Part 11

Do they joke and jest so gleeful, From set of sun till dawn, That you lie and crow and giggle Long after they are gone?

Do they always bring two dewy, Fresh pieces of the sky, And lift your lashes softly And slip them under sly?

Do they pinch your cheeks a trifle, To make the roses blow? Do they punch your chubby fingers, To make the dimples grow?

Do they show you sights of mischief, All sorts of things to do (Just to keep a body busy, And the world from getting “blue”)?

Do they tickle you at table, And tempt you to a spree (Just to shake the mental cobwebs) When the Parson’s in to tea?

Do they pity the canary, And come to you and say, ’Tis weary of its prison And wants to get away?

Do they hint the budding calla Is bold enough to bloom, If some one isn’t careful To pluck it pretty soon?

Do they tell you on which bushes Grows “de bestest zinzerbread”? That how to get new dollies Is to smash the old one’s head?

Do they teach you model methods For enslaving humankind— The way to rule the father And to make the mother mind?

And to keep all of us people, Who live across the street, Forever on the listen For the tinkling of your feet?

Alas! ere you can answer, I’m very much in fear The cherubs will have finished A-whispering in your ear.

’Tis cloudy April weather, There’s a chill in all the air, And over in the window I see the golden hair.

Somebody must stay indoors For fear of catching cold; And it’s “defful” tiresome business For little Three-years-old.

But the whole town remembers How, not six months agone, All round the house the curtains Were ever closely drawn,

And where erewhile the door-bell Its frequent summons rang, Was pinned a penciled notice, To hush the piercing clang.

For little, little Florence Among the shadows lay, In fever, moaning, tossing, The livelong night and day.

And oft was asked the question, “Is she any better now?” With a choking and a tremor One couldn’t help, somehow.

But _she_ does not remember, Of course—the blithesome heart. See! she has donned her “yiding-hood,” All ready for a start.

And—now! quick, no one watching, Down, down the walk she flies— And Betsy rushing after, With a twinkle in her eyes.

Ha! let us see you catch her— The wee Red Riding-hood! A flash of scarlet lightning; She’s in a racing mood.

Quick, o’er the muddy crossing (The dainty buttoned shoes!) Quick, quick, around the corner— Ah, she begins to lose!

And—now!—the race is over. You little midget, you! To laugh such bubbling laughter, The other must laugh too.

And now the door closed on her, As yesterday, no doubt— “Mamma must haf to lock it, Or some peoples _vill_ get out.”

Once, left alone a moment, They couldn’t find the child; And the father’s face was ghastly, And the mother—she went wild.

Nor here, nor there, the missing; The neighbors, looking out, Saw all the household flying Promiscuously about,

And joined the search, in terror, And hurried to and fro; “Oh! where—oh! where is Florence? Does anybody know?”

“O Florence! Florence! Florence!” There came a little squeal From pony Prince’s manger— “I be here in de meal.”

The darling! may kind Heaven Preserve her safe and sound! For her ways defy conjecture, And her plans—they are profound.

But bless the little cherubs Who ride the moonbeams white, And come to her a-cooing, A-cooing all the night!

Who come to her with manna— The melting music-mirth She scatters in her pathway, To gladden all the earth.

And bless the little Florence, With her face so bonny-bright, With her hair so full of sunshine, With her eyes so full of light!

Aye, bless you, little sunbeam! Shine on a good long while! The world will be the better For the ripple in your smile!

A CENTENNIAL TEA-POT.

Great-great-grandmother, Winifred Lee, Brought, when she came across the sea, A porcelain tea-pot pictured o’er, After a fashion they knew of yore, Bright with birds and with summer flowers And fairies dancing in shady bowers— A pretty treasure to keep in mind The pleasant home she had left behind.

Weeks of battle with storm and gale Wore on timber and mast and sail, And just a league from its destined goal The ship was wrecked on a hidden shoal. Rescued, the people sped to shore, Saving their lives and nothing more.

But Winifred, pacing the beach next day, Dreaming of England far away— A little homesick, and lone, and sad, In spite of the morning gay and glad— Saw, as she strolled, how the thieving tide Had brought its plunder and scattered wide, And behold, in seaweed carefully wound, The porcelain tea-pot safe and sound!

When years had passed and the King’s demand Roused the people of all the land, And a ship’s cargo was put away To steep at the bottom of Boston Bay, With a rebel heart and a flashing eye Winifred laid her tea-pot by; “Till we are granted our rights,” said she, “I’ll drink not another cup of tea.”

(Oh, matrons of this luxurious age, Who lightly turn from History’s page, Just for a year or two forego Your redolent draughts of rare Pekoe, And say if you deem the self-denial Of our great-great-grandmothers not a trial!)

Murder, and pillage, and cannon’s roar, All along the Connecticut shore, Frighted from town the worthy dame. Next day a barrack her house became, And a troop of Redcoats helped themselves To all they could find on the pantry shelves. They drank and feasted, and sang and swore, They tumbled the beds and the curtains tore, And the quiet, orderly, well-kept house Was the scene of a livelong night’s carouse.

Homeward stealing when they had passed, Winifred gazed at the sight aghast. With wrecks of revel the floors were strewn, With tables broken and chairs o’erthrown; Delicate saucer, and cup, and plate, Ruined all—but, strange to relate, The porcelain tea-pot standing still, Safe and sound, on a window-sill!

Long and long have the lichens grown, Wreathing a slender slab of stone, Till scarcely the letters can you see That spell the name of Winifred Lee. But the pictured porcelain, handed down, Far from the old elm-shaded town, An heirloom prized, had found retreat High over a thronged Chicago street— There, in its corner, fresh and gay As tho’ it were made but yesterday.

When in the night a terror came, And the great city was red with flame, And the people, jostling, gasped for breath As they wildly fled from the jaws of death; Little leisure or care had they Their household treasures to bear away.

Nevertheless, as one returned To where the _débris_ smouldering burned, Where heaps of ashes, and brick, and stone, Were all that remained of a goodly home— Saving a charred and blackened wall, Like skeleton rising gaunt and tall— Glancing upward, with wondering eye, The marvelous tea-pot did he spy, Boldly gleaming against the sky.

Ah, old tea-pot, gleaming still, What is the magic that guards from ill, From tempest, and war, and time, and fire— All for thy ruin that conspire? Behold thee, shining so bright and gay! Old tea-pot, art thou bewitched, I say? If that be true, and in some hour Thou shouldst possess thee of speech the power, With the vapor that curls from thy graceful spout What prisoned secret wilt thou let out? Wilt tell how gossips have lisped and chided At little suppers where thou hast presided? Wilt ever laugh at the fortunes told, The willing credence of young and old, As the sibylline leaves thou didst unfold?

Forsooth, as I watch thee blink and shine In that remarkable way of thine, I’m half afraid of thee!—No, not so, Thou precious relic of long ago! Breathing fragrance and friendly cheer, Live for many and many a year! The next Centennial may’st thou see, Is the toast I drink in a cup of tea.

ORANGE, N. J., 1876.

IN LILAC TIME.

The bobolink sung to ’is mate, The doves wuz softly cooin’, I heard the clinkin’ of the gate, When Joe first come a-wooin’.

I stood beside the lilock bush (The sun was slowly sinkin’); My cheeks wuz all to once a-blush, When I heard the gate-latch clinkin’.

Fer Joe he wuz so good an’ kind (Tho’ such a bashful lover), No truer friend you’d ever find In all the wide world over.

He sez, “Ez I wuz goin’ by, I seed yer hair so shiny, Yer eyes ez blue ez summer sky, Yer cheeks ez red’s a piny;

“My heart my throat come thrummin’ in, The dusk it struck my fancy; I couldn’t help a-comin’ in An’ speakin’ to ye, Nancy.”

An’ then ’e sez—’e sez—O me! My feelins gits unruly— He’d liked me all along, you see; I know he loved me truly.

An’ I wuz but an orphan, too, A-workin’ fer my livin’, Without a kith er kin I knew, An’ jest myself to give ’im.

An’ when iz voice sunk soft away— A kind o’ tremblin’ in it— The words I tried so hard to say Kep’ chokin’ fer a minute.

The lilock blossoms wuz in blow, So sweet, with dewdrops beaded; I handed ’im a bunch, an’ Joe No other answer needed.

The year it passed, the war wuz come, The soldiers fast enrollin’; I heard the beatin’ of the drum, I thought like church-bell tollin’.

I stood beside the lilock bush, The shadows round me lyin’, An’ all the evenin’ in a hush, Except the wind a-sighin’;

An’ down the lane the whip-’oor-will So sad an’ mournful callin’— Somehow it wuz so dreadful still, The tears _would_ keep a-fallin’.

An’ then _he_ come—so brave an’ strong, An’ yet ’is lips a-quiv’rin’; I guesst ’is errant all along, An’ couldn’t help a-shiv’rin’.

O friend, the year went round—went round— But this’ll tell you better; This withered lilock some one found, An’ sent me in a letter.

Ah, well! there’s more than me that know How sad is war, an’ fearful, An’ since the good God plans it so, I must try to be cheerful;

But when the lilocks air in bloom, An’ when the day’s a-dyin’, I creep off to my little room An’ have a fit of cryin’.

BLUE EYES.

Violets, violets, blossoming low, Shadowy grasses under; Blue, blue eyes, Up at the skies Peering, as if in wonder.

What tho’ the garden with bloom be sweet, Its mantle the wood renewing; And the birdlings glad Be rollicking mad And musical in their wooing;

What tho’ the streamlet softly flow, Murmuring, laughing, grieving, And the livelong day The zephyr gay Story and rhyme be weaving;

Never the spring-time hath been complete Till, the long grasses under, I find blue eyes Up at the skies Peering, as if in wonder.

THE APPLE-GATHERING.

Apples, apples, apples, Here they come tumbling down, Yellow, and white, and rosy, Crimson, purple, and brown; Seek-no-further and russet, Gilliflower, Jersey sweet, Strawberry, mellow _Fameuse_ Fit for a king to eat; Pound royals, golden pippins, Spitzenbergs hard and red; Take care! get out of the way, there, Or they’ll plump, Cathump, On somebody’s head!

Gather them into the baskets, Empty them into the bin; What a luscious store to go to When the winter wild sets in! Oh, if the apples Eve saw Were as handsome as some of these, How ever could she help saying— “I’ll take one, if you please”? Yellow, and white, and rosy, Crimson, purple, and brown, Apples, apples, apples, Here they come tumbling down.

GOOD-BY, LITTLE BIRD.

Good-by, little bird, the storm-clouds Are gathering gray and drear; At the chilly touch of the Frost-king The sunbeams have paled with fear; Wither’d, the leaves, and fallen lie; Sadly the winds of autumn sigh; Good-by, little bird, good-by, good-by; Little bird, stay not here.

Good-by, little bird, I see thee Winging thy southward way To a sunny land thou knowest, Caroling as thou goest, Singing a blithesome lay. Alas, and alas, no longer Shall thy tuneful voice be heard, Till the leafless limbs be clothed again, And the blossoms gladden hill and glen. Good-by, good-by, little bird, till then; Good-by, good-by, little bird.

HE WILL COME BACK.

Slow the sunset’s glory fades In a thousand shifting shades, Crimson passing into gray, Where the waters of the bay, Mirror, serve the sky alway.

From the dim, far-reaching sea Blows the cool wind merrily, Fills the snowy sails spread wide, And the fishers gaily glide Out against a rising tide.

Children on the sea-beach white Watch them speeding out of sight; Rose, the eldest of the band, Sees but him who waves his hand— Boldest sailor in the land.

“All is well when father goes,” Softly murmurs little Rose, Listening to the breaker’s moan, As she wends her way alone Up the cliff-side to her home.

Thro’ the night the storm-bells toll, And she hears the thunder’s roll, Sees across the heaven’s black The red lightning’s zigzag track; Still, “I know he will come back!”

Broken spar and shattered mast, By the reckless billows cast On the shore at early day, As they, guilty, steal away, Find the villagers and say—

While above them smiles the sun— “’Twill go hard with such an one, ’Twill be sad for these and those, But who shall the news disclose To the little orphan Rose?”

Rose, small housewife, mixing bread, When they tell her shakes her head: “Do you think I can forget All the perils he has met, And naught ever harmed him yet?”

And the neighbors say, “Poor child!” Whispering, “Grief has made her wild.” But at eve white sails behold! Flashing up a path of gold, Just as little Rose foretold.

KATY.

Katy on the doorstep sat, While her dimpled fingers fat Moved industrious to and fro O’er the gay pink calico; For an apron she was making, All herself, with much painstaking.

Pretty picture made she there, Humming a quaint Celtic air, Blue eyes on the work intent, Cheek where tan and roses blent, Brown hair smoothly brushed and braided, Tied at ends with ribbon faded.

Such a happy little maid, Sitting in the porch’s shade, Tempted me to questioning, Till she fell a-gossiping, All about her country telling And the peasant’s mode of dwelling;

How she came from “ferninst Corrk Tin miles,” how she used to walk There and back without a rest, Only, by the way confessed, That the miles “beyant” “air shorrter” Than they are this side the water;

How the houses are of clay, And the roofs are green alway— Thatched with turf; how very sweet The odor of the burning peat, Which warms in winter-time the cottage And cooks the oatmeal or the pottage;

How now and then a troop passed by, Fox-hunting, riding gallantly— Fair ladies and fine gentlemen, Who dashed through field, and wood, and glen— Nor hedge, nor fence, nor stream could stay Their fiery steeds upon the way;

How on a hill-side near her home There stands a ruin, ivy-grown, Which long, and long, and long gone by Was a grand castle, strong and high; And now by night the people passing Make haste, for fear a ghost be chasing.

Thus and so did Katy chat, As in the shaded porch she sat. The little maiden twelve years old With ready tongue her story told, Better than all the books relate it Or half the travelers can state it.

MARIE.

Little Marie is lonesome, Little Marie is sad, Tho’ the summer sun is shining And the summer days are glad.

Ever she stops to listen As her weary task she plies, Anon at the open window Lingers with dreamy eyes.

Not at the distant woodlands, Veiled in a golden haze, Or the miles between of meadow And wheat and rippling maze,

Dotted with elms and maples That move in the morning breeze, And now and then a farm-house Shaded by apple trees,

The shallow, winding streamlet, Where cattle lazily wade, Here in the sunlight flashing, Trembling there in the shade—

Not at the quiet landscape Gazes she; far and dim She sees the white clouds fleecy That crown the horizon’s rim.

They are the snow-clad mountains She saw from the chalet low, Where she dwelt in the dear old Rhineland— Ah! it seems so long ago.

Not to the streamlet’s murmur Listens she; far away Gurgles a mountain torrent Over the rocks all day—

Gurgles and laughs and plashes, Turning the mill-wheel ’round; Gurgles and laughs so merry— Hush! she can hear the sound.

She and the village children Clamber along its route; Ernest is always leading— Hark! she can hear him shout:

“Marie! I’ll help thee, Marie!” She reaches her hand to him— Sudden the wide eyes vacant Fountains of tear-drops brim.

Suddenly far and mocking Sounds the voice of the brook. She turns away from her mountains; Ah, no, no! she must not look.

“Courage, my little Marie!” Was it an echo, then? When he went off to the battles— He never came back again—

Thus did he say, her lover, Stroking her golden hair: “Courage, my little Marie!” Hist! a step on the stair.

Idling and dreaming, Marie! Quick to her work she flies; What if the madame find her Staring with wistful eyes?

All in the land of strangers Pity is sweet and rare. Dreary the life before her, Never a soul to care.

So, tho’ the sun be shining, So, tho’ the day be glad, Sometimes she loses courage, Sometimes Marie is sad.

“THE BANJO.”

_Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_ _Ting-a-ling, ling._

Under the window, Down in the street, Little brown curly head, Little bare feet; Pleadingly lifted, Slumberous eyes, Thrumming, fingering, Nimble hand flies.

_Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_ _Ting-a-ling, ling._

Song of the Southland Over the sea, Sing, little Napolese, Sing to me.

“Beautiful Southland Over the sea, Gayly and gladly Sing I of thee! _Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_ So will I sing, And so will I sing.

“Purple the mountains, Purple the wines, Sunny the hill-slopes Clad with vines; Sunny the skies are, Balmy the air, Time floateth dreamily, Dreamily there. Tirra, la, la, la! Tirra, la, la, Viva, viva, Italia!”

Tattered cap held for The pennies dropped down; Off he goes wandering Over the town, Thrumming, fingering—, _Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_ _Ting, ling, ling._

WINSOME MAGGIE.

When winsome little Maggie Comes dancing down the street, The people smile upon her, And pause, and kindly greet.

The white-haired parson gently Lays hand upon her head, The roguish doctor pinches Her cheek so round and red.

The grim old judge’s visage, Forever in a frown, Relaxes for an instant, As, passing, he looks down.

The matrons stoop to kiss her, The children, at their play, Call out, as little Maggie Goes tripping on her way.

Not e’en the dreaded gossip, Who through her half-closed blind Peeps forth, with little Maggie Has any fault to find.

When winsome little Maggie, With basket on her arm, In which her father’s luncheon Is wrapped so nice and warm—

When she enters the long workshop And pauses at his side, Quick down he lays his hammer And turns in love and pride,

To look into her limpid eyes, And stroke her sunny hair, And jest and frolic with her— Forgetting toil and care—

For the music of her laughter And the mirth of her replies, The while there’s not a happier man, Or richer, ’neath the skies.

Ah, well, it is a blessing To have a heart so gay That it keeps your feet a-dancing, Your face alight alway,

And that, like winsome Maggie, It seems, where’er you go, As if the clouds had parted To let a sunbeam thro’.

A HAPPY PAIR.

“_Contented wi’ little and cantie wi’ mair._”

Yes, we live down in the orchard, Under an apple tree; We’ve got a palace down there, Little Padoy and me.

We built it of sticks and timbers The carpenters threw away. We worked at it hard, I tell you; It took us a whole long day.

There’s a door (without any hinges), And a window (without any blind), And a chimney (it’s built of pebbles, And it smokes—but never mind).

And the roof (it’s a little leaky), We tried to make it look— With straw laid smooth—like the houses I found in my picture book.

There’s a stairway made of corn-cobs, And parlor and kitchen and hall, And sofas and chairs and tables, And a looking-glass on the wall;

And in the kitchen a cupboard With real dishes on the shelves; Mother, she gave them to us, But the rest we made ourselves.

Oh, just come along now, won’t you? It’s only a little way. I want to show you our palace— How old am I, did you say?

I’ll be six years old next summer, And my wife she’s going on four; There she is, waiting for me— There by our palace door.

Padoy, see, we’ve got company, Now you must be polite And say “Good morning” pretty, And “Won’t you sit down?” That’s right.

And here’s the dinner ready— Biscuit and sauce and tea. The tea it’s water and sugar, And as sweet as sweet can be;

And the biscuits—Padoy, she makes ’em: She mixes water and flour, And sets it to rise in the sunshine For almost a half an hour;

And then she kneads it and kneads it Into tiny cakes of dough, And it’s fun to play ball with ’em, Before they’re baked, you know.

Say, now, won’t you have some? Only one! Why, look here. There’s lots more where these come from, Ain’t there, Padoy, my dear?

You’d like to look at my garden? Oh, yes, it’s right out there; Somehow it doesn’t do well, In spite of all my care.

The wind it blew down my bean-vine, My radish it never grew, The bugs they eat up my cabbage, And my turnip and cucumber too.

(Padoy, run wash the dishes). I wouldn’t have _her_ know, But I tore up the tomato Trying my bran-new hoe.

Ever quarrel? Why, no, I guess not. Sometimes she won’t play fair, And once I got out of patience, And bit her and pulled her hair.

But she cried so hard, I tell you I was sorry as could be; And, well, I—I—I kissed her, And we made up, you see.