Chapter 5

THROUGH those golden summer days Our twin flocks were wont to graze On the hillside, which the sun Rested lovingly upon,-- Telka's flock and mine; and we Sung our songs in rapturous glee, Idling in the pleasant shade Which the solemn Yew-tree made, While the Brook anear us played, And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew In the shadow of the Yew.

Telka loved me passing well; How I loved her none can tell! How I love her none may know,-- Oh that man love woman so! When she was not at my side, Loud my heart in anguish cried, And my lips, till she replied. Yet they think to silence me,-- As if love could silenced be! Fool were I, and fools were they! Still I wend my lonely way, "Telka," evermore I cry; Answer me the woods and sky, And the weary years go by.

Telka, she was passing fair; And the glory of her hair Was such glory as the sun With his blessing casts upon Yonder lonely mountain height, Lifting up to bid good-night To her sovereign in the west, Sinking wearily to rest, Drowsing in that golden sea Where the realms of Dreamland be.

So our love to fulness grew, Whilst beneath the solemn Yew Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, As it were some fancied sight Blanched it with a dread affright.

Telka, she was passing fair; And our peace was perfect there Till, enchanted by her smile, Lurked the South Wind there awhile, Underneath that hillside tree Where with singing idled we, And I heard the South Wind say Flattering words to her that day Of a city far away. But the Yew-tree crouched as though It were like to whisper No To the words the South Wind said As he smoothed my Telka's head. And the Brook, all pleading, cried To the dear one at my side: "Linger always where I am; Stray not thence, O cosset lamb! Wander not where shadows deep On the treacherous quicksands sleep, And the haunted waters leap; Be thou ware the waves that flow Toward the prison pool below, Where, beguiled from yonder sky, Captive moonbeams shivering lie, And at dawn of morrow die." So the Brook to Telka cried, But my Telka naught replied; And, as in a strange affright, Paled the Rose a ghostlier white.

When anon the North Wind came,-- Rudely blustering Telka's name, And he kissed the leaves that grew Round about the trembling Yew,-- Kissed and romped till, blushing red, All one day in terror fled, And the white Rose hung her head; Coming to our trysting spot, Long I called; she answered not. "Telka!" pleadingly I cried Up and down the mountain-side Where we twain were wont to bide.

There were those who thought that I Could be silenced with a lie, And they told me Telka's name Should be spoken now with shame: "She is lost to us and thee,"-- That is what they said to me.

"Is my Telka lost?" quoth I. "On this hilltop shall I cry, So that she may hear and then Find her way to me again. The South Wind spoke a lie that day; All deceived, she lost her way Yonder where the shadows sleep 'Mongst the haunted waves that leap Over treacherous quicksands deep, And where captive moonbeams lie Doomed at morrow's dawn to die She is lost, and that is all; I will search for her, and call."

Summer comes and winter goes, Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; All the others are anear,-- Only Telka is not here! Gone the peace and love I knew Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew; And the Rose, that mocks me so, I had crushed it long ago But that Telka loved it then, And shall soothe its terror when She comes back to me again. Call I, seek I everywhere For my Telka, passing fair. It is, oh, so many a year I have called! She does not hear, Yet nor feared nor worn am I; For I know that if I cry She shall sometime hear my call. She is lost, and that is all,-- She is lost in some far spot; I have searched, and found it not. Could she hear me calling, then Would she come to me again; For she loved me passing well,-- How I love her none can tell! That is why these years I've cried "Telka!" on this mountain-side. "Telka!" still I, pleading, cry; Answer me the woods and sky, And the lonely years go by.

On an evening dark and chill Came a shadow up the hill,-- Came a spectre, grim and white As a ghost that walks the night, Grim and bowed, and with the cry Of a wretch about to die,-- Came and fell and cried to me: "It is Telka come!" said she. So she fell and so she cried On that lonely mountain-side Where was Telka wont to bide.

"Who hath bribed those lips to lie? Telka's face was fair," quoth I; "Thine is furrowed with despair. There is winter in thy hair; But upon her beauteous head Was there summer glory shed,-- Such a glory as the sun, When his daily course is run, Smiles upon this mountain height As he kisses it good-night. There was music in her tone, Misery in thy voice alone. They have bid thee lie to me. Let me pass! Thou art not she! Let my sorrow sacred be Underneath this trysting tree!"

