Chapter 4

Folks ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits; Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits. Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered out de little valleys, Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys.

We is all constructed diff'ent, d'ain't no two of us de same; We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se bad we ain't to blame. Ef we 'se good, we need n't show off, case you bet it ain't ouah doin' We gits into su'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'.

But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill, An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill. John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally ain't alike; Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a pike.

When you come to think about it, how it 's all planned out it 's splendid. Nuthin 's done er evah happens, 'dout hit 's somefin' dat 's intended; Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an' hit sholy beats de dickens,-- Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o' mastah's chickens.

FREDERICK DOUGLASS

A hush is over all the teeming lists, And there is pause, a breath-space in the strife; A spirit brave has passed beyond the mists And vapors that obscure the sun of life. And Ethiopia, with bosom torn, Laments the passing of her noblest born.

She weeps for him a mother's burning tears-- She loved him with a mother's deepest love. He was her champion thro' direful years, And held her weal all other ends above. When Bondage held her bleeding in the dust, He raised her up and whispered, "Hope and Trust."

For her his voice, a fearless clarion, rung That broke in warning on the ears of men; For her the strong bow of his power he strung, And sent his arrows to the very den Where grim Oppression held his bloody place And gloated o'er the mis'ries of a race.

And he was no soft-tongued apologist; He spoke straightforward, fearlessly uncowed; The sunlight of his truth dispelled the mist, And set in bold relief each dark hued cloud; To sin and crime he gave their proper hue, And hurled at evil what was evil's due.

Through good and ill report he cleaved his way. Right onward, with his face set toward the heights, Nor feared to face the foeman's dread array,-- The lash of scorn, the sting of petty spites. He dared the lightning in the lightning's track, And answered thunder with his thunder back.

When men maligned him, and their torrent wrath In furious imprecations o'er him broke, He kept his counsel as he kept his path; 'T was for his race, not for himself he spoke. He knew the import of his Master's call, And felt himself too mighty to be small.

No miser in the good he held was he,-- His kindness followed his horizon's rim. His heart, his talents, and his hands were free To all who truly needed aught of him. Where poverty and ignorance were rife, He gave his bounty as he gave his life.

The place and cause that first aroused his might Still proved its power until his latest day. In Freedom's lists and for the aid of Right Still in the foremost rank he waged the fray; Wrong lived; his occupation was not gone. He died in action with his armor on!

We weep for him, but we have touched his hand, And felt the magic of his presence nigh, The current that he sent throughout the land, The kindling spirit of his battle-cry. O'er all that holds us we shall triumph yet, And place our banner where his hopes were set!

Oh, Douglass, thou hast passed beyond the shore, But still thy voice is ringing o'er the gale! Thou 'st taught thy race how high her hopes may soar, And bade her seek the heights, nor faint, nor fail. She will not fail, she heeds thy stirring cry, She knows thy guardian spirit will be nigh, And, rising from beneath the chast'ning rod, She stretches out her bleeding hands to God!

LIFE

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, A minute to smile and an hour to weep in, A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double; And that is life!

A crust and a corner that love makes precious, With a smile to warm and the tears to refresh us; And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter; And that is life!

THE LESSON

My cot was down by a cypress grove, And I sat by my window the whole night long, And heard well up from the deep dark wood A mocking-bird's passionate song.

And I thought of myself so sad and lone, And my life's cold winter that knew no spring; Of my mind so weary and sick and wild, Of my heart too sad to sing.

But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song, A thought stole into my saddened heart, And I said, "I can cheer some other soul By a carol's simple art."

For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives Come songs that brim with joy and light, As out of the gloom of the cypress grove The mocking-bird sings at night.

So I sang a lay for a brother's ear In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart, And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre, Though mine was a feeble art.

But at his smile I smiled in turn, And into my soul there came a ray: In trying to soothe another's woes Mine own had passed away.

