisent, as has been ripresinted, to jine wid yez in a stupendeous waste of gun-powder, and duck-shot, and 'high-wines,' and ham sand-witches, upon the silvonian banks of the ragin' Kankakee, where the 'di-dipper' tips ye good-bye wid his tail, and the wild loon skoots like a sky-rocket for his exiled home in the alien dunes of the wild morass--or, as Tommy Moore so illegantly describes the blashted birrud,--

'Away to the dizhmal shwamp he shpeeds-- His path is rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, And many a fen where the serpent feeds, _And birrud niver flew before-- And niver will fly any more_

if iver he arrives back safe into civilization again--and I've been in the poultry business long enough to know the private opinion and personal integrity of ivery fowl that flies the air or roosts on poles. But, changin' the subject of my few small remarks here, and thankin yez wid an overflowin' heart but a dhry tongue, I have the honor to propose, gintlemen, long life and health to ivery mother's o' yez, and success to the 'Duck-hunters of Kankakee.'"

"The duck-hunters of the Kankakee!" chorussed the elated party in such musical uproar that for a full minute the voice of the enthusiastic Major--who was trying to say something--could not be heard. Then he said:

"I want to propose that theme--'The Duck-hunters of the Kankakee', for one of Tommy's improvizations. I move we have a song now from Tommy on the 'Duck-hunters of the Kankakee.'"

"Hurra! Hurra! A song from Tommy," cried the crowd. "Make us up a song, and put us all into it! A song from Tommy! A song! A song!"

There was a queer light in the eye of the Irishman. I observed him narrowly--expectantly. Often I had read of this phenomenal art of improvised ballad-singing, but had always remained a little skeptical in regard to the possibility of such a feat. Even in the notable instances of this gift as displayed by the very clever Theodore Hook, I had always half suspected some prior preparation--some adroit forecasting of the sequence that seemed the instant inspiration of his witty verses.

Here was evidently to be a test example, and I was all alert to mark its minutest detail.

The clamor had subsided, and Tommy had drawn a chair near to and directly fronting the Major's. His right hand was extended, closely grasping the right hand of his friend which he scarce perceptibly, though measuredly, lifted and let fall throughout the length of all the curious performance. The voice was not unmusical, nor was the quaint old ballad-air adopted by the singer unlovely in the least; simply a monotony was evident that accorded with the levity and chance-finish of the improvisation--and that the song was improvised on the instant I am certain--though in no wise remarkable, for other reasons, in rhythmic worth or finish. And while his smiling auditors all drew nearer, and leant, with parted lips to catch every syllable, the words of the strange melody trailed unhesitatingly into the lines literally as here subjoined:

"One gloomy day in the airly Fall, Whin the sunshine had no chance at all-- No chance at all for to gleam and shine And lighten up this heart of mine:

"'Twas in South Bend, that famous town, Whilst I were a-strollin' round and round, I met some friends and they says to me: 'It's a hunt we'll take on the Kankakee!'"

"Hurra for the Kankakee! Give it to us, Tommy!" cried an enthused voice between verses. "Now give it to the Major!" And the song went on:--

"There's Major Blowney leads the van, As crack a shot as an Irishman,-- For its the duck is a tin decoy That his owld shotgun can't destroy!"

And a half a dozen jubilant palms patted the Major's shoulders, and his ruddy, good-natured face beamed with delight. "Now give it to the rest of 'em, Tommy!" chuckled the Major. And the song continued:--

"And along wid 'Hank' is Mick Maharr, And Barney Pince, at 'The Shamrock' bar-- There's Barney Pinch, wid his heart so true; And the Andrews Brothers they'll go too."

"Hold on, Tommy!" chipped in one of the Andrews; "you must give 'the Andrews Brothers' a better advertisement than that! Turn us on a full verse, can't you?"

"Make 'em pay for it if you do!" said the Major, in an undertone. And Tommy promptly amended:--

"O, the Andrews Brothers, they'll be there, Wid good se-gyars and wine to shpare,-- They'll treat us here on fine champagne, And whin we're there they 'll treat us again."