Chapter 9

The applause here was vociferous, and only discontinued when a box of Havanas stood open on the table. During the momentary lull thus occasioned, I caught the Major's twinkling eyes glancing evasively toward me, as he leant whispering some further instructions to Tommy, who again took up his desultory ballad, while I turned and fled for the street, catching, however, as I went, and high above the laughter of the crowd, the satire of this quatrain to its latest line--

"But R-R-Riley he 'll not go, I guess, Lest he'd get lost in the wil-der-ness, And so in the city he will shtop For to curl his hair in the barber shop."

It was after six when I reached the hotel, but I had my hair trimmed before I went in to supper. The style of trimming adopted then I still rigidly adhere to, and call it "the Tommy Stafford stubble-crop."

Ten days passed before I again saw the Major. Immediately upon his return--it was late afternoon when I heard of it--I determined to take my evening walk out the long street toward his pleasant home and call upon him there. This I did, and found him in a wholesome state of fatigue, slippers and easy chair, enjoying his pipe on the piazza. Of course, he was overflowing with happy reminiscences of the hunt--the wood-and-water-craft--boats--ambushes--decoys, and tramp, and camp, and so on, without end;--but I wanted to hear him talk of "The Wild Irishman"--Tommy; and I think, too, now, that the sagacious Major secretly read my desires all the time. To be utterly frank with the reader I will admit that I not only think the Major divined my interest in Tommy, but I know he did; for at last, as though reading my very thoughts, he abruptly said, after a long pause, in which he knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled and lighted it:--"Well, all I know of 'The Wild Irishman' I can tell you in a very few words--that is, if you care at all to listen?" And the crafty old Major seemed to hesitate.

"Go on--go on!" I said, eagerly.

"About forty years ago," resumed the Major, placidly, "in the little, old, unheard-of town Karnteel, County Tyrone, Province Ulster, Ireland, Tommy Stafford--in spite of the contrary opinion of his wretchedly poor parents--was fortunate enough to be born. And here, again, as I advised you the other day, you must be prepared for constant surprises in the study of Tommy's character."

"Go on," I said; "I'm prepared for anything."

The Major smiled profoundly and continued:--

"Fifteen years ago, when he came to America--and the Lord only knows how he got the passage-money--he brought his widowed mother with him here, and has supported, and is still supporting her. Besides," went on the still secretly smiling Major, "the fellow has actually found time, through all his adversities, to pick up quite a smattering of education, here and there--"

"Poor fellow!" I broke in, sympathizingly, "what a pity it is that he couldn't have had such advantages earlier in life," and as I recalled the broad brogue of the fellow, together with his careless dress, recognizing beneath it all the native talent and brilliancy of a mind of most uncommon worth, I could not restrain a deep sigh of compassion and regret.

The Major was leaning forward in the gathering dusk, and evidently studying my own face, the expression of which, at that moment, was very grave and solemn, I am sure. He suddenly threw himself backward in his chair, in an uncontrollable burst of laughter. "Oh, I just can't keep it up any longer," he exclaimed.

"Keep what up?" I queried, in a perfect maze of bewilderment and surprise. "Keep what up?" I repeated.

"Why, all this twaddle, farce, travesty and by-play regarding Tommy! You know I warned you, over and over, and you mustn't blame me for the deception. I never thought you'd take it so in earnest!" and here the jovial Major again went into convulsions of laughter.

"But I don't understand a word of it all," I cried, half frenzied with the gnarl and tangle of the whole affair. "What 'twaddle, farce and by-play,' is it anyhow?" And in my vexation, I found myself on my feet and striding nervously up and down the paved walk that joined the street with the piazza, pausing at last and confronting the Major almost petulantly. "Please explain," I said, controlling my vexation with an effort.

The Major arose. "Your striding up and down there reminds me that a little stroll on the street might do us both good," he said. "Will you wait until I get a coat and hat?"

