Chapter 2

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood That now but in mem'ry I sadly review; The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood, The rail fence, and horses all tethered thereto; The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple, The doves that came fluttering out overhead As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

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The blessed old volume! The face bent above it-- As now I recall it--is gravely severe, Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear, And, as down his features it trickles and glistens, The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derision And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies In the dust of the past, while this newer revision Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies? Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven? Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said, When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven To hear the old Bible my grandfather read? The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

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GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO

Say good-by er howdy-do-- What's the odds betwixt the two? Comin'--goin', ev'ry day-- Best friends first to go away-- Grasp of hands you'd ruther hold Than their weight in solid gold Slips their grip while greetin' you.-- Say good-by er howdy-do!

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Howdy-do, and then, good-by-- Mixes jes' like laugh and cry; Deaths and births, and worst and best, Tangled their contrariest; Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bell Skeerin' up some funer'l knell.-- Here's my song, and there's your sigh.-- Howdy-do, and then, good-by!

Say good-by er howdy-do-- Jes' the same to me and you; 'Taint worth while to make no fuss, 'Cause the job's put up on us! Some One's runnin' this concern That's got nothin' else to learn: Ef _He's_ willin', we'll pull through-- Say good-by er howdy-do!

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WHEN WE THREE MEET

When we three meet? Ah! friend of mine Whose verses well and flow as wine,-- My thirsting fancy thou dost fill With draughts delicious, sweeter still Since tasted by those lips of thine.

I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine Of autumn, with a warmth divine, Thrilled through as only I shall thrill When we three meet.

I pledge thee, if we fast or dine, We yet shall loosen, line by line, Old ballads, and the blither trill Of our-time singers--for there will Be with us all the Muses nine When we three meet.

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"THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP"

When I was a little boy, long ago, And spoke of the theater as the "show," The first one that I went to see, Mother's brother it was took me-- (My uncle, of course, though he seemed to be Only a boy--I loved him so!) And ah, how pleasant he made it all! And the things he knew that _I_ should know!-- The stage, the "drop," and the frescoed wall; The sudden flash of the lights; and oh, The orchestra, with its melody, And the lilt and jingle and jubilee Of "The Little Man in the Tinshop"!

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For Uncle showed me the "Leader" there, With his pale, bleak forehead and long, black hair; Showed me the "Second," and "'Cello," and "Bass," And the "B-Flat," pouting and puffing his face At the little end of the horn he blew Silvery bubbles of music through; And he coined me names of them, each in turn, Some comical name that I laughed to learn, Clean on down to the last and best,-- The lively little man, never at rest, Who hides away at the end of the string, And tinkers and plays on everything,-- That's "The Little Man in the Tinshop"!

Raking a drum like a rattle of hail, Clinking a cymbal or castanet; Chirping a twitter or sending a wail Through a piccolo that thrills me yet; Reeling ripples of riotous bells, And tipsy tinkles of triangles-- Wrangled and tangled in skeins of sound Till it seemed that my very soul spun round, As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye And said, with the courtliest wave of his hand, "Why, that little master of all the band Is 'The Little Man in the Tinshop'!

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"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful, And Paganini, and Ole Bull, Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn, And fair Parepa, whose matchless tone Karl, her master, with magic bow, Blent with the angels', and held her so Tranced till the rapturous Infinite-- And I've heard arias, faint and low, From many an operatic light Glimmering on my swimming sight Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last, I still sit, holding my roses fast For 'The Little Man in the Tinshop.'"

Oho! my Little Man, joy to you-- And _yours_--and _theirs_--your lifetime through! Though _I've_ heard melodies, boy and man, Since first "the show" of my life began, Never yet have I listened to Sadder, madder, or gladder glees Than your unharmonied harmonies; For yours is the music that appeals To all the fervor the boy's heart feels-- All his glories, his wildest cheers, His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears; And so, with his first bouquet, he kneels To "The Little Man in the Tinshop."

