Chapter 6
Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash, Joint, chop, or chicken limb-- So long as it was edible, 'T was all the same to him!
And frequently when Hunger's pangs Assailed that callow pup, He masticated boots and gloves Or chewed a door-mat up.
So was he much beholden of The folk that him did keep; They loved him when he was awake And better still asleep.
FITTE THE SECOND
Now once his master, lingering o'er His breakfast coffee-cup, Observed unto his doting spouse: "You ought to wash the pup!"
"That shall I do this very day", His doting spouse replied; "You will not know the pretty thing When he is washed and dried.
"But tell me, dear, before you go Unto your daily work, Shall I use Ivory soap on him, Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?"
"Odzooks, it matters not a whit-- They all are good to use! Take Pearline, if it pleases you-- Sapolio, if you choose!
"Take any soap, but take the pup And also water take, And mix the three discreetly up Till they a lather make.
"Then mixing these constituent parts, Let Nature take her way," With which advice that sapient sir Had nothing more to say.
Then fared he to his daily toil All in the Board of Trade, While Mistress Taylor for that bath Due preparation made.
FITTE THE THIRD
She whistled gayly to the pup And called him by his name, And presently the guileless thing All unsuspecting came.
But when she shut the bath-room door, And caught him as catch-can, And hove him in that odious tub, His sorrows then began.
How did that callow, yallow thing Regret that Aprile morn-- Alas! how bitterly he rued The day that he was born!
Twice and again, but all in vain He lifted up his wail; His voice was all the pup could lift, For thereby hangs this tale.
'Twas by that tail she held him down, And presently she spread The creamy lather on his back, His stomach, and his head.
His ears hung down in sorry wise, His eyes were, oh! so sad-- He looked as though he just had lost The only friend he had.
And higher yet the water rose, The lather still increased, And sadder still the countenance Of that poor martyred beast!
Yet all the time his mistress spoke Such artful words of cheer As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!" And "There's a patient dear!"
At last the trial had an end, At last the pup was free; She threw aside the bath-room door-- "Now get you gone!" quoth she.
FITTE THE FOURTH
Then from that tub and from that room He gat with vast ado; At every hop he gave a shake, And--how the water flew!
He paddled down the winding stairs And to the parlor hied, Dispensing pools of foamy suds And slop on every side.
Upon the carpet then he rolled And brushed against the wall, And, horror! whisked his lathery sides On overcoat and shawl.
Attracted by the dreadful din, His mistress came below-- Who, who can speak her wonderment-- Who, who can paint her woe!
Great smears of soap were here and there-- Her startled vision met With blobs of lather everywhere, And everything was wet!
Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek Like one about to die: "Get out--get out, and don't you dare Come in till you are dry!"
With that she opened wide the door And waved the critter through; Out in the circumambient air With grateful yelps he flew.
FITTE THE FIFTH
He whisked into the dusty street And to the Waller lot, Where bonnie Annie Evans played With charming Sissy Knott.
And with those pretty little dears He mixed himself all up-- Oh, fie upon such boisterous play-- Fie, fie, you naughty pup!
Woe, woe on Annie's India mull, And Sissy's blue percale! One got that pup's belathered flanks, And one his soapy tail!
Forth to the rescue of those maids Rushed gallant Willie Clow; His panties they were white and clean-- Where are those panties now?
Where is the nicely laundered shirt That Kendall Evans wore, And Robbie James' tricot coat All buttoned up before?
The leaven, which, as we are told, Leavens a monstrous lump, Hath far less reaching qualities Than a wet pup on the jump.
This way and that he swung and swayed, He gambolled far and near, And everywhere he thrust himself He left a soapy smear.
FITTE THE SIXTH
That noon a dozen little dears Were spanked and put to bed With naught to stay their appetites But cheerless crusts of bread.
That noon a dozen hired girls Washed out each gown and shirt Which that exuberant Taylor pup Had frescoed o'er with dirt.
That whole day long the Aprile sun Smiled sweetly from above On clotheslines flaunting to the breeze The emblems mothers love.
That whole day long the Taylor pup This way and that did hie Upon his mad, erratic course, Intent on getting dry.
That night when Mr. Taylor came His vesper meal to eat, He uttered things my pious pen Would liefer not repeat.
Yet still that noble Taylor pup Survives to romp and bark And stumble over folks and things In fair Buena Park.
Good sooth, I wot he should be called Buena's favorite son Who's sired of such a noble sire And dammed by every one!
AFTER READING TROLLOPE'S HISTORY OF FLORENCE
My books are on their shelves again And clouds lie low with mist and rain. Afar the Arno murmurs low The tale of fields of melting snow. List to the bells of times agone The while I wait me for the dawn.