He rejoined me a moment later, and we passed through the open gate; and saying, "Let's go down this way," he took my arm and turned into a street, where, cooling as the dusk was, the thick maples lining the walk, seemed to throw a special shade of tranquility upon us.

"What I meant was"--began the Major, in low, serious voice,--"What I meant was--simply this: Our friend Tommy, though the truest Irishman in the world, is a man quite the opposite everyway of the character he has appeared to you. All that rich brogue of his is assumed. Though he's poor, as I told you, when he came here, his native quickness, and his marvelous resources, tact, judgment, business qualities--all have helped him to the equivalent of a liberal education. His love of the humorous and the ridiculous is unbounded; but he has serious moments, as well, and at such times is as dignified and refined in speech and manner as any man you'd find in a thousand. He is a good speaker, can stir a political convention to fomentation when he gets fired up; and can write an article for the press that goes spang to the spot. He gets into a great many personal encounters of a rather undignified character; but they are almost invariably bred of his innate interest in the 'under dog,' and the fire and tow of his impetuous nature."

My companion had paused here, and was looking through some printed slips in his pocket-book. "I wanted you to see some of the fellow's articles in print, but I have nothing of importance here--only some of his 'doggerel,' as he calls it, and you've had a sample of that. But here's a bit of the upper spirit of the man--and still another that you should hear him recite. You can keep them both if you care to. The boys all fell in love with that last one, particularly, hearing his rendition of it. So we had a lot printed, and I have two or three left. Put these two in your pocket and read at your leisure."

But I read them there and then, as eagerly, too, as I append them here and now. The first is called--

SAYS HE.

"Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be, It's plaze, if ye will, an' I'll say me say,-- Supposin' to-day was the winterest day, Wud the weather be changing because ye cried, Or the snow be grass were ye crucified? The best is to make your own summer," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be!

"Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be, It's the songs ye sing, an' the smiles ye wear, That's a-makin' the sunshine everywhere, An' the world of gloom is a world of glee, Wid the bird in the bush, an' the bud in the tree, An' the fruit on the stim of the bough," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be!

"Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be, Ye can bring the Spring, wid its green an' gold, An' the grass in the grove where the snow lies cold, An' ye'll warm yer back, wid a smiling face, As ye sit at yer heart like an owld fire-place, An' toast the toes o' yer soul," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be!"

"Now" said the Major, peering eagerly above my shoulder, "go on with the next. To my liking, it is even better than the first. A type of character you'll recognize.--The same 'broth of a boy,' only _Americanized_, don't you know."

And I read the scrap entitled--

CHAIRLEY BURKE.

It's Chairley Burke's in town, b'ys! He's down til "Jamesy's Place," Wid a bran' new shave upon 'um, an' the fhwhuskers aff his face; He's quit the Section Gang last night, and yez can chalk it down, There's goin' to be the divil's toime, sence Chairley Burke's in town.

It's treatin' iv'ry b'y he is, an' poundin' on the bar Till iv'ry man he 's drinkin' wid must shmoke a foine cigar; An' Missus Murphy's little Kate, that's comin' there for beer, Can't pay wan cint the bucketful, the whilst that Chairley's here!

He's joompin' oor the tops o' sthools, the both forninst an' back! He'll lave yez pick the blessed flure, an' walk the straightest crack! He's liftin' barrels wid his teeth, and singin' "Garry Owen," Till all the house be strikin' hands, sence Chairley Burke's in town.

The Road-Yaird hands comes dhroppin' in, an' niver goin' back; An' there 's two freights upon the switch--the wan on aither track-- An' Mr. Gearry, from The Shops, he's mad enough to swear, An' durst n't spake a word but grin, the whilst that Chairley's there!

Oh! Chairley! Chairley! Chairley Burke! ye divil, wid yer ways O' dhrivin' all the throubles aff, these dark an' gloomy days! Ohone! that it's meself, wid all the griefs I have to drown, Must lave me pick to resht a bit, sence Chairley Burke's in town!