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TOMMY SMITH

Dimple-cheeked and rosy-lipped, With his cap-rim backward tipped, Still in fancy I can see Little Tommy smile on me-- Little Tommy Smith.

Little unsung Tommy Smith-- Scarce a name to rhyme it with; Yet most tenderly to me Something sings unceasingly-- Little Tommy Smith.

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On the verge of some far land Still forever does he stand, With his cap-rim rakishly Tilted; so he smiles on me-- Little Tommy Smith.

Elder-blooms contrast the grace Of the rover's radiant face-- Whistling back, in mimicry, "Old--Bob--White!" all liquidly-- Little Tommy Smith.

O my jaunty statuette Of first love, I see you yet. Though you smile so mistily, It is but through tears I see, Little Tommy Smith.

But, with crown tipped back behind, And the glad hand of the wind Smoothing back your hair, I see Heaven's best angel smile on me,-- Little Tommy Smith.

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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.

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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!

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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 summer-time.

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.

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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 firelight 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.

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OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun; It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not, Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;

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It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black, And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;-- But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay, And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway; I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall, That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all; I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can; I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman; But most I like--with you, my boy--our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

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MY BACHELOR CHUM

A corpulent man is my bachelor chum, With a neck apoplectic and thick-- An abdomen on him as big as a drum, And a fist big enough for the stick; With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case, And a wobble uncertain--as though His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace That in youth used to favor him so.

He is forty, at least; and the top of his head Is a bald and a glittering thing; And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red As three rival roses in spring;

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His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in, And his laugh is so breezy and bright That it ripples his features and dimples his chin With a billowy look of delight.

He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw"-- That "the ills of a bachelor's life Are blisses, compared with a mother-in-law And a boarding-school miss for a wife!" So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks, And he dines and he wines, all alone, With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks Of the comforts he never has known.

But up in his den--(Ah, my bachelor chum!)-- I have sat with him there in the gloom, When the laugh of his lips died away to become But a phantom of mirth in the room. And to look on him there you would love him, for all His ridiculous ways, and be dumb As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall On the tears of my bachelor chum.

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ART AND POETRY

TO HOMER DAVENPORT

Wess he says, and sort o' grins, "Art and Poetry is twins!

"Yit, if I'd my pick, I'd shake Poetry, and no mistake!

"Pictures, allus, 'peared to _me_, Clean laid over Poetry!

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"Let me _draw_, and then, i jings, I'll not keer a straw who sings.

"'F I could draw as you have drew, Like to jes' swop pens with you!

"Picture-drawin' 's my pet vision Of Life-work in Lands Elysian.

"Pictures is first language we Find hacked out in History.

"Most delight we ever took Was in our first Picture-book.

"'Thout the funny picture-makers, They'd be lots more undertakers!

"Still, as I say, Rhymes and Art 'Smighty hard to tell apart.

"Songs and pictures go together Same as birds and summer weather."

So Wess says, and sort o' grins, "Art and Poetry is twins."

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DOWN TO THE CAPITAL

I' be'n down to the Capital at Washington, D. C., Where Congerss meets and passes on the pensions ort to be Allowed to old one-legged chaps, like me, 'at sence the war Don't wear their pants in pairs at all--and yit how proud we are!

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Old Flukens, from our deestrick, jes' turned in and tuck and made Me stay with him whilse I was there; and longer 'at I stayed The more I kep' a-wantin' jes' to kind o' git away, And yit a-feelin' sociabler with Flukens ever' day.

You see I'd got the idy--and I guess most folks agrees-- 'At men as rich as him, you know, kin do jes' what they please; A man worth stacks o' money, and a Congerssman and all, And livin' in a buildin' bigger'n Masonic Hall!

Now mind, I'm not a-faultin' Fluke--he made his money square: We both was Forty-niners, and both bu'sted gittin' there; I weakened and onwindlassed, and he stuck and stayed and made His millions; don't know what _I'm_ worth untel my pension's paid.