THE RISING OF THE STORM

The lake's dark breast Is all unrest, It heaves with a sob and a sigh. Like a tremulous bird, From its slumber stirred, The moon is a-tilt in the sky.

From the silent deep The waters sweep, But faint on the cold white stones, And the wavelets fly With a plaintive cry O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones.

And the spray upsprings On its ghost-white wings, And tosses a kiss at the stars; While a water-sprite, In sea-pearls dight, Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars.

Far out in the night, On the wavering sight I see a dark hull loom; And its light on high, Like a Cyclops' eye, Shines out through the mist and gloom.

Now the winds well up From the earth's deep cup, And fall on the sea and shore, And against the pier The waters rear And break with a sullen roar.

Up comes the gale, And the mist-wrought veil Gives way to the lightning's glare, And the cloud-drifts fall, A sombre pall, O'er water, earth, and air.

The storm-king flies, His whip he plies, And bellows down the wind. The lightning rash With blinding flash Comes pricking on behind.

Rise, waters, rise, And taunt the skies With your swift-flitting form. Sweep, wild winds, sweep, And tear the deep To atoms in the storm.

And the waters leapt, And the wild winds swept, And blew out the moon in the sky, And I laughed with glee, It was joy to me As the storm went raging by!

SUNSET

The river sleeps beneath the sky, And clasps the shadows to its breast; The crescent moon shines dim on high; And in the lately radiant west The gold is fading into gray. Now stills the lark his festive lay, And mourns with me the dying day.

While in the south the first faint star Lifts to the night its silver face, And twinkles to the moon afar Across the heaven's graying space, Low murmurs reach me from the town, As Day puts on her sombre crown, And shakes her mantle darkly down.

THE OLD APPLE-TREE

There's a memory keeps a-runnin' Through my weary head to-night, An' I see a picture dancin' In the fire-flames' ruddy light; 'Tis the picture of an orchard Wrapped in autumn's purple haze, With the tender light about it That I loved in other days. An' a-standin' in a corner Once again I seem to see The verdant leaves an' branches Of an old apple-tree.

You perhaps would call it ugly, An' I don't know but it's so, When you look the tree all over Unadorned by memory's glow; For its boughs are gnarled an' crooked, An' its leaves are gettin' thin, An' the apples of its bearin' Would n't fill so large a bin As they used to. But I tell you, When it comes to pleasin' me, It's the dearest in the orchard,-- Is that old apple-tree.

I would hide within its shelter, Settlin' in some cosy nook, Where no calls nor threats could stir me From the pages o' my book. Oh, that quiet, sweet seclusion In its fulness passeth words! It was deeper than the deepest That my sanctum now affords. Why, the jaybirds an' the robins, They was hand in glove with me, As they winked at me an' warbled In that old apple-tree.

It was on its sturdy branches That in summers long ago I would tie my swing an' dangle In contentment to an' fro, Idly dreamin' childish fancies, Buildin' castles in the air, Makin' o' myself a hero Of romances rich an' rare. I kin shet my eyes an' see it Jest as plain as plain kin be, That same old swing a-danglin' To the old apple-tree.

There's a rustic seat beneath it That I never kin forget. It's the place where me an' Hallie-- Little sweetheart--used to set, When we 'd wander to the orchard So 's no listenin' ones could hear As I whispered sugared nonsense Into her little willin' ear. Now my gray old wife is Hallie, An' I 'm grayer still than she, But I 'll not forget our courtin' 'Neath the old apple-tree.

Life for us ain't all been summer, But I guess we 'we had our share Of its flittin' joys an' pleasures, An' a sprinklin' of its care. Oft the skies have smiled upon us; Then again we 've seen 'em frown, Though our load was ne'er so heavy That we longed to lay it down. But when death does come a-callin', This my last request shall be,-- That they 'll bury me an' Hallie 'Neath the old apple tree.

A PRAYER

O Lord, the hard-won miles Have worn my stumbling feet: Oh, soothe me with thy smiles, And make my life complete.