So in wrath I went my way, And they came another day,-- Came another day, and said: "Hush thy cry, for she is dead, Yonder on the mountain-side She is buried where she died, Where you twain were wont to bide, Where she came and fell and cried Pardon that thy wrath denied; And above her bosom grows As in mockery the Rose: It was white; but now 'tis red, And in shame it bows its head Over sinful Telka dead."

So they thought to silence me,-- As if love could silenced be! Fool were I, and fools were they! Scornfully I went my way, And upon the mountain-side "Telka!" evermore I cried. "Telka!" evermore I cry; Answer me the woods and sky: So the lonely years go by.

She is lost, and that is all; Sometime she shall hear my call, Hear my pleading call, and then Find her way to me again.

PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOÖLOGICAL GARDENS.

FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow. I, too, am native of that clime; but harsh, relentless fate Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble State; And I, who used to climb around, and swing from tree to tree, Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see. Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near, While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.

My pedigree is noble: they used my grandsire's skin To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within,-- Tom Patterson, of Denver; no ermine can compare With the grizzled robe that Democratic statesman loves to wear. Of such a grandsire I am come; and in the County Cole All up an ancient cottonwood our family had its hole. We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings, As we hustled round from day to day in search of bugs and things.

And when the darkness fell around, a mocking-bird was nigh, Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night That nary 'coon could wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight. We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know That ary 'coon can best a dog, if the coon gets half a show; But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n, And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n.

Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days; I cannot get acclimated, or used to German ways. The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine. The 'coon that's been accustomed to stanch democratic cheer Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer! No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, But send _me_ back from whence I came, and let me grub for worms!

They come, these gaping Teutons do, on Sunday afternoons, And wonder what I am,--alas, there are no German 'coons! For if there were, I still might swing at home from tree to tree, The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, and free. And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, For _I_ have tasted liberty, these others _they_ have not; So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels.

Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy, and O'Neill, To Jasper Burke and Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, Vest, Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead, and the rest. Bid them be steadfast in the faith, and pay no heed at all To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncey Filley's gall; And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.

ARMENIAN LULLABY.

IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, My mulberry one, my golden son, The rose shall sing thee lullabies, My pretty cosset lambkin! And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,-- A silver boat in a golden sea,-- My velvet love, my nestling dove, My own pomegranate-blossom!

The stork shall guard thee passing well All night, my sweet, my dimple-feet, And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, My gentle rain-of-springtime; And for thy slumber-play shall twine The diamond stars with an emerald vine, To trail in the waves of ruby wine, My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume, My cooing little turtle!

And when the morn wakes up to see My apple-bright, my soul's delight, The partridge shall come calling thee, My jar of milk-and-honey! Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, You wakeful one, you naughty son, You chirping little sparrow!

THE PARTRIDGE.

AS beats the sun from mountain crest, With "Pretty, pretty," Cometh the partridge from her nest. The flowers threw kisses sweet to her (For all the flowers that bloomed knew her); Yet hasteneth she to mine and me,-- Ah, pretty, pretty! Ah, dear little partridge!

And when I hear the partridge cry So pretty, pretty, Upon the house-top breakfast I. She comes a-chirping far and wide, And swinging from the mountain-side I see and hear the dainty dear,-- Ah, pretty, pretty! Ah, dear little partridge!

Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare, And pretty, pretty; Bloom violet, rose, and lily there; The place is full of balmy dew (The tears of flowers in love with you!); And one and all, impassioned, call, "O pretty, pretty! O dear little partridge!"

Thy feathers they are soft and sleek,-- So pretty, pretty! Long is thy neck, and small thy beak, The color of thy plumage far More bright than rainbow colors are. Sweeter than dove is she I love,-- My pretty, pretty! My dear little partridge!

When comes the partridge from the tree, So pretty, pretty, And sings her little hymn to me, Why, all the world is cheered thereby, The heart leaps up into the eye, And Echo then gives back again Our "Pretty, pretty!" Our "Dear little partridge!"

Admitting thee most blest of all, And pretty, pretty, The birds come with thee at thy call; In flocks they come, and round thee play, And this is what they seem to say,-- They say and sing, each feathered thing, "Ah, pretty, pretty! Ah, dear little partridge!"

CORINTHIAN HALL.

CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place, Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace; But once was a time when Corinthian Hall Excited the rapture and plaudits of all, With its carpeted stairs, And its new yellow chairs, And its stunning _ensemble_ of citified airs. Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the best Of Thespian temples extant in the West.

It was new, and was ours,--that was ages ago, Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show,-- It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers Our rivals had launched at our city for years. Corinthian Hall! Why, it discounted all Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall The night of the opening; from near and afar Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar.

Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then; For actors were actors, and each one knew how To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow. He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair; And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare. Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him,--in fact, never could When liquor was handy and walking was good.

And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall! Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime; And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime; And I'm ready to swear there is none could compare With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair; While in passionate rôles it was patent to us That the great John A. Stevens was _ne ultra plus_.

And was there demand for the tribute of tears, We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years, And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now. What artist to-day have we equal to Rae, Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say! And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette" Opined that the sun of our drama had set.

Corinthian Hall was devoted to song When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along, Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown, Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town; But the one special card That hit us all hard Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard; And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears; And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years!

The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days, And our critics accorded them columns of praise; They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings, And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things; They gave a parade, and sweet music they made Every evening in front of the house where they played. 'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog For Primrose and West in their great statue clog.

Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintain That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne; Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth: While in rôles that were thrillin', involving much killin', Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain; Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken,--they all Earned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall.

But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell On the spot I revere and remember so well, Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint, And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint; So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould, And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall, Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall.

When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night, And the music goes floating on billows of light, Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man, And I pine to be back where my mission began, And I'm fain to recall Reminiscences all That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall,-- To hear and to see what delighted me then, And to revel in raptures of boyhood again.

Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place, Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace, There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they, Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day, Would surrender what gold He's amassed to behold A tithe of the wonderful doings of old, A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall Our _crême de la crême_ in Corinthian Hall.

THE RED, RED WEST.

I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art, Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so smart; And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go.

I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve, And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve; I've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green, And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen.

The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal Dutch, The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised overmuch, The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes,-- All, _ad infin._, have I taken in a hundred thousand times.

Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is fraught; For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker grows, And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes.

Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so, And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know; It answers every purpose that this is manifest: The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West.

Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies, No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies; But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still!

THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE.

FROM out Cologne there came three kings To worship Jesus Christ, their King. To Him they sought fine herbs they brought, And many a beauteous golden thing; They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, And in that manger set them down.

Then spake the first king, and he said: "O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair! I bring this crown to Bethlehem town For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; So give a heavenly crown to me When I shall come at last to Thee!"

The second, then. "I bring Thee here This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; "Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one There is not in the world beside; So in the day of doom requite Me with a heavenly robe of white!"

The third king gave his gift, and quoth: "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, And with these twain would I most fain Anoint the body of my King; So may their incense sometime rise To plead for me in yonder skies!"

Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, That gave their gifts, and went their way; And now kneel I in prayer hard by The cradle of the Child to-day; Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring As offering unto Christ, my King.

Yet have I brought a gift the Child May not despise, however small; For here I lay my heart to-day, And it is full of love to all. Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, My only tribute, Christ, my King!

IPSWICH.

IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair, And the voice that comes from the yonder sea Sings to the quaint old mansions there Of "the time, the time that used to be;" And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, And they seem to say in an undertone, With half a sigh and with half a moan: "It was, but it never again will be."

In Ipswich witches weave at night Their magic, spells with impish glee; They shriek and laugh in their demon flight From the old Main House to the frightened sea. And ghosts of eld come out to weep Over the town that is fast asleep; And they sob and they wail, as on they creep: "It was, but it never again will be."

In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill Over against the calling sea; And through the nights so deep and chill Watcheth a maiden constantly,-- Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear Over the roar of the waves anear The pitiful cry of a far-off year: "It was, but it never again will be."

In Ipswich once a witch I knew,-- An artless Saxon witch was she; By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue, Sweet was the spell she cast on me. Alas! but the years have wrought me ill, And the heart that is old and battered and chill Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill What was, but never again can be.

Dear Anna, I would not conjure down The ghost that cometh to solace me; I love to think of old Ipswich town, Where somewhat better than friends were we; For with every thought of the dear old place Cometh again the tender grace Of a Saxon witch's pretty face, As it was, and is, and ever shall be.

BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS.

BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall; I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all; Clothes would never seem to set so nice on _me_ as _him_,-- Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,-- But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall; And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.