But I was goin' to tell you--er a-ruther goin' to try To tell you how he's livin' now: gas burnin' mighty nigh In ever' room about the house; and ever' night, about, Some blame reception goin' on, and money goin' out.

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They's people there from all the world--jes' ever' kind 'at lives, Injuns and all! and Senators, and Ripresentatives; And girls, you know, jes' dressed in gauze and roses, I declare, And even old men shamblin' round a-waltzin' with 'em there!

And bands a-tootin' circus-tunes, 'way in some other room Jes' chokin' full o' hothouse plants and pinies and perfume; And fountains, squirtin' stiddy all the time; and statutes, made Out o' puore marble, 'peared-like, sneakin' round there in the shade.

And Fluke he coaxed and begged and pled with me to take a hand And sashay in amongst 'em--crutch and all, you understand; But when I said how tired I was, and made fer open air, He follered, and tel five o'clock we set a-talkin' there.

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"My God!" says he--Fluke says to me, "I'm tireder'n you! Don't putt up yer tobacker tel you give a man a chew. Set back a leetle furder in the shadder--that'll do; I'm tireder'n you, old man; I'm tireder'n you.

"You see that-air old dome," says he, "humped up ag'inst the sky? It's grand, first time you see it; but it changes, by and by, And then it stays jes' thataway--jes' anchored high and dry Betwixt the sky up yender and the achin' of yer eye.

"Night's purty; not so purty, though, as what it ust to be When my first wife was livin'. You remember her?" says he. I nodded-like, and Fluke went on, "I wonder now ef she Knows where I am--and what I am--and what I ust to be?

"That band in there!--I ust to think 'at music couldn't wear A feller out the way it does; but that ain't music there-- That's jes' a' _imitation_, and like ever'thing, I swear, I hear, er see, er tetch, er taste, er tackle anywhere!

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"It's all jes' _artificial_, this-'ere high-priced life of ours; The theory, it's sweet enough, tel it saps down and sours. They's no _home_ left, ner _ties_ o' home about it. By the powers, The whole thing's artificialer'n artificial flowers!

"And all I want, and could lay down and sob fer, is to know The homely things of homely life; fer instance, jes' to go And set down by the kitchen stove--Lord! that 'u'd rest me so,-- Jes' set there, like I ust to do, and laugh and joke, you know.

"Jes' set there, like I ust to do," says Fluke, a-startin' in, 'Peared-like, to say the whole thing over to hisse'f ag'in; Then stopped and turned, and kind o' coughed, and stooped and fumbled fer Somepin' o' 'nuther in the grass--I guess his handkercher.

Well, sence I'm back from Washington, where I left Fluke a-still A-leggin' fer me, heart and soul, on that-air pension bill, I've half-way struck the notion, when I think o' wealth and sich, They's nothin' much patheticker'n jes' a-bein' rich!

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OLD CHUMS

"If I die first," my old chum paused to say, "Mind! not a whimper of regret:--instead, Laugh and be glad, as I shall.--Being dead, I shall not lodge so very far away But that our mirth shall mingle.--So, the day The word comes, joy with me." "I'll try," I said, Though, even speaking, sighed and shook my head And turned, with misted eyes. His roundelay Rang gaily on the stair; and then the door Opened and--closed. . . . Yet something of the clear, Hale hope, and force of wholesome faith he had Abided with me--strengthened more and more.-- Then--then they brought his broken body here: And I laughed--whisperingly--and we were glad.

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SCOTTY

Scotty's dead--Of course he is! Jes' that same old luck of his!-- Ever sence we went cahoots He's be'n first, you bet yer boots! When our schoolin' first begun, Got two whippin's to my one: Stold and smoked the first cigar: Stood up first before the bar, Takin' whisky-straight--and me Wastin' time on "blackberry"!

