Chapter 3

(ALASKAN BALLAD)

The Northland reared his hoary head And spied the Southland leagues away-- "Fairest of all fair brides," he said, "Be thou my bride, I pray!"

Whereat the Southland laughed and cried: "I'll bide beside my native sea, And I shall never be thy bride Till thou com'st wooing me!"

The Northland's heart was a heart of ice, A diamond glacier, mountain high-- Oh, love is sweet at any price, As well know you and I!

So gayly the Northland took his heart And cast it in the wailing sea-- "Go, thou, with all thy cunning art, And woo my bride for me!"

For many a night and for many a day, And over the leagues that rolled between, The true-heart messenger sped away To woo the Southland queen.

But the sea wailed loud, and the sea wailed long, While ever the Northland cried in glee: "Oh, thou shalt sing us our bridal song, When comes my bride, O sea!"

At the foot of the Southland's golden throne The heart of the Northland ever throbs-- For that true-heart speaks in the waves that moan, The songs that it sings are sobs.

Ever the Southland spurns the cries Of the messenger pleading the Northland's part; The summer shines in the Southland's eyes-- The winter bides in her heart!

And ever unto that far-off place Which love doth render a hallowed spot, The Northland turneth his honest face And wonders she cometh not.

The sea wails loud, and the sea wails long, As the ages of waiting drift slowly by, But the sea shall sing no bridal song-- As well know you and I!

HYMN

(FROM THE GERMAN OF MARTIN LUTHER)

O heart of mine! lift up thine eyes And see who in yon manger lies! Of perfect form, of face divine-- It is the Christ-child, heart of mine!

O dearest, holiest Christ-child, spread Within this heart of mine thy bed; Then shall my breast forever be A chamber consecrate to thee!

Beat high to-day, O heart of mine, And tell, O lips, what joys are thine; For with your help shall I prolong Old Bethlehem's sweetest cradle-song.

Glory to God, whom this dear Child Hath by His coming reconciled, And whose redeeming love again Brings peace on earth, good will to men!

STAR OF THE EAST

Star of the East, that long ago Brought wise men on their way Where, angels singing to and fro, The Child of Bethlehem lay-- Above that Syrian hill afar Thou shinest out to-night, O Star!

Star of the East, the night were drear But for the tender grace That with thy glory comes to cheer Earth's loneliest, darkest place; For by that charity we see Where there is hope for all and me.

Star of the East! show us the way In wisdom undefiled To seek that manger out and lay Our gifts before the child-- To bring our hearts and offer them Unto our King in Bethlehem!

TWIN IDOLS

There are two phrases, you must know, So potent (yet so small) That wheresoe'er a man may go He needs none else at all; No servile guide to lead the way Nor lackey at his heel, If he be learned enough to say "Comme bien" and "Wie viel."

The sleek, pomaded Parleyvoo Will air his sweetest airs And quote the highest rates when you "Comme bien" for his wares; And, though the German stolid be, His so-called heart of steel Becomes as soft as wax when he Detects the words "Wie viel."

Go, search the boulevards and rues From Havre to Marseilles-- You'll find all eloquence you use Except "Comme bien" fails; Or in the country auf der Rhine Essay a business deal And all your art is good fuhr nein Beyond the point--"Wie viel."

It matters not what game or prey Attracts your greedy eyes-- You must pursue the good old way If you would win the prize; It is to get a titled mate All run down at the heel, If you inquire of stock effete, "Comme bien" or "Wie viel."

So he is wise who envieth not A wealth of foreign speech, Since with two phrases may be got Whatever's in his reach; For Europe is a soulless shrine In which all classes kneel Before twin idols, deemed divine-- "Comme bien" and "Wie viel."

TWO VALENTINES

I.--TO MISTRESS BARBARA

There were three cavaliers, all handsome and true, On Valentine's day came a maiden to woo, And quoth to your mother: "Good-morrow, my dear, We came with some songs for your daughter to hear!"

Your mother replied: "I'll be pleased to convey To my daughter what things you may sing or may say!"

Then the first cavalier sung: "My pretty red rose, I'll love you and court you some day, I suppose!"

And the next cavalier sung, with make-believe tears: "I've loved you! I've loved you these many long years!"

But the third cavalier (with the brown, bushy head And the pretty blue jacket and necktie of red) He drew himself up with a resolute air, And he warbled: "O maiden, surpassingly fair! I've loved you long years, and I love you to-day, And, if you will let me, I'll love you for aye!"

I (the third cavalier) sang this ditty to you, In my necktie of red and my jacket of blue; I'm sure you'll prefer the song that was mine And smile your approval on your valentine.

