Chapter 3

"Ah, Printerman, you're straying Afar from 'stick' and type-- Your heart has 'gone a-maying,' And you taste old kisses, ripe Again on lips that pucker At your old asthmatic pipe!

"You are dreaming of old pleasures That have faded from your view; And the music-burdened measures Of the laughs you listen to Are now but angel-echoes-- O, have I spoken true?"

The ancient Printer hinted With a motion full of grace To where the words were printed On a card above his "case,"-- "'I am deaf and dumb!" I left him With a smile upon his face.

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THE OLD MAN AND JIM

Old man never had much to say-- 'Ceptin' to Jim,-- And Jim was the wildest boy he had-- And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! Never heerd him speak but once Er twice in my life,--and first time was When the army broke out, and Jim he went, The old man backin' him, fer three months; And all 'at I heerd the old man say Was, jes' as we turned to start away,-- "Well, good-by, Jim: Take keer o' yourse'f!"

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'Peared-like, he was more satisfied Jes' _lookin'_ at Jim And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?-- 'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him! And over and over I mind the day The old man come and stood round in the way While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim-- And down at the deepo a-heerin' him say, "Well, good-by, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

Never was nothin' about the _farm_ Disting'ished Jim; Neighbors all ust to wonder why The old man 'peared wrapped up in him; But when Cap. Biggler he writ back 'At Jim was the bravest boy we had In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad-- 'At he had led, with a bullet clean Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen,-- The old man wound up a letter to him 'At Cap. read to us, 'at said: "Tell Jim Good-by, And take keer of hisse'f."

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Jim come home jes' long enough To take the whim 'At he'd like to go back in the calvery-- And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore, Guessed he'd tackle her three years more. And the old man give him a colt he'd raised, And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade, And laid around fer a week er so, Watchin' Jim on dress-parade-- Tel finally he rid away, And last he heerd was the old man say,-- "Well, good-by, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

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Tuk the papers, the old man did, A-watchin' fer Jim-- Fully believin' he'd make his mark _Some_ way--jes' wrapped up in him!-- And many a time the word 'u'd come 'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum-- At Petersburg, fer instunce, where Jim rid right into their cannons there, And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, And socked it home to the boys in gray As they scooted fer timber, and on and on-- Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone, And the old man's words in his mind all day,-- "Well, good-by, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

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Think of a private, now, perhaps, We'll say like Jim, 'At's dumb clean up to the shoulder-straps-- And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! Think of him--with the war plum' through, And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue A-laughin' the news down over Jim, And the old man, bendin' over him-- The surgeon turnin' away with tears 'At hadn't leaked fer years and years, As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to His father's, the old voice in his ears,-- "Well, good-by, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

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THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM

He puts the poem by, to say His eyes are not themselves to-day!

A sudden glamour o'er his sight-- A something vague, indefinite--

An oft-recurring blur that blinds The printed meaning of the lines,

And leaves the mind all dusk and dim In swimming darkness--strange to him!

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It is not childishness, I guess,-- Yet something of the tenderness

That used to wet his lashes when A boy seems troubling him again;--

The old emotion, sweet and wild, That drove him truant when a child,

That he might hide the tears that fell Above the lesson--"Little Nell."

And so it is he puts aside The poem he has vainly tried

To follow; and, as one who sighs In failure, through a poor disguise

Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say His eyes are not themselves to-day.

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MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET

Ah, friend of mine, how goes it Since you've taken you a mate?-- Your smile, though, plainly shows it Is a very happy state! Dan Cupid's necromancy! You must sit you down and dine, And lubricate your fancy With a glass or two of wine.

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And as you have "deserted," As my other chums have done, While I laugh alone diverted, As you drop off one by one--- And I've remained unwedded, Till--you see--look here--that I'm, In a manner, "snatched bald-headed" By the sportive hand of Time!

I'm an "old 'un!" yes, but wrinkles Are not so plenty, quite, As to cover up the twinkles Of the _boy_--ain't I right? Yet there are ghosts of kisses Under this mustache of mine My mem'ry only misses When I drown 'em out with wine.

From acknowledgment so ample, You would hardly take me for What I am--a perfect sample Of a "jolly bachelor"; Not a bachelor has being When he laughs at married life But his heart and soul's agreeing That he ought to have a wife!

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Ah, ha! old chum, this claret, Like Fatima, holds the key Of the old Blue-Beardish garret Of my hidden mystery! Did you say you'd like to listen? Ah, my boy! the "_Sad No More!_" And the tear-drops that will glisten-- _Turn the catch upon the door,_

And sit you down beside me And put yourself at ease-- I'll trouble you to slide me That wine decanter, please; The path is kind o' mazy Where my fancies have to go, And my heart gets sort o' lazy On the journey--don't you know?

Let me see--when I was twenty-- It's a lordly age, my boy, When a fellow's money's plenty, And the leisure to enjoy--

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And a girl--with hair as golden As--_that_; and lips--well--quite As red as _this_ I'm holdin' Between you and the light?

And eyes and a complexion-- Ah, heavens!--le'-me-see-- Well,--just in this connection,-- _Did you lock that door for me?_ Did I start in recitation My past life to recall? Well, _that's_ an indication I am purty tight--that's all!

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IN THE HEART OF JUNE

In the heart of June, love, You and I together, On from dawn till noon, love, Laughing with the weather; Blending both our souls, love, In the selfsame tune, Drinking all life holds, love, In the heart of June.

In the heart of June, love, With its golden weather, Underneath the moon, love, You and I together. Ah! how sweet to seem, love, Drugged and half aswoon With this luscious dream, love, In the heart of June.

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THE OLD BAND

It's mighty good to git back to the old town, shore, Considerin' I've be'n away twenty year and more. Sence I moved then to Kansas, of course I see a change, A-comin' back, and notice things that's new to me and strange; Especially at evening when yer new band-fellers meet, In fancy uniforms and all, and play out on the street-- . . . What's come of old Bill Lindsey and the Saxhorn fellers--say? I want to hear the _old_ band play.

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What's come of Eastman, and Nat Snow? And where's War Barnett at? And Nate and Bony Meek; Bill Hart; Tom Richa'son and that- Air brother of him played the drum as twic't as big as Jim; And old Hi Kerns, the carpenter--say, what's become o' him? I make no doubt yer _new band_ now's a _competenter_ band, And plays their music more by note than what they play by hand, And stylisher and grander tunes; but somehow--anyway, I want to hear the _old_ band play.

Sich tunes as "John Brown's Body" and "Sweet Alice," don't you know; And "The Camels is A-comin'," and "John Anderson, my Jo"; And a dozent others of 'em--"Number Nine" and "Number 'Leven" Was favo-_rites_ that fairly made a feller dream o' Heaven. And when the boys 'u'd saranade, I've laid so still in bed I've even heerd the locus'-blossoms droppin' on the shed When "Lilly Dale," er "Hazel Dell," had sobbed and died away-- . . . I want to hear the _old_ band play.

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Yer _new_ band ma'by beats it, but the _old band's_ what I said-- It allus 'peared to kind o' chord with somepin' in my head; And, whilse I'm no musicianer, when my blame' eyes is jes' Nigh drownded out, and Mem'ry squares her jaws and sort o' says She _won't_ ner _never_ will fergit, I want to jes' turn in And take and light right out o' here and git back West ag'in And _stay_ there, when I git there, where I never haf to say I want to hear the _old_ band play.

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MY FRIEND

"He is my friend," I said,-- "Be patient!" Overhead The skies were drear and dim; And lo! the thought of him Smiled on my heart--and then The sun shone out again!

"He is my friend!" The words Brought summer and the birds; And all my winter-time Thawed into running rhyme And rippled into song, Warm, tender, brave, and strong.

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And so it sings to-day.-- So may it sing alway! Though waving grasses grow Between, and lilies blow Their trills of perfume clear As laughter to the ear, Let each mute measure end With "Still he is thy friend."

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THE TRAVELING MAN

I

Could I pour out the nectar the gods only can, I would fill up my glass to the brim And drink the success of the Traveling Man, And the house represented by him; And could I but tincture the glorious draught With his smiles, as I drank to him then, And the jokes he has told and the laughs he has laughed, I would fill up the goblet again--

And drink to the sweetheart who gave him good-by With a tenderness thrilling him this Very hour, as he thinks of the tear in her eye That salted the sweet of her kiss; To her truest of hearts and her fairest of hands I would drink, with all serious prayers, Since the heart she must trust is a Traveling Man's, And as warm as the ulster he wears.