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Beat me in the Army, too, And clean on the whole way through! In more scrapes around the camp, And more troubles, on the tramp: Fought and fell there by my side With more bullets in his hide, And more glory in the cause,-- That's the kind o' man _he_ was! Luck liked Scotty more'n me.-- _I_ got married: Scotty, he Never even would _apply_ Fer the pension-money I Had to beg of "Uncle Sam"-- That's the kind o' cuss _I_ am!-- Scotty allus first and best-- Me the last and ornriest! Yit fer all that's said and done-- All the battles fought and won-- We hain't prospered, him ner me-- Both as pore as pore could be,-- Though we've allus, up tel now, Stuck together anyhow-- Scotty allus, as I've said, Luckiest--And now he's _dead_!

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THE OLD MAN

Lo! steadfast and serene, In patient pause between The seen and the unseen, What gentle zephyrs fan Your silken silver hair,-- And what diviner air Breathes round you like a prayer, Old Man?

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Can you, in nearer view Of Glory, pierce the blue Of happy Heaven through; And, listening mutely, can Your senses, dull to us, Hear Angel-voices thus, In chorus glorious-- Old Man?

In your reposeful gaze The dusk of Autumn days Is blent with April haze, As when of old began The bursting of the bud Of rosy babyhood-- When all the world was good, Old Man.

And yet I find a sly Little twinkle in your eye; And your whisperingly shy Little laugh is simply an Internal shout of glee That betrays the fallacy You'd perpetrate on me, Old Man.

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So just put up the frown That your brows are pulling down! Why, the fleetest boy in town, As he bared his feet and ran, Could read with half a glance-- And of keen rebuke, perchance-- Your secret countenance, Old Man.

Now, honestly, confess: Is an old man any less Than the little child we bless And caress when we can? Isn't age but just a place Where you mask the childish face To preserve its inner grace, Old Man?

Hasn't age a truant day, Just as that you went astray In the wayward, restless way, When, brown with dust and tan, Your roguish face essayed, In solemn masquerade, To hide the smile it made, Old Man?

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Now, fair, and square, and true, Don't your old soul tremble through, As in youth it used to do When it brimmed and overran With the strange, enchanted sights, And the splendors and delights Of the old "Arabian Nights," Old Man?

When, haply, you have fared Where glad Aladdin shared His lamp with you, and dared The Afrite and his clan; And, with him, clambered through The trees where jewels grew-- And filled your pockets, too, Old Man?

Or, with Sinbad, at sea-- And in veracity Who has sinned as bad as he, Or would, or will, or can?-- Have you listened to his lies, With open mouth and eyes, And learned his art likewise, Old Man?

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And you need not deny That your eyes were wet as dry, Reading novels on the sly! And review them, if you can And the same warm tears will fall-- Only faster, that is all-- Over Little Nell and Paul, Old Man!

Oh, you were a lucky lad-- Just as good as you were bad! And the host of friends you had-- Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan; And the old School-Teacher, too, Though he often censured you; And the girls in pink and blue, Old Man.

And--as often you have leant, In boyish sentiment, To kiss the letter sent By Nelly, Belle, or Nan-- Wherein the rose's hue Was red, the violet blue-- And sugar sweet--and you, Old Man,--

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So, to-day, as lives the bloom, And the sweetness, and perfume Of the blossoms, I assume, On the same mysterious plan The Master's love assures, That the selfsame boy endures In that hale old heart of yours, Old Man.

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JAMES B. MAYNARD

His daily, nightly task is o'er-- He leans above his desk no more.

His pencil and his pen say not One further word of gracious thought.

All silent is his _voice_, yet clear For all a grateful world to hear;

He poured abroad his human love In opulence unmeasured of--

While, in return, his meek demand,-- The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand

In recognition of the true World's duty that he lived to do.

So was he kin of yours and mine-- So, even by the hallowed sign

Of silence which he listens to, He hears our tears as falls the dew.

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THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN

O Printerman of sallow face, And look of absent guile, Is it the 'copy' on your 'case' That causes you to smile? Or is it some old treasure scrap You call from Memory's file?

"I fain would guess its mystery-- For often I can trace A fellow dreamer's history Whene'er it haunts the face; Your fancy's running riot In a retrospective race!

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