The thorns were thick and keen Where'er I trembling trod; The way was long between My wounded feet and God.

Where healing waters flow Do thou my footsteps lead. My heart is aching so; Thy gracious balm I need.

PASSION AND LOVE

A maiden wept and, as a comforter, Came one who cried, "I love thee," and he seized Her in his arms and kissed her with hot breath, That dried the tears upon her flaming cheeks. While evermore his boldly blazing eye Burned into hers; but she uncomforted Shrank from his arms and only wept the more.

Then one came and gazed mutely in her face With wide and wistful eyes; but still aloof He held himself; as with a reverent fear, As one who knows some sacred presence nigh. And as she wept he mingled tear with tear, That cheered her soul like dew a dusty flower,-- Until she smiled, approached, and touched his hand!

THE SEEDLING

As a quiet little seedling Lay within its darksome bed, To itself it fell a-talking, And this is what it said:

"I am not so very robust, But I 'll do the best I can;" And the seedling from that moment Its work of life began.

So it pushed a little leaflet Up into the light of day, To examine the surroundings And show the rest the way.

The leaflet liked the prospect, So it called its brother, Stem; Then two other leaflets heard it, And quickly followed them.

To be sure, the haste and hurry Made the seedling sweat and pant; But almost before it knew it It found itself a plant.

The sunshine poured upon it, And the clouds they gave a shower; And the little plant kept growing Till it found itself a flower.

Little folks, be like the seedling, Always do the best you can; Every child must share life's labor Just as well as every man.

And the sun and showers will help you Through the lonesome, struggling hours, Till you raise to light and beauty Virtue's fair, unfading flowers.

PROMISE

I grew a rose within a garden fair, And, tending it with more than loving care, I thought how, with the glory of its bloom, I should the darkness of my life illume; And, watching, ever smiled to see the lusty bud Drink freely in the summer sun to tinct its blood.

My rose began to open, and its hue Was sweet to me as to it sun and dew; I watched it taking on its ruddy flame Until the day of perfect blooming came, Then hasted I with smiles to find it blushing red-- Too late! Some thoughtless child had plucked my rose and fled!

FULFILMENT.

I grew a rose once more to please mine eyes. All things to aid it--dew, sun, wind, fair skies-- Were kindly; and to shield it from despoil, I fenced it safely in with grateful toil. No other hand than mine shall pluck this flower, said I, And I was jealous of the bee that hovered nigh. It grew for days; I stood hour after hour To watch the slow unfolding of the flower, And then I did not leave its side at all, Lest some mischance my flower should befall. At last, oh joy! the central petals burst apart. It blossomed--but, alas! a worm was at its heart!

SONG

My heart to thy heart, My hand to thine; My lip to thy lips, Kisses are wine Brewed for the lover in sunshine and shade; Let me drink deep, then, my African maid.

Lily to lily, Rose unto rose; My love to thy love Tenderly grows. Rend not the oak and the ivy in twain, Nor the swart maid from her swarthier swain.

AN ANTE-BELLUM SERMON

We is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs, In dis howlin' wildaness, Fu' to speak some words of comfo't To each othah in distress. An' we chooses fu' ouah subjic' Dis--we'll 'splain it by an' by; "An' de Lawd said, 'Moses, Moses,' An' de man said, 'Hyeah am I.'"

Now ole Pher'oh, down in Egypt, Was de wuss man evah bo'n, An' he had de Hebrew chillun Down dah wukin' in his co'n; 'T well de Lawd got tiahed o' his foolin', An' sez he: "I' ll let him know-- Look hyeah, Moses, go tell Pher'oh Fu' to let dem chillun go."

"An' ef he refuse to do it, I will make him rue de houah, Fu' I'll empty down on Egypt All de vials of my powah." Yes, he did--an' Pher'oh's ahmy Wasn't wuth a ha'f a dime; Fu' de Lawd will he'p his chillun, You kin trust him evah time.