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II

I would drink to the wife, with the babe on her knee, Who awaits his returning in vain-- Who breaks his brave letters so tremulously And reads them again and again! And I'd drink to the feeble old mother who sits At the warm fireside of her son And murmurs and weeps o'er the stocking she knits, As she thinks of the wandering one.

I would drink a long life and a health to the friends Who have met him with smiles and with cheer-- To the generous hand that the landlord extends To the wayfarer journeying here: And I pledge, when he turns from this earthly abode And pays the last fare that he can, Mine Host of the Inn at the End of the Road Will welcome the Traveling Man!

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DAN O'SULLIVAN

Dan O'Sullivan: It's your Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure!-- To be trillin' praise av me, Dhrippin' swhate wid poethry!-- Not that I'd not have ye sing-- Don't lave off for anything-- Jusht be aisy whilst the fit Av me head shwells up to it!

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man, Whilst yer singin', loike ye can, To cry shtop because ye've blesht My songs more than all the resht:-- I'll not be the b'y to ax Any shtar to wane or wax, Or ax any clock that's woun' To run up inshtid av down!

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Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan!-- Him that made the Irishman Mixt the birds in wid the dough, And the dew and mistletoe Wid the whusky in the quare Muggs av us--and here we air, Three parts right, and three parts wrong, Shpiked with beauty, wit and song!

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MY OLD FRIEND

You've a manner all so mellow, My old friend, That it cheers and warms a fellow, My old friend, Just to meet and greet you, and Feel the pressure of a hand That one may understand, My old friend.

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Though dimmed in youthful splendor, My old friend, Your smiles are still as tender, My old friend, And your eyes as true a blue As your childhood ever knew, And your laugh as merry, too, My old friend.

For though your hair is faded, My old friend, And your step a trifle jaded, My old friend, Old Time, with all his lures In the trophies he secures, Leaves young that heart of yours, My old friend.

And so it is you cheer me, My old friend, For to know you still are near me, My old friend, Makes my hopes of clearer light, And my faith of surer sight, And my soul a purer white, My old friend.

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OLD JOHN HENRY

Old John's jes' made o' the commonest stuff-- Old John Henry-- He's tough, I reckon,--but none too tough-- Too tough though's better than not enough! Says old John Henry. He does his best, and when his best's bad, He don't fret none, ner he don't git sad-- He simply 'lows it's the best he had: Old John Henry!

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His doctern's jes' o' the plainest brand-- Old John Henry-- A smilin' face and a hearty hand 'S religen 'at all folks understand, Says old John Henry. He's stove up some with the rhumatiz, And they hain't no shine on them shoes o' his, And his hair hain't cut--but his eye-teeth is: Old John Henry!

He feeds hisse'f when the stock's all fed-- Old John Henry-- And sleeps like a babe when he goes to bed-- And dreams o' Heaven and home-made bread, Says old John Henry. He hain't refined as he'd ort to be To fit the statutes o' poetry, Ner his clothes don't fit him--but _he_ fits _me_: Old John Henry!

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HER VALENTINE

Somebody's sent a funny little valentine to me. It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree, And hovering above them--just as cute as he can be-- Is a fairy Cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.

And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in his glee, With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most unerringly At a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and see That one is meant for "One Who Loves," and one is meant for me.

But I know the lad who sent it! It's as plain as A-B-C!-- For the roses they are _blushing_, and the vase stands _awkwardly_, And the little god above it--though as cute as he can be-- Can not breathe the lightest whisper of his burning love for me.

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CHRISTMAS GREETING

A word of Godspeed and good cheer To all on earth, or far or near, Or friend or foe, or thine or mine-- In echo of the voice divine, Heard when the star bloomed forth and lit The world's face, with God's smile on it.

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ABE MARTIN

Abe Martin!--dad-burn his old picture! P'tends he's a Brown County fixture-- A kind of a comical mixture Of hoss-sense and no sense at all! His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin', And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin', And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'-- From Genesis clean to baseball!

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The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless He draws Abe 'most eyeless and earless, But he's never yet pictured him cheerless Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal,-- Whuther on to the fence er clean over A-rootin' up ragweed er clover, Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover" Er newfangled automo_beel_!

It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in; And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled That it was a pleasure to die.

But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at Both me and you lays back and shakes at His comic, miraculous cracks Which makes him--clean back of the power Of genius itse'f in its flower-- This Notable Man of the Hour, Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.

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THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY READS

The little old poem that nobody reads Blooms in a crowded space, Like a ground-vine blossom, so low in the weeds That nobody sees its face-- Unless, perchance, the reader's eye Stares through a yawn, and hurries by, For no one wants, or loves, or heeds, The little old poem that nobody reads.

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The little old poem that nobody reads Was written--where?--and when? Maybe a hand of goodly deeds Thrilled as it held the pen: Maybe the fountain whence it came Was a heart brimmed o'er with tears of shame, And maybe its creed is the worst of creeds-- The little old poem that nobody reads.

But, little old poem that nobody reads, Holding you here above The wound of a heart that warmly bleeds For all that knows not love, I well believe if the old World knew As dear a friend as I find in you, That friend would tell it that all it needs Is the little old poem that nobody reads.

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IN THE AFTERNOON

You in the hammock; and I, near by, Was trying to read, and to swing you, too; And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye, And the shade of the maples so cool and blue, That often I looked from the book to you To say as much, with a sigh.

You in the hammock. The book we'd brought From the parlor--to read in the open air,-- Something of love and of Launcelot And Guinevere, I believe, was there-- But the afternoon, it was far more fair Than the poem was, I thought.

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You in the hammock; and on and on. I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff-- But, with always a half of my vision gone Over the top of the page--enough To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff Of your hair and your odorous "lawn."

You in the hammock--and that was a year-- Fully a year ago, I guess-- And what do we care for their Guinevere And her Launcelot and their lordliness!-- You in the hammock still, and--Yes-- Kiss me again, my dear!

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BECAUSE

Why did we meet long years of yore? And why did we strike hands and say "We will be friends and nothing more"; Why are we musing thus to-day? Because because was just because, And no one knew just why it was.

Why did I say good-by to you? Why did I sail across the main? Why did I love not heaven's own blue Until I touched these shores again? Because because was just because, And you nor I knew why it was.

Why are my arms about you now, And happy tears upon your cheek? And why my kisses on your brow? Look up in thankfulness and speak! Because because was just because, And only God knew why it was.

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HERR WEISER

Herr Weiser!--Threescore years and ten,-- A hale white rose of his countrymen, Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam, And blossomy as his German home-- As blossomy and as pure and sweet As the cool green glen of his calm retreat, Far withdrawn from the noisy town Where trade goes clamoring up and down, Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife, May not trouble his tranquil life!

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Breath of rest, what a balmy gust!-- Quit of the city's heat and dust, Jostling down by the winding road Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode.-- Tether the horse, as we onward fare Under the pear trees trailing there, And thumping the wooden bridge at night With lumps of ripeness and lush delight, Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon.

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face, And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace Of unassuming honesty, Be there to welcome you and me! And what though the toil of the farm be stopped And the tireless plans of the place be dropped, While the prayerful master's knees are set In beds of pansy and mignonette And lily and aster and columbine, Offered in love, as yours and mine?--

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What, but a blessing of kindly thought, Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not!-- What, but a spirit of lustrous love White as the aster he bends above!-- What, but an odorous memory Of the dear old man, made known to me In days demanding a help like his,-- As sweet as the life of the lily is-- As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise Born of a lily in Paradise.

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A MOTHER-SONG

Mother, O mother! forever I cry for you, Sing the old song I may never forget; Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you.-- Mother, O mother, Sing low, "Little brother, Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

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Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely, Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret! Can't you come back to me--for to-night only, Mother, my mother, And sing, "Little brother, Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! of old I had never One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret; Now--must I cry out all vainly forever,-- Mother, sweet mother, O sing, "Little brother, Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! must longing and sorrow Leave me in darkness, with eyes ever wet, And never the hope of a meeting to-morrow? Answer me, mother, And sing, "Little brother, Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

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WHAT "OLD SANTA" OVERHEARD

_'Tis said old Santa Claus one time_ _Told this joke on himself in rhyme:_ One Christmas, in the early din That ever leads the morning in, I heard the happy children shout In rapture at the toys turned out Of bulging little socks and shoes-- A joy at which I could but choose To listen enviously, because I'm always just "Old Santa Claus,"-- But ere my rising sigh had got To its first quaver at the thought, It broke in laughter, as I heard A little voice chirp like a bird,--

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