Chapter 5

Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sich And Jim is an editor kind; The first two named are awfully rich And Jim ain't far behind! So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks, Or you are like to be In quite as much of a Tartar fix As the pirates that sailed the sea And monkeyed with the pardners three, Lyman And Frederick And Jim!

BY MY SWEETHEART

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart When birds are on the wing, When bee and bud and babbling flood Bespeak the birth of spring, Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart And wear this posy-ring!

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart In the mellow golden glow Of earth aflush with the gracious blush Which the ripening fields foreshow; Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart, As into the noon we go!

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart When falls the bounteous year, When fruit and wine of tree and vine Give us their harvest cheer; Oh, sweetheart, be my sweetheart, For winter it draweth near.

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart When the year is white and old, When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth, And the hand of age is cold; Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart Till the year of our love be told!

THE PETER-BIRD

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened, And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices; Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic-- Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains! Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders-- These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest. Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil; And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror-- "Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!" Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor, Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter, Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming; Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble. "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!" "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding-- Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you; Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions! It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend. Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil, Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming!

"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "_that's_ what's the ruin of Peter!"

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms, Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating, Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!" "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" "Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding-- Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter; Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him-- Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys-- "See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on woodland and meadow! Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron! She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish magical nostrums; Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires, and spiders, Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salamanders and toadstools; Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!"

Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos-- Thinking and reading of books must have unsettled his reason! "There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy! I will go out in the wet--you all can't hender me, nuther!"

Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning, Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow, Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley. Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor; Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened, Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had done gone and done it! Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason-- Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis, And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition.

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter, Up from the spring house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. Such were the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter Decades and decades ago down in the State of Kentucky-- Such _are_ the voices that cry now from the woodland and meadow, "Peter--O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding-- Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it! These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless, Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil, Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge!

Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened, Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. "Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"-- Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smoke-house proceeded; Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping, Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor-- Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter. Joining the search came the rest, brothers and sisters and cousins, Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter! And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women, Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter.

Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers, Colonels and jedges galore from cornfields and mint-beds and thickets, All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining, Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the Logans, The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the Morgans; The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays, and Hardins,

The Beynroths, the Sherleys, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys, and Slaughters-- All, famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming, Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in that hunt for the truant, To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter.

Still on those prosperous farms where heirs and assigns of the people Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate-- _Still_ on those farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent) That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter. Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people; That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter, She out of her cave in a thrice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit (Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a chicken), She changed all those folk into birds and shrieked with demoniac venom: "Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever, Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos, Crooning of Peter, the fool who scouted at stories of witches, Crying of Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!"

This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend; As I have told it to you, so tell the folk and the legend. That it is true I believe, for on the breezes this morning Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter; Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers, Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places-- Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming, Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis, Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden, Always neglecting his chores--given to books and to reading, Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief, Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage.

This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples, Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon; When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows, When from the spring house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard, When from the redbud and gum and from the redolent lilac, When from the dirt roads and pikes cometh that calling for Peter; Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever! This is the legend of old, told in the tum-titty meter Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming (My first attempt at the same, my _last_ attempt, too, I reckon!); Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended.

SISTER'S CAKE

I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind, Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind; Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares, She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs, And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake.

At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say: "Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make some cake to-day!" Poor mother'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not-- For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot-- But neither _she_ nor _he_ presumed to signify dissent, Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went!

No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand, The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand; The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew, With every damper set just so to heat the oven through; The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to make That ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake.

And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro; The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow-- And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight-- And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite! But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confound As she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound.

Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl! Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl; Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so, And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough! It looked so sweet and yellow--sure, to taste it were no sin-- But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in!

The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through, That sister'd think of something else she'd great deal rather do! So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night, Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might; These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to take Or shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake!

And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane-- For he who has no sister seems to me to live in vain. I never had a sister--may be that is why today I'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay; A boy who's only forty should be full of romp and mirth, But _I _(because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth!

Had I a little sister--oh, how happy I should be! I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me; I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for worse-- I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse; And--yes, what's more and vastly more--I tell you what I'd do: I'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too!

I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see-- Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me! I love to work anear her when she's making over frocks, When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks; But I draw the line at one thing--yes, I don my hat and take A three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake!

ABU MIDJAN

_When Father Time swings round his scythe, Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine, So that its juices, red and blithe, May cheer these thirsty bones of mine._

_"Elsewise with tears and bated breath Should I survey the life to be. But oh! How should I hail the death That brings that--vinous grace to me!"_

So sung the dauntless Saracen, Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains That, curst of Allah, loathed of men, The faithless one shall die in chains.

But one vile Christian slave that lay A prisoner near that prisoner saith: "God willing, I will plant some day A vine where liest thou in death."

Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows; Where rots the martyred Christian slave Allah, and only Allah, knows!

ED

Ed was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion, You cudn't stop him any more'n a dam 'ud stop the ocean; For when he tackled to a thing 'nd sot his mind plum to it, You bet yer boots he done that thing though it broke the bank to do it! So all us boys uz knowed him best allowed he wuzn't jokin' When on a Sunday he remarked uz how he'd gin up smokin'.

Now this remark, that Ed let fall, fell, ez I say, on Sunday-- Which is the reason we wuz shocked to see him sail in Monday A-puffin' at a snipe that sizzled like a Chinese cracker An' smelt fur all the world like rags instead uv like terbacker; Recoverin' from our first surprise, us fellows fell to pokin' A heap uv fun at "folks uz said how they had gin up smokin'."

But Ed--sez he: "I found my work cud not be done without it-- Jes' try the scheme yourselves, my friends, ef any uv you doubt it! It's hard, I know, upon one's health, but there's a certain beauty In makin' sackerfices to the stern demands uv duty! So, wholly in a sperrit uv denial 'nd concession, I mortify the flesh 'nd smoke for the sake uv my perfession!"

JENNIE

Some men affect a liking For the prim in face and mind, And some prefer the striking And the loud in womankind; Wee Madge is wooed of many, And buxom Kate, as well, And Jennie--charming Jennie-- Ah, Jennie doesn't tell!

What eyes so bright as Daisy's, And who as Maud so fair? Who does not sing the praises Of Lucy's golden hair? There's Sophie--she is witty, A very sprite is Nell, And Susie's, oh, so pretty-- But Jennie doesn't tell!

And now for my confession: Of all the virtues rare, I argue that discretion Doth most beseem the fair. And though I hear the many Extol each other belle, I--I pronounce for Jennie, For Jennie doesn't tell!

CONTENTMENT

Happy the man that, when his day is done, Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret-- The battle he has fought may not be won-- The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet; Folding at last his hands upon his breast, Happy is he, if hoary and forespent, He sinks into the last, eternal rest, Breathing these only works: "I am content."

But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, See hopes and friendships dead about him lie-- Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm, Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny; And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, Girt only in the armor God hath meant For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate Can say to God and man: "I am content."

"GUESS"

There is a certain Yankee phrase I always have revered, Yet, somehow, in these modern days, It's almost disappeared; It was the usage years ago, But nowadays it's got To be regarded coarse and low To answer: "I guess not!"

The height of fashion called the pink Affects a British craze-- Prefers "I fancy" or "I think" To that time-honored phrase; But here's a Yankee, if you please, That brands the fashion rot, And to all heresies like these He answers, "I--guess not!"--

When Chaucer, Wycliff, and the rest Express their meaning thus, I guess, if not the very best, It's good enough for us! Why! shall the idioms of our speech Be banished and forgot For this vain trash which moderns teach? Well, no, sir; I guess not!

There's meaning in that homely phrase No other words express-- No substitute therefor conveys Such unobtrusive stress. True Anglo-Saxon speech, it goes Directly to the spot, And he who hears it always knows The worth of "I--guess--not!"

NEW-YEAR'S EVE

Good old days--dear old days When my heart beat high and bold-- When the things of earth seemed full of life, And the future a haze of gold! Oh, merry was I that winter night, And gleeful our little one's din, And tender the grace of my darling's face As we watched the new year in. But a voice--a spectre's, that mocked at love-- Came out of the yonder hall; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 't was the solemn clock That ruefully croaked to all. Yet what knew we of the griefs to be In the year we longed to greet? Love--love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream I fancied might never fleet!

But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom, And these were the words it spake, "Tick-tock, tick-tock"--and they seemed to mock A heart about to break.

'T is new-year's eve, and again I watch In the old familiar place, And I'm thinking again of that old time when I looked on a dear one's face. Never a little one hugs my knee And I hear no gleeful shout-- I am sitting alone by the old hearthstone, Watching the old year out. But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom That solemnly calls to me: "Tick-tock, tick-tock!"--for so the clock Tells of a life to be; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!"-'tis so the clock Tells of eternity.

OLD SPANISH SONG

I'm thinking of the wooing That won my maiden heart When he--he came pursuing A love unused to art. Into the drowsy river The moon transported flung Her soul that seemed to quiver With the songs my lover sung. And the stars in rapture twinkled On the slumbrous world below-- You see that, old and wrinkled, I'm not forgetful--no!

He still should be repeating The vows he uttered then-- Alas! the years, though fleeting, Are truer yet than men! The summer moonlight glistens In the favorite trysting spot Where the river ever listens For a song it heareth not. And I, whose head is sprinkled With time's benumbing snow, I languish, old and wrinkled, But not forgetful--no!

What though he elsewhere turneth To beauty strangely bold? Still in my bosom burneth The tender fire of old; And the words of love he told me And the songs he sung me then Come crowding to uphold me, And I live my youth again! For when love's feet have tinkled On the pathway women go, Though one be old and wrinkled, She's not forgetful--no!

THE BROKEN RING

To the willows of the brookside The mill wheel sings to-day-- Sings and weeps, As the brooklet creeps Wondering on its way; And here is the ring _she_ gave me With love's sweet promise then-- It hath burst apart Like the trusting heart That may never be soothed again!

Oh, I would be a minstrel To wander far and wide, Weaving in song the merciless wrong Done by a perjured bride! Or I would be a soldier, To seek in the bloody fray What gifts of fate can compensate For the pangs I suffer to-day!

Yet may this aching bosom, By bitter sorrow crushed, Be still and cold In the churchyard mould Ere _thy_ sweet voice be hushed; So sing, sing on forever, O wheel of the brookside mill, For you mind me again Of the old time when I felt love's gracious thrill.

IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT

(HORACE'S ODES, III, I)

I hate the common, vulgar herd! Away they scamper when I "booh" 'em! But pretty girls and nice young men Observe a proper silence when I chose to sing my lyrics to 'em.

The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'r Excites our homage and our wonder, Are precious small beside old Jove, The father of us all, who drove The giants out of sight, by thunder!

This man loves farming, that man law, While this one follows pathways martial-- What moots it whither mortals turn? Grim fate from her mysterious urn Doles out the lots with hand impartial.

Nor sumptuous feasts nor studied sports Delight the heart by care tormented; The mightiest monarch knoweth not The peace that to the lowly cot Sleep bringeth to the swain contented.

On him untouched of discontent Care sits as lightly as a feather; He doesn't growl about the crops, Or worry when the market drops, Or fret about the changeful weather.

Not so with him who, rich in fact, Still seeks his fortune to redouble; Though dig he deep or build he high, Those scourges twain shall lurk anigh-- Relentless Care, relentless Trouble!

If neither palaces nor robes Nor unguents nor expensive toddy Insure Contentment's soothing bliss, Why should I build an edifice Where Envy comes to fret a body?

Nay, I'd not share your sumptuous cheer, But rather sup my rustic pottage, While that sweet boon the gods bestow-- The peace your mansions cannot know-- Blesseth my lowly Sabine cottage.

THE BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP

Now lithe and listen, gentles all, Now lithe ye all and hark Unto a ballad I shall sing About Buena Park.

Of all the wonders happening there The strangest hap befell Upon a famous Aprile morn, As I you now shall tell.

It is about the Taylor pup And of his mistress eke And of the prankish time they had That I am fain to speak.

FITTE THE FIRST

The pup was of as noble mien As e'er you gazed upon; They called his mother Lady And his father was a Don.

And both his mother and his sire Were of the race Bernard-- The family famed in histories And hymned of every bard.

His form was of exuberant mold, Long, slim, and loose of joints; There never yet was pointer-dog So full as he of points.

His hair was like to yellow fleece, His eyes were black and kind, And like a nodding, gilded plume His tail stuck up behind.

His bark was very, very fierce, And fierce his appetite, Yet was it only things to eat That he was prone to bite.

But in that one particular He was so passing true That never did he quit a meal Until he had got through.