Beneath great Giotto's Campanile The gray ghosts throng; their whispers steal From poets' bosoms long since dust; They ask me now to go. I trust Their fleeter footsteps where again They come at night and live as men.
The rain falls on Ghiberti's gates; The big drops hang on purple dates; And yet beneath the ilex-shades-- Dear trysting-place for boys and maids-- There comes a form from days of old, With Beatrice's hair of gold.
The breath of lands or lilied streams Floats through the fabric of my dreams; And yonder from the hills of song, Where psalmists brood and prophets throng, The lone, majestic Dante leads His love across the blooming meads.
Along the almond walks I tread And greet the figures of the dead. Mirandula walks here with him Who lived with gods and seraphim; Yet where Colonna's fair feet go There passes Michael Angelo.
In Rome or Florence, still with her Stands lone and grand her worshipper. In Leonardo's brain there move Christ and the children of His love; And Raphael is touching now, For the last time, an angel's brow.
Angelico is praying yet Where lives no pang of man's regret, And, mixing tears and prayers within His palette's wealth, absolved from sin, He dips his brush in hues divine; San Marco's angel faces shine.
Within Lorenzo's garden green, Where olives hide their boughs between, The lovers, as they read betimes Their love within Petrarca's lines, Stand near the marbles found at Rome, Lost shades that search in vain for home.
They pace the paths along the stream, Dark Vallombrosa in their dream. They sing, amidst the rain-drenched pines, Of Tuscan gold that ruddier shines Behind a saint's auroral face That shows e'en yet the master's trace.
But lo, within the walls of gray, E're yet there falls a glint of day, And far without, from hill to vale, Where honey-hearted nightingale Or meads of pale anemones Make sweet the coming morning breeze--
I hear a voice, of prophet tone, A voice of doom, like his alone That once in Gadara was heard; The old walls trembled--lo, the bird Has ceased to sing, and yonder waits Lorenzo at his palace gates.
Some Romola in passing by Turns toward the ruler, and his sigh Wanders amidst the myrtle bowers Or o'er the city's mantled towers, For she is Florence! "Wilt thou hear San Marco's prophet? Doom is near."
"Her liberties," he cries, "restore! This much for Florence--yea, and more To men and God!" The days are gone; And in an hour of perfect dawn I stand beneath the cypress trees That shiver still with words like these.
A LULLABY
The stars are twinkling in the skies, The earth is lost in slumbers deep; So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes, And let me lull thy soul to sleep. Compose thy dimpled hands to rest, And like a little birdling lie Secure within thy cozy nest Upon my loving mother breast, And slumber to my lullaby, So hushaby--O hushaby.
The moon is singing to a star The little song I sing to you; The father sun has strayed afar, As baby's sire is straying too. And so the loving mother moon Sings to the little star on high; And as she sings, her gentle tune Is borne to me, and thus I croon For thee, my sweet, that lullaby Of hushaby--O hushaby.
There is a little one asleep That does not hear his mother's song; But angel watchers--as I weep-- Surround his grave the night-tide long. And as I sing, my sweet, to you, Oh, would the lullaby I sing-- The same sweet lullaby he knew While slumb'ring on this bosom too-- Were borne to him on angel's wing! So hushaby--O hushaby.
"THE OLD HOMESTEAD"
JEST as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'd Appears a meanin' hid from other eyes, So, in your simple, homespun art, old honest Yankee friend, A power o' tearful, sweet seggestion lies. We see it all--the pictur' that our mem'ries hold so dear-- The homestead in New England far away, An' the vision is so nat'ral-like we almost seem to hear The voices that were heshed but yesterday.
Ah, who'd ha' thought the music of that distant childhood time Would sleep through all the changeful, bitter years To waken into melodies like Chris'mas bells a-chime An' to claim the ready tribute of our tears! Why, the robins in the maples an' the blackbirds round the pond, The crickets an' the locusts in the leaves, The brook that chased the trout adown the hillside just beyond, An' the swallers in their nests beneath the eaves-- They all come troopin' back with you, dear Uncle Josh, to-day, An' they seem to sing with all the joyous zest Of the days when we were Yankee boys an' Yankee girls at play, With nary thought of "livin' way out West"!
God bless ye, Denman Thomps'n, for the good y' do our hearts, With this music an' these memories o' youth-- God bless ye for the faculty that tops all human arts, The good ol' Yankee faculty of Truth!