II.--TO A BABY BOY

Who I am I shall not say, But I send you this bouquet With this query, baby mine: "Will you be my valentine?"

See these roses blushing blue, Very like your eyes of hue; While these violets are the red Of your cheeks. It can be said Ne'er before was babe like you.

And I think it is quite true No one e'er before to-day Sent so wondrous a bouquet As these posies aforesaid-- Roses blue and violets red!

Sweet, repay me sweets for sweets-- 'Tis your lover who entreats! Smile upon me, baby mine-- Be my little valentine!

MOTHER AND SPHINX

(EGYPTIAN FOLK-SONG)

Grim is the face that looks into the night Over the stretch of sands; A sullen rock in a sea of white-- A ghostly shadow in ghostly light, Peering and moaning it stands. _"Oh, is it the king that rides this way-- Oh, is it the king that rides so free? I have looked for the king this many a day, But the years that mock me will not say Why tarrieth he!"_

'T is not your king that shall ride to-night, But a child that is fast asleep; And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-horse white-- Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly light Where the ghostly shadows creep! _"My eyes are dull and my face is sere, Yet unto the word he gave I cling, For he was a Pharaoh that set me here-- And, lo! I have waited this many a year For him--my king!"_

Oh, past thy face my darling shall ride Swift as the burning winds that bear The sand clouds over the desert wide-- Swift to the verdure and palms beside The wells off there! _"And is it the mighty king I shall see Come riding into the night? Oh, is it the king come back to me-- Proudly and fiercely rideth he, With centuries dight!"_

I know no king but my dark-eyed dear That shall ride the Dream-Horse white; But see! he wakes at my bosom here, While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers near To speed with my babe to-night! _And out of the desert darkness peers A ghostly, ghastly, shadowy thing Like a spirit come out of the mouldering years, And ever that waiting spectre hears The coming king!_

A SPRING POEM FROM BION

One asketh: "Tell me, Myrson, tell me true: What's the season pleaseth you? Is it summer suits you best, When from harvest toil we rest? Is it autumn with its glory Of all surfeited desires? Is it winter, when with story And with song we hug our fires? Or is spring most fair to you-- Come, good Myrson, tell me true!"

Another answereth: "What the gods in wisdom send We should question not, my friend; Yet, since you entreat of me, I will answer reverently: Me the summertime displeases, For its sun is scorching hot; Autumn brings such dire diseases That perforce I like it not; As for biting winter, oh! How I hate its ice and snow!

"But, thrice welcome, kindly spring, With the myriad gifts you bring! Not too hot nor yet too cold, Graciously your charms unfold-- Oh, your days are like the dreaming Of those nights which love beseems, And your nights have all the seeming Of those days of golden dreams! Heaven smiles down on earth, and then Earth smiles up to heaven again!"

BERANGER'S "TO MY OLD COAT."

Still serve me in my age, I pray, As in my youth, O faithful one; For years I've brushed thee every day-- Could Socrates have better done? What though the fates would wreak on thee The fulness of their evil art? Use thou philosophy, like me-- And we, old friend, shall never part!

I think--I _often_ think of it-- The day we twain first faced the crowd; My roistering friends impeached your fit, But you and I were very proud! Those jovial friends no more make free With us (no longer new and smart), But rather welcome you and me As loving friends that should not part.

The patch? Oh, yes--one happy night-- "Lisette," says I, "it's time to go"-- She clutched this sleeve to stay my flight, Shrieking: "What! leave so early? No!" To mend the ghastly rent she'd made, Three days she toiled, dear patient heart! And I--right willingly I staid-- Lisette decreed we should not part!

No incense ever yet profaned This honest, shiny warp of thine, Nor hath a courtier's eye disdained Thy faded hue and quaint design; Let servile flattery be the price Of ribbons in the royal mart-- A roadside posie shall suffice For us two friends that must not part!

Fear not the recklessness of yore Shall re-occur to vex thee now; Alas, I am a youth no more-- I'm old and sere, and so art thou! So bide with me unto the last And with thy warmth caress this heart That pleads, by memories of the Past, That two such friends should never part!

BEN APFELGARTEN

There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called, Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago, And he was very fortunate in being very bald And so was very happy he was so. He warbled all the day Such songs as only they Who are very, very circumspect and very happy may; The people wondered why, As the years went gliding by, They never heard him once complain or even heave a sigh!

The women of the province fell in love with genial Ben, Till (may be you can fancy it) the dickens was to pay Among the callow students and the sober-minded men-- With the women-folk a-cuttin' up that way! Why, they gave him turbans red To adorn his hairless head, And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed! In vain the rest demurred-- Not a single chiding word Those ladies deigned to tolerate--remonstrance was absurd!

Things finally got into such a very dreadful way That the others (oh, how artful) formed the politic design To send him to the reichstag; so, one dull November day, They elected him a member from the Rhine! Then the other members said: "Gott im Himmel! what a head!" But they marvelled when his speeches they listened to or read; And presently they cried: "There must be heaps inside Of the smooth and shiny cranium his constituents deride!"

Well, when at last he up 'nd died--long past his ninetieth year-- The strangest and the most lugubrious funeral he had, For women came in multitudes to weep upon his bier-- The men all wond'ring why on earth the women had gone mad! And this wonderment increased Till the sympathetic priest Inquired of those same ladies: "Why this fuss about deceased?" Whereupon were they appalled, For, as one, those women squalled: "We doted on deceased for being bald--bald--bald!"

He was bald because his genius burnt that shock of hair away Which, elsewise, clogs one's keenness and activity of mind; And (barring present company, of course) I'm free to say That, after all, it's intellect that captures womankind. At any rate, since then (With a precedent in Ben), The women-folk have been in love with us bald-headed men!

A HEINE LOVE SONG

The image of the moon at night All trembling in the ocean lies, But she, with calm and steadfast light, Moves proudly through the radiant skies,

How like the tranquil moon thou art-- Thou fairest flower of womankind! And, look, within my fluttering heart Thy image trembling is enshrined!

UHLAND'S "CHAPEL"

Yonder stands the hillside chapel Mid the evergreens and rocks, All day long it hears the song Of the shepherd to his flocks.

Then the chapel bell goes tolling-- Knelling for a soul that's sped; Silent and sad the shepherd lad Hears the requiem for the dead.

Shepherd, singers of the valley, Voiceless now, speed on before; Soon shall knell that chapel bell For the songs you'll sing no more.

THE DREAMS

Two dreams came down to earth one night From the realm of mist and dew; One was a dream of the old, old days, And one was a dream of the new.

One was a dream of a shady lane That led to the pickerel pond Where the willows and rushes bowed themselves To the brown old hills beyond.

And the people that peopled the old-time dream Were pleasant and fair to see, And the dreamer he walked with them again As often of old walked he.

Oh, cool was the wind in the shady lane That tangled his curly hair! Oh, sweet was the music the robins made To the springtime everywhere!

Was it the dew the dream had brought From yonder midnight skies, Or was it tears from the dear, dead years That lay in the dreamer's eyes?

The _other_ dream ran fast and free, As the moon benignly shed Her golden grace on the smiling face In the little trundle-bed.

For 't was a dream of times to come-- Of the glorious noon of day-- Of the summer that follows the careless spring When the child is done with play.

And 't was a dream of the busy world Where valorous deeds are done; Of battles fought in the cause of right, And of victories nobly won.

It breathed no breath of the dear old home And the quiet joys of youth; It gave no glimpse of the good old friends Or the old-time faith and truth.

But 't was a dream of youthful hopes, And fast and free it ran, And it told to a little sleeping child Of a boy become a man!

These were the dreams that came one night To earth from yonder sky; These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed-- My little boy and I.

And in our hearts my boy and I Were glad that it was so; _He_ loved to dream of days to come, And _I_ of long ago.

So from our dreams my boy and I Unwillingly awoke, But neither of his precious dream Unto the other spoke.

Yet of the love we bore those dreams Gave each his tender sign; For there was triumph in _his_ eyes-- And there were tears in _mine!_

IN NEW ORLEANS

'Twas in the Crescent City not long ago befell The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell; So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-- No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem Of blowing twenty dollars in by nine o'clock a.m.

Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid, But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself, Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin That he doesn't spend his money--he simply blows it in!

In Royal street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop, And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop; To stop was hesitation--in a moment I was lost-- _That_ kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost! I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem-- And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of eight a.m.!

Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green, Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen; A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose, With its curious depression into which the gravy flows; Two dainty silver salts--oh, there was no resisting _them_-- And I'd blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a.m.

With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed, Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need; Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps, A gown--_the_ gown for which his spouse too long has pined, perhaps! These and ten thousand other spectres harrow and condemn The man who's blown in twenty by nine o'clock a.m.

Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!) In asking one this question: "What _did_ you buy it for?" Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade _before_ the act, _Before_ one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact-- _Before_ one's fallen victim to the Tempter's stratagem And blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a.m.?

Ah me! now that the deed is done, how penitent I am! I _was_ a roaring lion--behold a bleating lamb! I've packed and shipped those precious things to that more precious wife Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life, While he who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth Is far away, and means to keep his distance--for his health!

MY PLAYMATES

The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool-- Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool; It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill; So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checkerberries grow.

What has become of Ezra Marsh, who lived on Baker's hill? And what's become of Noble Pratt, whose father kept the mill? And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell, And of Roxie Root, who 'tended school in Boston for a spell? They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful play-- They do not answer to my call! My playmates--where are they?

What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe, Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago? I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown, And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles, who spelled the whole school down! And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow, and all Who I am sure would answer could they only hear my call!

I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men! And one--I shall not name her--could I see her gentle face And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place! The flowers and hopes of springtime--they perished long ago, And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow.

O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise? O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago? You see I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far; I am looking for my playmates--I wonder where they are!

STOVES AND SUNSHINE

Prate, ye who will, of so-called charms you find across the sea-- The land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me! I've done the grand for fourteen months in every foreign clime, And I've learned a heap of learning, but I've shivered all the time; And the biggest bit of wisdom I've acquired--as I can see-- Is that which teaches that this land's the land of lands for me.

Now, I am of opinion that a person should get some Warmth in this present life of ours, not all in that to come; So when Boreas blows his blast, through country and through town, Or when upon the muddy streets the stifling fog rolls down, Go, guzzle in a pub, or plod some bleak malarious grove, But let me toast my shrunken shanks beside some Yankee stove.

The British people say they "don't believe in stoves, y' know;" Perchance because we warmed 'em so completely years ago! They talk of "drahfts" and "stuffiness" and "ill effects of heat," As they chatter in their barny rooms or shiver 'round the street; With sunshine such a rarity, and stoves esteemed a sin, What wonder they are wedded to their fads--catarrh and gin?

In Germany are stoves galore, and yet you seldom find A fire within the stoves, for German stoves are not that kind; The Germans say that fires make dirt, and dirt's an odious thing, But the truth is that the pfennig is the average Teuton's king, And since the fire costs pfennigs, why, the thrifty soul denies Himself all heat except what comes with beer and exercise.

The Frenchman builds a fire of cones, the Irishman of peat; The frugal Dutchman buys a fire when he has need of heat-- That is to say, he pays so much each day to one who brings The necessary living coals to warm his soup and things; In Italy and Spain they have no need to heat the house-- 'Neath balmy skies the native picks the mandolin and louse.

Now, we've no mouldy catacombs, no feudal castles grim, No ruined monasteries, no abbeys ghostly dim; Our ancient history is new, our future's all ahead, And we've got a tariff bill that's made all Europe sick abed-- But what is best, though short on tombs and academic groves, We double discount Christendom on sunshine and on stoves.

Dear land of mine! I come to you from months of chill and storm, Blessing the honest people whose hearts and hearths are warm; A fairer, sweeter song than this I mean to weave to you When I've reached my lakeside 'dobe and once get heated through; But, even then, the burthen of that fairer song shall be That the land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me.

A DRINKING SONG

Come, brothers, share the fellowship We celebrate to-night; There's grace of song on every lip And every heart is light! But first, before our mentor chimes The hour of jubilee, Let's drink a health to good old times, And good times yet to be! Clink, clink, clink! Merrily let us drink! There's store of wealth And more of health In every glass, we think. Clink, clink, clink! To fellowship we drink! And from the bowl No genial soul In such an hour can shrink.

And you, oh, friends from west and east And other foreign parts, Come share the rapture of our feast, The love of loyal hearts; And in the wassail that suspends All matters burthensome, We'll drink a health to good old friends And good friends yet to come. Clink, clink, clink! To fellowship we drink! And from the bowl No genial soul In such an hour will shrink. Clink, clink, clink! Merrily let us drink! There's fellowship In every sip Of friendship's brew, we think.

THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH

I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hoss Way out into the big an' boundless west; I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, An' I'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest! With my pistols at my side, I would roam the prarers wide, An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride-- If I darst; but I darsen't!

I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there, An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw! I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw! I'd chase the pizen snakes An' the 'pottimus that makes His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes-- If I darst; but I darsen't!

I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, With a big black flag aflyin' overhead; I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red! With my cutlass in my hand On the quarterdeck I'd stand And to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band-- If I darst; but I darsen't!

And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he's licked me! I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too! I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through! You bet! I'd run away From my lessons to my play, An' I'd shoo the hens, an' tease the cat, an' kiss the girls all day-- If I darst; but I darsen't!

THE BOW-LEG BOY