"Before we turn back, now," said the smiling Major, as I stood lingering over the indefinable humor of the last refrain, "before we turn back I want to show you something eminently characteristic. Come this way a half dozen steps."

As he spoke I looked up, to first observe that we had paused before a handsome square brick residence, centering a beautiful smooth lawn, its emerald only littered with the light gold of the earliest autumn leaves. On either side of the trim walk that led up from the gate to the carved stone ballusters of the broad piazza, with its empty easy chairs, were graceful vases, frothing over with late blossoms, and wreathed with laurel-looking vines; and, luxuriantly lacing the border of the pave that turned the further corner of the house, blue, white and crimson, pink and violet, went fading in perspective as my gaze followed the gesture of the Major's.

"Here, come a little further. Now do you see that man there?"

Yes, I could make out a figure in the deepening dusk--the figure of a man on the back stoop--a tired looking man, in his shirt-sleeves, who sat upon a low chair--no, not a chair--an empty box. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and the hands dropped limp. He was smoking, too, I could barely see his pipe, and but for the odor of very strong tobacco, would not have known he had a pipe. Why does the master of the house permit his servants to so desecrate this beautiful home? I thought.

"Well, shall we go now?" said the Major.

I turned silently and we retraced our steps. I think neither of us spoke for the distance of a square.

"Guess you didn't know the man there on the back porch?" said the Major.

"No; why?" I asked dubiously.

"I hardly thought you would, and besides the poor fellow's tired, and it was best not to disturb him," said the Major.

"Why; who was it--some one I know?"

"It was Tommy."

"Oh," said I, inquiringly, "he's employed there in some capacity?"

"Yes, as master of the house."

"You don't mean it?"

"I certainly do. He owns it, and made every cent of the money that paid for it!" said the Major proudly. "That's why I wanted you particularly to note that 'eminent characteristic' I spoke of. Tommy could just as well be sitting, with a fine cigar, on the front piazza in an easy chair, as, with his dhudeen, on the back porch, on an empty box, where every night you'll find him. Its the unconscious dropping back into the old ways of his father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father. In brief, he sits there the poor lorn symbol of the long oppression of his race."

RAGWEED AND FENNEL

WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE.

I.

When my dreams come true--when my dreams come true-- Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and the dew, To listen--smile and listen to the tinkle of the strings Of the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings? And as the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view, Shall I vanish from his vision--when my dreams come true?

When my dreams come true--shall the simple gown I wear Be changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hair Be raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold, To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold?-- Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to "The fervor of his passion"--when my dreams come true?

II.

When my dreams come true--I shall bide among the sheaves Of happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leaves Shall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun, Till the noon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done-- Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers do The meanest sheaf of harvest--when my dreams come true.

When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true! True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;-- The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eye Than any lily born of pride that looms against the sky: And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you, My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true.

A DOS'T O' BLUES.

I' got no patience with blues at all! And I ust to kindo talk Aginst 'em, and claim, 'tel along last Fall, They was none in the fambly stock; But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy, That visited us last year, He kindo convinct me differunt While he was a-stayin' here.

Frum ever'-which way that blues is from, They'd tackle him ever' ways; They'd come to him in the night, and come On Sundays, and rainy days; They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time, And in harvest, and airly Fall, But a dose 't of blues in the wintertime, He 'lowed, was the worst of all!

Said all diseases that ever he had-- The mumps, er the rheumatiz-- Er ever'-other-day-aigger's bad Purt' nigh as anything is!-- Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck, Er a felon on his thumb,-- But you keep the blues away from him, And all o' the rest could come!

And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below! Ner a spear o' grass in sight! And the whole wood-pile's clean under snow! And the days is dark as night! You can't go out--ner you can't stay in-- Lay down--stand up--ner set!" And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues Would double him jest clean shet!