CHRISTMAS HYMN
Sing, Christmas bells! Say to the earth this is the morn Whereon our Saviour-King is born; Sing to all men--the bond, the free, The rich, the poor, the high, the low-- The little child that sports in glee-- The aged folk that tottering go-- Proclaim the morn That Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, angel host! Sing of the star that God has placed Above the manger in the east; Sing of the glories of the night, The virgin's sweet humility, The Babe with kingly robes bedight-- Sing to all men where'er they be This Christmas morn, For Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, sons of earth! O ransomed seed of Adam, sing! God liveth, and we have a King! The curse is gone, the bond are free-- By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed, By all the heavenly signs that be, We know that Israel is redeemed-- That on this morn The Christ is born That saveth you and saveth me!
Sing, O my heart! Sing thou in rapture this dear morn Whereon the blessed Prince is born! And as thy songs shall be of love, So let my deeds be charity-- By the dear Lord that reigns above, By Him that died upon the tree, By this fair morn Whereon is born The Christ that saveth all and me!
A PARAPHRASE OF HEINE
(LYRIC INTERMEZZO)
There fell a star from realms above-- A glittering, glorious star to see! Methought it was the star of love, So sweetly it illumined me.
And from the apple branches fell Blossoms and leaves that time in June; The wanton breezes wooed them well With soft caress and amorous tune.
The white swan proudly sailed along And vied her beauty with her note-- The river, jealous of her song, Threw up its arms to clasp her throat.
But now--oh, now the dream is past-- The blossoms and the leaves are dead, The swan's sweet song is hushed at last, And not a star burns overhead.
THE CONVALESCENT GRIPSTER
The gods let slip that fiendish grip Upon me last week Sunday-- No fiercer storm than racked my form E'er swept the Bay of Fundy; But now, good-by To drugs, say I-- Good-by to gnawing sorrow; I am up to-day, And, whoop, hooray! I'm going out to-morrow!
What aches and pain in bones and brain I had I need not mention; It seemed to me such pangs must be Old Satan's own invention; Albeit I Was sure I'd die, The doctor reassured me-- And, true enough, With his vile stuff, He ultimately cured me.
As there I lay in bed all day, How fair outside looked to me! A smile so mild old Nature smiled It seemed to warm clean through me. In chastened mood The scene I viewed, Inventing, sadly solus, Fantastic rhymes Between the times I had to take a bolus.
Of quinine slugs and other drugs I guess I took a million-- Such drugs as serve to set each nerve To dancing a cotillon; The doctors say The only way To rout the grip instanter Is to pour in All kinds of sin-- Similibus curantur!
'Twas hard; and yet I'll soon forget Those ills and cures distressing; One's future lies 'neath gorgeous skies When one is convalescing! So now, good-by To drugs say I-- Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow! I am up to-day, And, whoop, hooray! I'm going out to-morrow.
THE SLEEPING CHILD
My baby slept--how calm his rest, As o'er his handsome face a smile Like that of angel flitted, while He lay so still upon my breast!
My baby slept--his baby head Lay all unkiss'd 'neath pall and shroud: I did not weep or cry aloud-- I only wished I, too, were dead!
My baby sleeps--a tiny mound, All covered by the little flowers, Woos me in all my waking hours, Down in the quiet burying-ground.
And when I sleep I seem to be With baby in another land-- I take his little baby hand-- He smiles and sings sweet songs to me.
Sleep on, O baby, while I keep My vigils till this day be passed! Then shall I, too, lie down at last, And with my baby darling sleep.
THE TWO COFFINS
In yonder old cathedral Two lovely coffins lie; In one, the head of the state lies dead, And a singer sleeps hard by.
Once had that King great power And proudly ruled the land-- His crown e'en now is on his brow And his sword is in his hand.
How sweetly sleeps the singer With calmly folded eyes, And on the breast of the bard at rest The harp that he sounded lies.
The castle walls are falling And war distracts the land, But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot There in that dead king's hand.
But with every grace of nature There seems to float along-- To cheer again the hearts of men The singer's deathless song.
CLARE MARKET
In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there; That I take a delight on a Saturday night In walking that way and in viewing the sight. For it's here that one sees all the objects that please-- New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, And baubles galore while discretion enjoys-- But here I forbear, for I really despair Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.
A rich man comes down from the elegant town And looks at it all with an ominous frown; He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed; He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.
But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum; He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies, And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise At the goodies they vend and the toys without end-- And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend! But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze-- What sense of despair in this world can compare With that of the waif in the market of Clare?
So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites A stroll in old London for curious sights, I am likely to stray by a devious way Where goodies are spread in a motley array, The things which some eyes would appear to despise Impress me as pathos in homely disguise, And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend, So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend); And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare That there's beauty and good in the market of Clare.
A DREAM OF SUNSHINE
I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase-- The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by, Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's call Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all; And by my side should be a friend--a trusty, genial friend, With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend; Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring-- For _then_ I'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King!
How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat-- Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be, As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee; Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs, And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs; The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair (This latter metaphoric--we've no fimbriae to spare!); And I--transported by the bliss--shan't do a plaguey thing But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King!
Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like, While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike; I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim-- But it's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks, And hear him tell of things he's seen or read of in his books-- To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about; A fountain-head refreshing--a clear, perennial spring Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King!
Should varying winds or shifting tides redound to our despite-- In other words, should we return all bootless home at night, I'd back him up in anything he had a mind to say Of mighty bass he'd left behind or lost upon the way; I'd nod assent to every yarn involving piscine game-- I'd cross my heart and make my affidavit to the same; For what is friendship but a scheme to help a fellow out-- And what a paltry fish or two to make such bones about! Nay, Sentiment a mantle of sweet charity would fling O'er perjuries committed for John Lyle King.
At night, when as the camp-fire cast a ruddy, genial flame, He'd bring his tuneful fiddle out and play upon the same; No diabolic engine this--no instrument of sin-- No relative at all to that lewd toy, the violin! But a godly hoosier fiddle--a quaint archaic thing Full of all the proper melodies our grandmas used to sing; With "Bonnie Doon," and "Nellie Gray," and "Sitting on the Stile," "The Heart Bowed Down," the "White Cockade," and "Charming Annie Lisle" Our hearts would echo and the sombre empyrean ring Beneath the wizard sorcery of John Lyle King.
The subsequent proceedings should interest me no more-- Wrapped in a woolen blanket should I calmly dream and snore; The finny game that swims by day is my supreme delight-- And _not_ the scaly game that flies in darkness of the night! Let those who are so minded pursue this latter game But not repine if they should lose a boodle in the same; For an example to you all one paragon should serve-- He towers a very monument to valor and to nerve; No bob-tail flush, no nine-spot high, no measly pair can wring A groan of desperation from John Lyle King!
A truce to badinage--I hope far distant is the day When from these scenes terrestrial our friend shall pass away! We like to hear his cheery voice uplifted in the land, To see his calm, benignant face, to grasp his honest hand; We like him for his learning, his sincerity, his truth, His gallantry to woman and his kindliness to youth, For the lenience of his nature, for the vigor of his mind, For the fulness of that charity he bears to all mankind-- That's why we folks who know him best so reverently cling (And that is why I pen these lines) to John Lyle King.
And now adieu, a fond adieu to thee, O muse of rhyme-- I do remand thee to the shades until that happier time When fields are green, and posies gay are budding everywhere, And there's a smell of clover bloom upon the vernal air; When by the pond out yonder the redwing blackbird calls, And distant hills are wed to Spring in veils of water-falls; When from his aqueous element the famished pickerel springs Two hundred feet into the air for butterflies and things-- _Then_ come again, O gracious muse, and teach me how to sing The glory of a fishing cruise with John Lyle King!
UHLAND'S WHITE STAG.
Into the woods three huntsmen came, Seeking the white stag for their game.
They laid them under a green fir-tree And slept, and dreamed strange things to see.
(FIRST HUNTSMAN)
I dreamt I was beating the leafy brush, When out popped the noble stag--hush, hush!
(SECOND HUNTSMAN)
As ahead of the clamorous pack he sprang, I pelted him hard in the hide--piff, bang!
(THIRD HUNTSMAN)
And as that stag lay dead I blew On my horn a lusty tir-ril-la-loo!
So speak the three as there they lay When lo! the white stag sped that way,
Frisked his heels at those huntsmen three, Then leagues o'er hill and dale was he-- Hush, hush! Piff, bang! Tir-ril-la-loo!
HOW SALTY WIN OUT
I used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck-- It made no diff'rence how or when or where or why it struck; But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind, an' now proclaim That luck's a kind uv science--same as any other game; It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80 when Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.
Salty wuz a printer in the good ol' Tribune days, An', natural-like, he fell into the good ol' Tribune ways; So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the game Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name; An' there he'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose, he wore Invariably less wealth about his person than before.
But once there came a powerful change; one sollum Sunday night Occurred the tidal wave that put ol' Salty out o' sight. He win on deuce an' ace an' Jack--he win on king an' queen-- Clif Bell allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen. An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when He said he teched a humpback to win out ten.
There must be somethin' in it, for he never win afore, An' when he told the crowd about the humpback, how they swore! For every sport allows it is a losin' game to luck Agin the science uv a man who's teched a hump f'r luck; And there is no denyin' luck wuz nowhere in it when Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.
I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to do The thing that luck apparently intended f'r me to; Cats, funerils, cripples, beggers have I treated with regard, An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard; But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again: You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten!