Chapter 4

"Old Santa's mighty good, I know. And awful rich--and he can go Down ever' chimbly anywhere In all the world!--But I don't care, _I_ wouldn't trade with _him_, and be Old Santa Clause, and him be me, Fer all his toys and things!--and _I_ Know why, and bet you _he_ knows why!-- They _wuz_ no Santa Clause when _he_ Wuz ist a little boy like me!"

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THE STEPMOTHER

First she come to our house, Tommy run and hid; And Emily and Bob and me We cried jus' like we did When Mother died,--and we all said 'At we all wisht 'at we was dead!

And Nurse she couldn't stop us; And Pa he tried and tried,-- We sobbed and shook and wouldn't look, But only cried and cried; And nen some one--we couldn't jus' Tell who--was cryin' same as us!

Our Stepmother! Yes, it was her, Her arms around us all-- 'Cause Tom slid down the banister And peeked in from the hall.-- And we all love her, too, because She's purt' nigh good as Mother was!

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WHEN OLD JACK DIED

When Old Jack died, we stayed 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.

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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.

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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.

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THAT NIGHT

You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory!-- The scent of the locusts--the light of the moon; And the violin weaving the waltzers a story, Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune, Till their shadows uncertain Reeled round on the curtain, While under the trellis we drank in the June.

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Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were sleeping, Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, leaping Forever, forever burst, full with delight; And its lisp on my spirit Fell faint as that near it Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night.

O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses! The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay! And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses!-- And the music!--in fancy I hear it to-day, As I sit here, confessing Our secret, and blessing My rival who found us, and waltzed you away.

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TO ALMON KEEFER

INSCRIBED IN "TALES OF THE OCEAN"

This first book that I ever knew Was read aloud to me by you-- Friend of my boyhood, therefore take It back from me, for old times' sake-- The selfsame "Tales" first read to me, Under "the old sweet apple tree," Ere I myself could read such great Big words,--but listening all elate, At your interpreting, until Brain, heart and soul were all athrill With wonder, awe, and sheer excess Of wildest childish happiness.

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So take the book again--forget All else,--long years, lost hopes, regret; Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain, Prayers we have lifted all in vain; Tears for the faces seen no more, Once as the roses at the door! Take the enchanted book--And lo, On grassy swards of long ago, Sprawl out again, beneath the shade The breezy old-home orchard made, The veriest barefoot boy indeed-- And I will listen as you read.

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TO THE QUIET OBSERVER

AFTER HIS LONG SILENCE

Dear old friend of us all in need Who know the worth of a friend indeed, How rejoiced are we all to learn Of your glad return.

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We who have missed your voice so long-- Even as March might miss the song Of the sugar-bird in the maples when They're tapped again.

Even as the memory of these _Blended_ sweets,--the sap of the trees And the song of the birds, and the old camp too, We think of you.

Hail to you, then, with welcomes deep As grateful hearts may laugh or weep!-- You give us not only the bird that sings, But all good things.

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REACH YOUR HAND TO ME

Reach your hand to me, my friend, With its heartiest caress-- Sometime there will come an end To its present faithfulness-- Sometime I may ask in vain For the touch of it again, When between us land or sea Holds it ever back from me.

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Sometime I may need it so, Groping somewhere in the night, It will seem to me as though Just a touch, however light, Would make all the darkness day, And along some sunny way Lead me through an April-shower Of my tears to this fair hour.

O the present is too sweet To go on forever thus! Round the corner of the street Who can say what waits for us?-- Meeting--greeting, night and day, Faring each the selfsame way-- Still somewhere the path must end-- Reach your hand to me, my friend!

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THE DEAD JOKE AND THE FUNNY MAN

Long years ago, a funny man, Flushed with a strange delight, Sat down and wrote a funny thing All in the solemn night; And as he wrote he clapped his hands And laughed with all his might. For it was such a funny thing, O, such a very funny thing, This wonderfully funny thing, He Laughed Outright.

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And so it was this funny man Printed this funny thing-- Forgot it, too, nor ever thought It worth remembering, Till but a day or two ago. (Ah! what may changes bring!) He found this selfsame funny thing In an exchange--"O, funny thing!" He cried, "You dear old funny thing!" And Sobbed Outright.

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AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING

1900

Father all bountiful, in mercy bear With this our universal voice of prayer-- The voice that needs must be Upraised in thanks to Thee, O Father, from Thy children everywhere.

A multitudinous voice, wherein we fain Wouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain-- No murmur of distress, Nor moan of loneliness, Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain.

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And, Father, give us first to comprehend, No ill can come from Thee; lean Thou and lend Us clearer sight to see Our boundless debt to Thee, Since all Thy deeds are blessings, in the end.

And let us feel and know that, being Thine, We are inheritors of hearts divine, And hands endowed with skill, And strength to work Thy will, And fashion to fulfilment Thy design.

So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside, Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride; As here to Thee we dare Uplift our faltering prayer, Lend it some fervor of the glorified.

We thank Thee that our land is loved of Thee The blessed home of thrift and industry, With ever-open door Of welcome to the poor-- Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly.

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E'en thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grew Into a right that heroes battled to, With brothers long estranged, Once more as brothers ranged Beneath the red and white and starry blue.

Ay, thanks--though tremulous the thanks expressed-- Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best-- For all the clanging fray Whose discord dies away Into a pastoral-song of peace and rest.

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OLD INDIANY

INTENDED FOR A DINNER OF THE INDIANA SOCIETY OF CHICAGO

Old Indiany, 'course we know Is first, and best, and _most_, also, Of _all_ the States' whole forty-four:-- She's first in ever'thing, that's shore!-- And _best_ in ever'way as yet Made known to man; and you kin bet She's _most_, because she won't confess She ever was, or will be, _less_! And yet, fer all her proud array Of sons, how many gits away!--

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No doubt about her bein' _great_, But, fellers, she's a leaky State! And them that boasts the most about Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out. Law! jes' to think of all you boys 'Way over here in Illinoise A-celebratin', like ye air, Old Indiany, 'way back there In the dark ages, so to speak, A-prayin' for ye once a week And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you From comin', like you ort to do. You're all a-lookin' well, and like You wasn't "sidin' up the pike," As the tramp-shoemaker said When "he sacked the boss and shed The blame town, to hunt fer one Where they didn't work fer fun!" Lookin' _extry_ well, I'd say, Your old home so fur away.--

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Maybe, though, like the old jour., Fun hain't all yer workin' fer. So you've found a job that pays Better than in them old days You was on The Weekly Press, Heppin' run things, more er less; Er a-learnin' telegraph- Operatin', with a half- Notion of the tinner's trade, Er the dusty man's that laid Out designs on marble and Hacked out little lambs by hand, And chewed finecut as he wrought, "Shapin' from his bitter thought" Some squshed mutterings to say,-- "Yes, hard work, and porer pay!" Er you'd kind o' thought the far- Gazin' kuss that owned a car And took pictures in it, had Jes' the snap you wanted--bad! And you even wondered why He kep' foolin' with his sky- Light the same on shiny days As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.)

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Wondered what strange things was hid In there when he shet the door And smelt like a burnt drug store Next some orchard-trees, i swan! With whole roasted apples on! That's why Ade is, here of late, Buyin' in the dear old state,-- So's to cut it up in plots Of both town and country lots.