I writ his parents a postal-kyard, He could stay 'tel Spring-time come; And Aprile first, as I rickollect, Was the day we shipped him home! Most o' his relatives, sence then, Has either give up, er quit, Er jest died off; but I understand He's the same old color yit!

THE BAT.

I.

Thou dread, uncanny thing, With fuzzy breast and leathern wing, In mad, zigzagging flight, Notching the dusk, and buffeting The black cheeks of the night, With grim delight!

II.

What witch's hand unhasps Thy keen claw-cornered wings From under the barn roof, and flings Thee forth, with chattering gasps, To scud the air, And nip the lady-bug, and tear Her children's hearts out unaware?

III.

The glow-worm's glimmer, and the bright, Sad pulsings of the fire-fly's light, Are banquet lights to thee. O less than bird, and worse than beast, Thou Devil's self, or brat, at least, Grate not thy teeth at me!

THE WAY IT WUZ.

Las' July--an', I persume 'Bout as hot As the ole Gran'-Jury room Where they sot!-- Fight 'twixt Mike an' Dock McGriff-- 'Pears to me jes' like as if I'd a dremp' the whole blame thing-- Allus ha'nts me roun' the gizzard When they're nightmares on the wing, An' a feller's blood's jes' friz! Seed the row from a to izzard-- 'Cause I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

Tell you the way it wuz-- An' I do n't want to see, Like _some_ fellers does, When they 're goern to be Any kind o' fuss-- On'y makes a rumpus wuss Far to interfere When their dander's riz-- But I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

I wuz kind o' strayin' Past the blame saloon-- Heerd some fiddler playin' That "ole hee-cup tune!" Sort o' stopped, you know, Far a minit er so, And wuz jes' about

Settin' down, when--_Jeemses-whizz!_ Whole durn winder-sash fell out! An' there laid Doc McGriff, and Mike A-straddlin' him, all bloody-like, An' both a-gittin' down to biz!-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

I wuz the on'y man aroun'-- (Durn old-fogy town! 'Peared more like, to me, _Sund'y_ 'an _Saturd'y!)_ Dog come 'crost the road An' tuck a smell An' put right back; Mishler driv by 'ith a load O' cantalo'pes he couldn't sell-- Too mad, 'y jack! To even ast What wuz up, as he went past! Weather most outrageous hot!-- Fairly hear it sizz Roun' Dock an' Mike--till Dock he shot, An' Mike he slacked that grip o' his An' fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz 'Bout half up, a-spittin' red, An' shuck his head-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

An' Dock he says, A-whisperin'-like,-- "It hain't no use A-tryin'!--Mike He's jes' ripped my daylights loose!-- Git that blame-don fiddler to Let up, an' come out here--You Got some burryin' to do,-- Mike makes _one_, an' I expects In ten seconds I'll make _two_!" And he drapped back, where he riz, 'Crost Mike's body, black and blue, Like a great big letter X!-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

THE DRUM.

O the drum! There is some Intonation in thy grum Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, As we hear Through the clear And unclouded atmosphere, Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the car!

There's a part Of the art Of thy music-throbbing heart That thrills a something in us that awakens with a start, And in rhyme With the chime And exactitude of time, Goes marching on to glory to thy melody sublime.

And the guest Of the breast That thy rolling robs of rest Is a patriotic spirit as a Continental dressed; And he looms From the glooms Of a century of tombs, And the blood he spilled at Lexington in living beauty blooms.

And his eyes Wear the guise Of a purpose pure and wise, As the love of them is lifted to a something in the skies That is bright Red and white, With a blur of starry light, As it laughs in silken ripples to the breezes day and night.

There are deep Hushes creep O'er the pulses as they leap, As thy tumult, fainter growing, on the silence falls asleep, While the prayer Rising there Wills the sea and earth and air As a heritage to Freedom's sons and daughters everywhere.

Then, with sound As profound As the thunderings resound, Come thy wild reverberations in a throe that shakes the ground, And a cry Flung on high, Like the flag it flutters by, Wings rapturously upward till it nestles in the sky.

O the drum! There is some Intonation in thy grum Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, As we hear Through the clear And unclouded atmosphere, Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear!

TOM JOHNSON'S QUIT.

A passel o' the boys last night-- An' me amongst 'em--kindo got To talkin' Temper'nce left an' right, An' workin' up "blue-ribbon," _hot_; An' while we was a-countin' jes' How many bed gone into hit An' signed the pledge, some feller says,-- "Tom Johnson's quit!"

We laughed, of course--'cause Tom, you know, _He's_ spiled more whisky, boy an' man, And seed more trouble, high an' low, Than any chap but Tom could stand: And so, says I "_He's_ too nigh dead. Far Temper'nce to benefit!" The feller sighed agin, and said-- "Tom Johnson's quit!"

We all _liked_ Tom, an' that was why We sorto simmered down agin, And ast the feller ser'ously Ef he wa'n't tryin' to draw us in: He shuck his head--tuck off his hat-- Helt up his hand an' opened hit, An' says, says he, "I'll _swear_ to that-- Tom Johnson's quit!"

Well, we was stumpt, an' tickled too,-- Because we knowed ef Tom _had_ signed Ther wa'n't no man 'at wore the "blue" 'At was more honester inclined: An' then and there we kindo riz,-- The hull dern gang of us 'at bit-- An' th'owed our hats and let 'er whizz,-- "_Tom Johnson's quit!_"

I've heerd 'em holler when the balls Was buzzin' 'round us wus 'n bees, An' when the ole flag on the walls Was flappin' o'er the enemy's, I've heerd a-many a wild "hooray" 'At made my heart git up an' git-- But Lord!--to hear 'em shout that way!-- "_Tom Johnson's quit!_"

But when we saw the chap 'at fetched The news wa'n't jinin' in the cheer, But stood there solemn-like, an' reched An' kindo wiped away a tear, We someway sorto' stilled agin, And listened--I kin hear him yit, His voice a-wobblin' with his chin,-- "Tom Johnson's quit--

"I hain't a-givin' you no game-- I wisht I was!... An hour ago, This operator--what's his name-- The one 'at works at night, you know?-- Went out to flag that Ten Express, And sees a man in front of hit Th'ow up his hands an' stagger--yes,-- _Tom Johnson's quit_."

LULLABY.

The maple strews the embers of its leaves O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves; And the moody cricket falters in his cry--Baby-bye!-- And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky--Baby-bye!-- The lid of night is falling o'er the sky!

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup Of the frosted calla-lily folded up; And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh--Baby-bye!-- O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie--Baby-bye!-- O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!

Yet, Baby--O my Baby, for your sake This heart of mine is ever wide awake, And my love may never droop a drowsy eye--Baby-bye!-- Till your own are wet above me when I die--Baby-bye!-- Till your own are wet above me when I die.

IN THE SOUTH.

There is a princess in the South About whose beauty rumors hum Like honey-bees about the mouth Of roses dewdrops falter from; And O her hair is like the fine Clear amber of a jostled wine In tropic revels; and her eyes Are blue as rifts of Paradise.

Such beauty as may none before Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips Of fingers such as knights of yore Had died to lift against their lips: Such eyes as might the eyes of gold Of all the stars of night behold With glittering envy, and so glare In dazzling splendor of despair.

So, were I but a minstrel, deft At weaving, with the trembling strings Of my glad harp, the warp and weft Of rondels such as rapture sings,-- I'd loop my lyre across my breast, Nor stay me till my knee found rest In midnight banks of bud and flower Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.

And there, drenched with the teary dews, I'd woo her with such wondrous art As well might stanch the songs that ooze Out of the mockbird's breaking heart; So light, so tender, and so sweet Should be the words I would repeat, Her casement, on my gradual sight, Would blossom as a lily might.

THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL.