Chapter 3

So purely, sweetly on the sense Of heart and spirit fell Her song of Spring, its influence-- Still irresistible,-- Commands me here--with eyes ablur-- To mate her bright refrain. Though I but shed a rhyme for her As dim as Autumn rain.

KNEELING WITH HERRICK

Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent-- Give me content-- Full-pleasured with what comes to me, Whate'er it be: An humble roof--a frugal board, And simple hoard; The wintry fagot piled beside The chimney wide, While the enwreathing flames up-sprout And twine about The brazen dogs that guard my hearth And household worth: Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow The rafters low; And let the sparks snap with delight, As fingers might That mark deft measures of some tune The children croon: Then, with good friends, the rarest few Thou boldest true, Ranged round about the blaze, to share My comfort there,-- Give me to claim the service meet That makes each seat A place of honor, and each guest Loved as the rest.

THE RAINY MORNING

The dawn of the day was dreary, And the lowering clouds o'erhead Wept in a silent sorrow Where the sweet sunshine lay dead; And a wind came out of the eastward Like an endless sigh of pain, And the leaves fell down in the pathway And writhed in the falling rain.

I had tried in a brave endeavor To chord my harp with the sun, But the strings would slacken ever, And the task was a weary one: And so, like a child impatient And sick of a discontent, I bowed in a shower of teardrops And mourned with the instrument.

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor Of the sun bent over me, With a touch as warm and tender As a father's hand might be: And even as I felt its presence, My clouded soul grew bright, And the tears, like the rain of morning, Melted in mists of light.

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.

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!

TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN

Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me, Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity, You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart, Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.

When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you Had the only consolation that I could listen to-- Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow, And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know.

But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare-- Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air-- And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare, And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare.

I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away; I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray; And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two-- And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you!

We set thare by the smoke-house--me and you out thare alone-- Me a-thinkin'--you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone-- You a-talkin'--me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago, And a-writin' "Marthy--Marthy" with my finger in the snow!

William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then; And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again, And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say: "Be rickonciled and bear it--we but linger fer a day!"

At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me-- Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be; And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here, In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.

It was better than the meetin', too, that nine-mile talk we had Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad; When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare," And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare.

And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike, In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like-- Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind, A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of mind!

And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight:-- Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fight With the old stag-deer that pronged him--how he battled fer his life, And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.

Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three-- When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way, And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.

Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest," And thare, beyent the covered bridge, "The Counter-fitters' Nest"-- Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted--that a man was murdered thare, And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.

And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two-- You know we talked about the times when that old road was new: How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't _dim_-onstrate?

Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past; But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last; And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end, I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.

With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane, And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane, I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name, Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same!

A BACKWARD LOOK

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, And lazily leaning back in my chair, Enjoying myself in a general way-- Allowing my thoughts a holiday From weariness, toil and care,-- My fancies--doubtless, for ventilation-- Left ajar the gates of my mind,-- And Memory, seeing the situation, Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne."

Wandering ever with tireless feet Through scenes of silence, and jubilee Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet Were thronging the shadowy side of the street As far as the eye could see; Dreaming again, in anticipation, The same old dreams of our boyhood's days That never come true, from the vague sensation Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born! And there was the selfsame clock that ticked From the close of dusk to the burst of morn, When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn And helped when the apples were picked. And the "chany-dog" on the mantel-shelf, With the gilded collar and yellow eyes, Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

And down to the swing in the locust tree, Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three Or four such other boys used to be Doin' "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round:" And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest, And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed, The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

And again I gazed from the old school-room With a wistful look of a long June day, When on my cheek was the hectic bloom Caught of Mischief, as I presume-- He had such a "partial" way, It seemed, toward me.--And again I thought Of a probable likelihood to be Kept in after school--for a girl was caught Catching a note from me.

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole-- Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,-- And we never cared when the water was cold. And always "clucked" the boy that told On the fellow that tied the clothes.-- When life went so like a dreamy rhyme That it seems to me now that then The world was having a jollier time Than it ever will have again.

AT SEA

O we go down to sea in ships-- But Hope remains behind, And Love, with laughter on his lips, And Peace, of passive mind; While out across the deeps of night, With lifted sails of prayer, We voyage off in quest of light, Nor find it anywhere.

O Thou who wroughtest earth and sea, Yet keepest from our eyes The shores of an eternity In calms of Paradise, Blow back upon our foolish quest With all the driving rain Of blinding tears and wild unrest, And waft us home again.

THE OLD GUITAR

Neglected now is the old guitar And moldering into decay; Fretted with many a rift and scar That the dull dust hides away, While the spider spins a silver star In its silent lips to-day.

The keys hold only nerveless strings-- The sinews of brave old airs Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings So closely here declares A sad regret in its ravelings And the faded hue it wears.

But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, Has cherished a smile for me; And its features hint of a fairer face That comes with a memory Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place And a moonlit balcony.