An' yo' enemies may 'sail you In de back an' in de front; But de Lawd is all aroun' you, Fu' to ba' de battle's brunt. Dey kin fo'ge yo' chains an' shackles F'om de mountains to de sea; But de Lawd will sen' some Moses Fu' to set his chillun free.

An' de lan' shall hyeah his thundah, Lak a blas' f'om Gab'el's ho'n, Fu' de Lawd of hosts is mighty When he girds his ahmor on. But fu' feah some one mistakes me, I will pause right hyeah to say, Dat I 'm still a-preachin' ancient, I ain't talkin' 'bout to-day.

But I tell you, fellah christuns, Things'll happen mighty strange; Now, de Lawd done dis fu' Isrul, An' his ways don't nevah change, An' de love he showed to Isrul Was n't all on Isrul spent; Now don't run an' tell yo' mastahs Dat I's preachin' discontent.

'Cause I isn't; I'se a-judgin' Bible people by deir ac's; I 'se a-givin' you de Scriptuah, I 'se a-handin' you de fac's. Cose ole Pher'oh b'lieved in slav'ry, But de Lawd he let him see, Dat de people he put bref in,-- Evah mothah's son was free.

An' dahs othahs thinks lak Pher'oh, But dey calls de Scriptuah liar, Fu' de Bible says "a servant Is a-worthy of his hire." An' you cain't git roun' nor thoo dat, An' you cain't git ovah it, Fu' whatevah place you git in, Dis hyeah Bible too 'll fit.

So you see de Lawd's intention, Evah sence de worl' began, Was dat His almighty freedom Should belong to evah man, But I think it would be bettah, Ef I'd pause agin to say, Dat I'm talkin' 'bout ouah freedom In a Bibleistic way.

But de Moses is a-comin', An' he's comin', suah and fas' We kin hyeah his feet a-trompin', We kin hyeah his trumpit blas'. But I want to wa'n you people, Don't you git too brigity; An' don't you git to braggin' 'Bout dese things, you wait an' see.

But when Moses wif his powah Comes an' sets us chillun free, We will praise de gracious Mastah. Dat has gin us liberty; An' we 'll shout ouah halleluyahs, On dat mighty reck'nin' day, When we 'se reco'nised ez citiz'-- Huh uh! Chillun, let us pray!

ODE TO ETHIOPIA

O Mother Race! to thee I bring This pledge of faith unwavering, This tribute to thy glory. I know the pangs which thou didst feel, When Slavery crushed thee with its heel, With thy dear blood all gory.

Sad days were those--ah, sad indeed! But through the land the fruitful seed Of better times was growing. The plant of freedom upward sprung, And spread its leaves so fresh and young-- Its blossoms now are blowing.

On every hand in this fair land, Proud Ethiope's swarthy children stand Beside their fairer neighbor; The forests flee before their stroke, Their hammers ring, their forges smoke,-- They stir in honest labour.

They tread the fields where honour calls; Their voices sound through senate halls In majesty and power. To right they cling; the hymns they sing Up to the skies in beauty ring, And bolder grow each hour.

Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul; Thy name is writ on Glory's scroll In characters of fire. High 'mid the clouds of Fame's bright sky Thy banner's blazoned folds now fly, And truth shall lift them higher.

Thou hast the right to noble pride, Whose spotless robes were purified By blood's severe baptism. Upon thy brow the cross was laid, And labour's painful sweat-beads made A consecrating chrism.

No other race, or white or black, When bound as thou wert, to the rack, So seldom stooped to grieving; No other race, when free again, Forgot the past and proved them men So noble in forgiving.

Go on and up! Our souls and eyes Shall follow thy continuous rise; Our ears shall list thy story From bards who from thy root shall spring, And proudly tune their lyres to sing Of Ethiopia's glory.

THE CORN-STALK FIDDLE

When the corn 's all cut and the bright stalks shine Like the burnished spears of a field of gold; When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine, And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold; Then it's heigho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle, For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.

And you take a stalk that is straight and long, With an expert eye to its worthy points, And you think of the bubbling strains of song That are bound between its pithy joints-- Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle, With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.

Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow O'er the yielding strings with a practised hand! And the music's flow never loud but low Is the concert note of a fairy band. Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.

When the eve comes on, and our work is done, And the sun drops down with a tender glance, With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun, Come the neighbor girls for the evening's dance, And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle-- More time than tune--from the corn-stalk fiddle.

Then brother Jabez takes the bow, While Ned stands off with Susan Bland, Then Henry stops by Milly Snow, And John takes Nellie Jones's hand, While I pair off with Mandy Biddle, And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.

"Salute your partners," comes the call, "All join hands and circle round," "Grand train back," and "Balance all," Footsteps lightly spurn the ground. "Take your lady and balance down the middle" To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.

So the night goes on and the dance is o'er, And the merry girls are homeward gone, But I see it all in my sleep once more, And I dream till the very break of dawn Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.

THE MASTER-PLAYER

An old, worn harp that had been played Till all its strings were loose and frayed, Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed, To play. But each in turn had found No sweet responsiveness of sound.

Then Love the Master-Player came With heaving breast and eyes aflame; The Harp he took all undismayed, Smote on its strings, still strange to song, And brought forth music sweet and strong.

THE MYSTERY

I was not; now I am--a few days hence I shall not be; I fain would look before And after, but can neither do; some Power Or lack of power says "no" to all I would. I stand upon a wide and sunless plain, Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright. Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move, I grope without direction and by chance. Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom. But I--I hear no voice and touch no hand, Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list, And strain my hearing to supernal sounds; Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach, And stretch my hand to find that other hand. I question of th' eternal bending skies That seem to neighbor with the novice earth; But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes On me, as I one day shall do on them, And tell me not the secret that I ask.

NOT THEY WHO SOAR

Not they who soar, but they who plod Their rugged way, unhelped, to God Are heroes; they who higher fare, And, flying, fan the upper air, Miss all the toil that hugs the sod. 'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod, Whose feet have pressed the path unshod, May smile upon defeated care, Not they who soar.

High up there are no thorns to prod, Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod To turn the keenness of the share, For flight is ever free and rare; But heroes they the soil who 've trod, Not they who soar!

WHITTIER

Not o'er thy dust let there be spent The gush of maudlin sentiment; Such drift as that is not for thee, Whose life and deeds and songs agree, Sublime in their simplicity.

Nor shall the sorrowing tear be shed. O singer sweet, thou art not dead! In spite of time's malignant chill, With living fire thy songs shall thrill, And men shall say, "He liveth still!"

Great poets never die, for Earth Doth count their lives of too great worth To lose them from her treasured store; So shalt thou live for evermore-- Though far thy form from mortal ken-- Deep in the hearts and minds of men.

TWO SONGS

A bee that was searching for sweets one day Through the gate of a rose garden happened to stray. In the heart of a rose he hid away, And forgot in his bliss the light of day, As sipping his honey he buzzed in song; Though day was waning, he lingered long, For the rose was sweet, so sweet.

A robin sits pluming his ruddy breast, And a madrigal sings to his love in her nest: "Oh, the skies they are blue, the fields are green, And the birds in your nest will soon be seen!" She hangs on his words with a thrill of love, And chirps to him as he sits above For the song is sweet, so sweet.

A maiden was out on a summer's day With the winds and the waves and the flowers at play; And she met with a youth of gentle air, With the light of the sunshine on his hair. Together they wandered the flowers among; They loved, and loving they lingered long, For to love is sweet, so sweet.

* * * * *

Bird of my lady's bower, Sing her a song; Tell her that every hour, All the day long, Thoughts of her come to me, Filling my brain With the warm ecstasy Of love's refrain.