Music sweeter than words confess Or the minstrel's powers invent, Thrilled here once at the light caress Of the fairy hands that lent This excuse for the kiss I press On the dear old instrument.

The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem Still blooms; and the tiny sets In the circle all are here; the gem In the keys, and the silver frets; But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them-- Alas for the heart's regrets!--

Alas for the loosened strings to-day, And the wounds of rift and scar On a worn old heart, with its roundelay Enthralled with a stronger bar That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay Like that of the old guitar!

JOHN McKEEN

John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chair By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er And the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound, And fill the hearing with childish glee Of rhyming riddle, or story found In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound Old book of the Used-to-be!

John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!-- To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone Out on election days!

John, ah, John! did it prove your worth To yield you the office you still maintain? To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth Of all the happier things on earth To the hunger of heart and brain?

Under the dusk of your villa trees, Edging the drives where your blooded span Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,-- Where are the children about your knees, And the mirth, and the happy man?

The blinds of your mansion are battened to; Your faded wife is a close recluse; And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do Dutifully all that is willed of you, And marry as you shall choose!--

But O for the old-home voices, blent With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, And the motherly chirrup of glad content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And the old-time fiddle-tunes!

THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND

Where do you go when you go to sleep, Little Boy! Little Boy! where? 'Way--'way in where's Little Bo-Peep, And Little Boy Blue, and the Cows and Sheep A-wandering 'way in there;--in there-- A-wandering 'way in there!

And what do you see when lost in dreams, Little Boy, 'way in there? Firefly-glimmers and glowworm-gleams, And silvery, low, slow-sliding streams, And mermaids, smiling out--'way in where They're a-hiding--'way in there!

Where do you go when the Fairies call, Little Boy! Little Boy! where? Wade through the clews of the grasses tall, Hearing the weir and the waterfall And the Wee Folk--'way in there--in there-- And the Kelpies--'way in there!

And what do you do when you wake at dawn, Little Boy! Little Boy! what? Hug my Mommy and kiss her on Her smiling eyelids, sweet and wan, And tell her everything I've forgot About, a-wandering 'way in there-- Through the blind-world 'way in there!

"THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS"

Pap he allus ust to say, "Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!" Liked to hear him that-a-way, In his old split-bottomed cheer By the fireplace here at night-- Wood all in,--and room all bright, Warm and snug, and folks all here: "Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Me and 'Lize, and Warr'n and Jess And Eldory home fer two Weeks' vacation; and, I guess, Old folks tickled through and through, Same as _we_ was,--"Home onc't more Fer another Chris'mus--shore!" Pap 'u'd say, and tilt his cheer,-- "Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Mostly Pap was ap' to be Ser'ous in his "daily walk," As he called it; giner'ly Was no hand to joke er talk. Fac's is, Pap had never be'n Rugged-like at all--and then Three years in the army had Hepped to break him purty bad.

Never _flinched_! but frost and snow Hurt his wownd in winter. But You bet _Mother_ knowed it, though!-- Watched his feet, and made him putt On his flannen; and his knee, Where it never healed up, he Claimed was "well now--mighty near-- Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!" Pap 'u'd say, and snap his eyes ... Row o' apples sputter'n' here Round the hearth, and me and 'Lize Crackin' hicker'-nuts; and Warr'n And Eldory parchin' corn; And whole raft o' young folks here. "Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Mother tuk most comfort in Jest a-heppin' Pap: She'd fill His pipe fer him, er his tin O' hard cider; er set still And read fer him out the pile O' newspapers putt on file Whilse he was with Sherman--(She Knowed the whole war-history!)

Sometimes he'd git het up some.-- "Boys," he'd say, "and you girls, too, Chris'mus is about to come; So, as you've a right to do, _Celebrate_ it! Lots has died, Same as Him they crucified, That you might be happy here. Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Missed his voice last Chris'mus--missed Them old cheery words, you know. Mother belt up tel she kissed All of us--then had to go And break down! And I laughs: "Here! 'Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!" "Them's his very words," sobbed she, "When he asked to marry me."

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!" "Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!" Over, over, still I hear, "Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!" Yit, like him, I'm goin' to smile And keep cheerful all the while: _Allus_ Chris'mus _There_--And here "Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

TO THE JUDGE

_A Voice From the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole Township_

Friend of my earliest youth, Can't you arrange to come down And visit a fellow out here in the woods-- Out of the dust of the town? Can't you forget you're a Judge And put by your dolorous frown And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend-- Can't you arrange to come down?

Can't you forget for a while The arguments prosy and drear,-- To lean at full-length in indefinite rest In the lap of the greenery here? Can't you kick over "the Bench," And "husk" yourself out of your gown To dangle your legs where the fishing is good-- Can't you arrange to come down?

Bah! for your office of State! And bah! for its technical lore! What does our President, high in his chair, But wish himself low as before! Pick between peasant and king,-- Poke your bald head through a crown Or shadow it here with the laurels of Spring!-- Can't you arrange to come down?

"Judge it" out _here_, if you will,-- The birds are in session by dawn; You can draw, not _complaints_, but a sketch of the hill And a breath that your betters have drawn; You can open your heart, like a case, To a jury of kine, white and brown, And their verdict of "Moo" will just satisfy you!-- Can't you arrange to come down?

Can't you arrange it, old Pard?-- Pigeonhole Blackstone and Kent!-- Here we have "Breitmann," and Ward, Twain, Burdette, Nye, and content! Can't you forget you're a Judge And put by your dolorous frown And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend-- Can't you arrange to come down?

OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS

Ho! I'm going back to where We were youngsters.--Meet me there, Dear old barefoot chum, and we Will be as we used to be,-- Lawless rangers up and down The old creek beyond the town-- Little sunburnt gods at play, Just as in that far-away:-- Water nymphs, all unafraid, Shall smile at us from the brink Of the old millrace and wade Tow'rd us as we kneeling drink At the spring our boyhood knew, Pure and clear as morning-dew:

And, as we are rising there, Doubly dow'rd to hear and see, We shall thus be made aware Of an eerie piping, heard High above the happy bird In the hazel: And then we, Just across the creek, shall see (Hah! the goaty rascal!) Pan Hoof it o'er the sloping green, Mad with his own melody, Aye, and (bless the beasty man!) Stamping from the grassy soil Bruiséd scents of _fleur-de-lis_, Boneset, mint and pennyroyal.

MY DANCIN'-DAYS IS OVER

What is it in old fiddle-chunes 'at makes me ketch my breath And ripples up my backbone tel I'm tickled most to death?-- Kindo' like that sweet-sick feelin', in the long sweep of a swing, The first you ever swung in, with yer first sweet-heart, i jing!-- Yer first picnic--yer first ice-cream--yer first o' _ever'thing_ 'At happened 'fore yer dancin'-days wuz over!

I never understood it--and I s'pose I never can,-- But right in town here, yisterd'y, I heerd a pore blindman A-fiddlin' old "Gray Eagle"--_And_-sir! I jes stopped my load O' hay and listened at him--yes, and watched the way he "bow'd,"-- And back I went, plum forty year', with boys and girls I knowed And loved, long 'fore my dancin'-days wuz over!--

At high noon in yer city,--with yer blame Magnetic-Cars A-hummin' and a-screetchin' past--and bands and G.A.R.'s A-marchin'--and fire-ingines.--_All_ the noise, the whole street through, Wuz lost on me!--I only heerd a whipperwill er two, It 'peared-like, kindo' callin' 'crost the darkness and the dew, Them nights afore my dancin'-days wuz over.

T'uz Chused'y-night at Wetherell's, er We'nsd'y-night at Strawn's, Er Fourth-o'-July-night at uther Tomps's house er John's!-- With old Lew Church from Sugar Crick, with that old fiddle he Had sawed clean through the Army, from Atlanty to the sea-- And yit he'd fetched, her home ag'in, so's he could play fer me One't more afore my dancin'-days wuz over!

The woods 'at's all ben cut away wuz growin' same as then; The youngsters all wuz boys ag'in 'at's now all oldish men; And all the girls 'at _then_ wuz girls--I saw 'em, one and all, As _plain_ as then--the middle-sized, the short-and-fat, and tall-- And, 'peared-like, I danced "Tucker" fer 'em up and down the wall Jes like afore my dancin' days wuz over!

* * * * *

Yer _po_-leece they can holler "Say! _you_, Uncle! drive ahead!-- You can't use _all_ the right-o'-way!"--fer that wuz what they said!-- But, jes the same,--in spite of all 'at you call "interprise And prog-gress of _you_-folks Today," we're all of _fambly-ties_-- We're all got feelin's fittin' fer the _tears_ 'at's in our eyes Er the _smiles_ afore our dancin'-days is over.

HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS

O your hands--they are strangely fair! Fair--for the jewels that sparkle there,-- Fair--for the witchery of the spell That ivory keys alone can tell; But when their delicate touches rest Here in my own do I love them best, As I clasp with eager acquisitive spans My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

Marvelous--wonderful--beautiful hands! They can coax roses to bloom in the strands Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine. Under mysterious touches of thine, Into such knots as entangle the soul, And fetter the heart under such a control As only the strength of my love understands-- My passionate love for your beautiful hands.

As I remember the first fair touch Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, Kissing the glove that I found unfilled-- When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow, As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!" And dazed and alone in a dream I stand Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved, in the long ago, And held your hand as I told you so-- Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss, And said "I could die for a hand like this!" Little I dreamed love's fulness yet Had to ripen when eyes were wet, And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful Hands! O Beautiful Hands! Could you reach out of the alien lands Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, Only a touch--were it ever so light-- My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again; For there is no solace the world commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

End of Project Gutenberg's Riley Songs of Home, by James Whitcomb Riley