Chapter 6

Folks don't know how I suffer In my uncomplainin' way-- They think I'm gittin' tougher And tougher every day. Last Sunday night, when Flinder Was a-shoutin' out for joy, And some one shook the winder, He prayed for "Johnson's boy."

I'm tired of bein' follered By farmers every day, And then o' bein' collared For coaxin' hounds away; Hounds always plays me double-- It's a trick they all enjoy-- To git me into trouble, Because I'm "Johnson's boy."

But if I git to Heaven, I hope the Lord'll see SOME boy has been perfect, And lay it on to me; I'll swell the song sonorous, And clap my wings for joy, And sail off on the chorus-- "Hurrah for 'Johnson's boy!'"

HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS

Your hands--they are strangely fair! O Fair--for the jewels that sparkle there,-- Fair--for the witchery of the spell That ivory keys alone can tell; But when their delicate touches rest Here in my own do I love them best, As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

Marvelous--wonderful--beautiful hands! They can coax roses to bloom in the strands Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine, Under mysterious touches of thine, Into such knots as entangle the soul And fetter the heart under such a control As only the strength of my love understands-- My passionate love for your beautiful hands.

As I remember the first fair touch Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, Kissing the glove that I found unfilled-- When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow, As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!" . . . And dazed and alone in a dream I stand, Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved, in the long ago, And held your hand as I told you so-- Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss And said "I could die for a hand like this!" Little I dreamed love's fullness yet Had to ripen when eyes were wet And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

. . . . . . . . . Beautiful Hands!--O Beautiful Hands! Could you reach out of the alien lands Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, Only a touch--were it ever so light-- My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again; For there is no solace the world commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

NATURAL PERVERSITIES

I am not prone to moralize In scientific doubt On certain facts that Nature tries To puzzle us about,-- For I am no philosopher Of wise elucidation, But speak of things as they occur, From simple observation.

I notice LITTLE things--to wit:-- I never missed a train Because I didn't RUN for it; I never knew it rain That my umbrella wasn't lent,-- Or, when in my possession, The sun but wore, to all intent, A jocular expression.

I never knew a creditor To dun me for a debt But I was "cramped" or "bu'sted"; or I never knew one yet, When I had plenty in my purse, To make the least invasion,-- As I, accordingly perverse, Have courted no occasion.

Nor do I claim to comprehend What Nature has in view In giving us the very friend To trust we oughtn't to.-- But so it is: The trusty gun Disastrously exploded Is always sure to be the one We didn't think was loaded.

Our moaning is another's mirth,-- And what is worse by half, We say the funniest thing on earth And never raise a laugh: 'Mid friends that love us over well, And sparkling jests and liquor, Our hearts somehow are liable To melt in tears the quicker.

We reach the wrong when most we seek The right; in like effect, We stay the strong and not the weak-- Do most when we neglect.-- Neglected genius--truth be said-- As wild and quick as tinder, The more you seek to help ahead The more you seem to hinder.

I've known the least the greatest, too-- And, on the selfsame plan, The biggest fool I ever knew Was quite a little man: We find we ought, and then we won't-- We prove a thing, then doubt it,-- Know EVERYTHING but when we don't Know ANYTHING about it.

THE SILENT VICTORS

MAY 30, 1878,

Dying for victory, cheer on cheer Thundered on his eager ear. --CHARLES L. HOLSTEIN.

I

Deep, tender, firm and true, the Nation's heart Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away, Who in grim Battle's drama played their part, And slumber here to-day.--

Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine Of Freedom, while our country held its breath As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line And marched upon their death:

When Freedom's Flag, its natal wounds scarce healed, Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again To shudder in the storm of battle-field-- The elements of men,--

When every star that glittered was a mark For Treason's ball, and every rippling bar Of red and white was sullied with the dark And purple stain of war:

When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey, Were howling o'er their gory feast of lives, And sending dismal echoes far away To mothers, maids, and wives:--

The mother, kneeling in the empty night, With pleading hands uplifted for the son Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight-- The victory had won:

The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say The babe was waiting for the sire's caress-- The letter meeting that upon the way,-- The babe was fatherless:

The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed Against the brow once dewy with her breath, Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed Save by the dews of death.

II

What meed of tribute can the poet pay The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day In epitaph design?--

Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows That ache no longer with a dream of fame, But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house, Renowned beyond the name.

The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall, And tender morning with her shining hand May brush them from the grasses green and tall That undulate the land.--

Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift, Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap, Can yield us hope the Hero's head to lift Out of its dreamless sleep:

The dear old Flag, whose faintest flutter flies A stirring echo through each patriot breast, Can never coax to life the folded eyes That saw its wrongs redressed--

That watched it waver when the fight was hot, And blazed with newer courage to its aid, Regardless of the shower of shell and shot Through which the charge was made;--

And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings, Like some proud bird in stormy element, And soar untrammeled on its wanderings, They closed in death, content.

III

O Mother, you who miss the smiling face Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight, And left you weeping o'er the vacant place He used to fill at night,--

Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns That drowned the farewell words you tried to say To incoherent ones;--

Be glad and proud you had the life to give-- Be comforted through all the years to come,-- Your country has a longer life to live, Your son a better home.

O Widow, weeping o'er the orphaned child, Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send A keener pang to grief unreconciled,-- Teach him to comprehend

He had a father brave enough to stand Before the fire of Treason's blazing gun, That, dying, he might will the rich old land Of Freedom to his son.

And, Maiden, living on through lonely years In fealty to love's enduring ties,-- With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears That gather in your eyes,

Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, Submission to the will of Heaven's High Host:-- I see your Angel-soldier pacing there, Expectant at his post.--

I see the rank and file of armies vast, That muster under one supreme control; I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast-- The calling of the roll--

The grand divisions falling into line And forming, under voice of One alone Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine The hymn that shakes the Throne.

IV

And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best, In silence o'er the tomb.

With reverent hands we twine the Hero's wreath And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone That stands the sentinel for each beneath Whose glory is our own.

While in the violet that greets the sun, We see the azure eye of some lost boy; And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one We kissed in childish joy,--

Recalling, haply, when he marched away, He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet.-- The kiss he gave his mother's brow that day Is there and burning yet:

And through the storm of grief around her tossed, One ray of saddest comfort she may see,-- Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost To weeping Liberty.

. . . . . . . . But draw aside the drapery of gloom, And let the sunshine chase the clouds away And gild with brighter glory every tomb We decorate to-day:

And in the holy silence reigning round, While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere, Where loyal souls of love and faith are found, Thank God that Peace is here!

And let each angry impulse that may start, Be smothered out of every loyal breast; And, rocked within the cradle of the heart, Let every sorrow rest.

SCRAPS

There's a habit I have nurtured, From the sentimental time When my life was like a story, And my heart a happy rhyme,-- Of clipping from the paper, Or magazine, perhaps, The idle songs of dreamers, Which I treasure as my scraps.

They hide among my letters, And they find a cozy nest In the bosom of my wrapper, And the pockets of my vest; They clamber in my fingers Till my dreams of wealth relapse In fairer dreams than Fortune's Though I find them only scraps.

Sometimes I find, in tatters Like a beggar, form as fair As ever gave to Heaven The treasure of a prayer; And words all dim and faded, And obliterate in part, Grow into fadeless meanings That are printed on the heart.

Sometimes a childish jingle Flings an echo, sweet and clear, And thrills me as I listen To the laughs I used to hear; And I catch the gleam of faces, And the glimmer of glad eyes That peep at me expectant O'er the walls of Paradise.

O syllables of measure! Though you wheel yourselves in line, And await the further order Of this eager voice of mine; You are powerless to follow O'er the field my fancy maps, So I lead you back to silence Feeling you are only scraps.

AUGUST

A day of torpor in the sullen heat Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, With drowsy eyes, and dream.

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; The sun glares ever like an evil eye, And withers flower and leaf.

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote The thresher lies deserted, like some old Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat Upon a sea of gold.

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird Above an empty nest, and truant boys Along the river's shady margin heard-- A harmony of noise--

A melody of wrangling voices blent With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls Of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent To mimic waterfalls.

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, The sifted glances of the sun appear In splinterings of spray.

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on His journey to the sky.

And down across the valley's drooping sweep, Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, The forest stands in silence, drinking deep Its purple wine of shade.

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; The sailor-vision voyages the skies And carries into chaos everything That freights the weary eyes:

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night.

DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME

DIED--Early morning of September 5, 1876, and in the gleaming dawn of "name and fame," Hamilton J. Dunbar.

Dead! Dead! Dead! We thought him ours alone; And were so proud to see him tread The rounds of fame, and lift his head Where sunlight ever shone; But now our aching eyes are dim, And look through tears in vain for him.

Name! Name! Name! It was his diadem; Nor ever tarnish-taint of shame Could dim its luster--like a flame Reflected in a gem, He wears it blazing on his brow Within the courts of Heaven now.

Tears! Tears! Tears! Like dews upon the leaf That bursts at last--from out the years The blossom of a trust appears That blooms above the grief; And mother, brother, wife and child Will see it and be reconciled.

IN THE DARK

O In the depths of midnight What fancies haunt the brain! When even the sigh of the sleeper Sounds like a sob of pain.

A sense of awe and of wonder I may never well define,-- For the thoughts that come in the shadows Never come in the shine.

The old clock down in the parlor Like a sleepless mourner grieves, And the seconds drip in the silence As the rain drips from the eaves.

And I think of the hands that signal The hours there in the gloom, And wonder what angel watchers Wait in the darkened room.

And I think of the smiling faces That used to watch and wait, Till the click of the clock was answered By the click of the opening gate.--

They are not there now in the evening-- Morning or noon--not there; Yet I know that they keep their vigil, And wait for me Somewhere.

THE IRON HORSE

No song is mine of Arab steed-- My courser is of nobler blood, And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, And greater strength and hardihood Than ever cantered wild and free Across the plains of Araby.

Go search the level desert land From Sana on to Samarcand-- Wherever Persian prince has been, Or Dervish, Sheik, or Bedouin, And I defy you there to point Me out a steed the half so fine-- From tip of ear to pastern-joint-- As this old iron horse of mine.

You do not know what beauty is-- You do not know what gentleness His answer is to my caress!-- Why, look upon this gait of his,-- A touch upon his iron rein-- He moves with such a stately grace The sunlight on his burnished mane Is barely shaken in its place; And at a touch he changes pace, And, gliding backward, stops again.

And talk of mettle--Ah! my friend, Such passion smolders in his breast That when awakened it will send A thrill of rapture wilder than E'er palpitated heart of man When flaming at its mightiest. And there's a fierceness in his ire-- A maddened majesty that leaps Along his veins in blood of fire, Until the path his vision sweeps Spins out behind him like a thread Unraveled from the reel of time, As, wheeling on his course sublime, The earth revolves beneath his tread.

Then stretch away, my gallant steed! Thy mission is a noble one: Thou bear'st the father to the son, And sweet relief to bitter need; Thou bear'st the stranger to his friends; Thou bear'st the pilgrim to the shrine, And back again the prayer he sends That God will prosper me and mine,-- The star that on thy forehead gleams Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.

Then speed thee on thy glorious race! The mother waits thy ringing pace; The father leans an anxious ear The thunder of thy hooves to hear; The lover listens, far away, To catch thy keen exultant neigh; And, where thy breathings roll and rise, The husband strains his eager eyes, And laugh of wife and baby-glee Ring out to greet and welcome thee. Then stretch away! and when at last The master's hand shall gently check Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, The world will pat thee on the neck.

DEAD LEAVES

DAWN

As though a gipsy maiden with dim look, Sat crooning by the roadside of the year, So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, thou art here To read dark fortunes for us from the book Of fate; thou flingest in the crinkled brook The trembling maple's gold, and frosty-clear Thy mocking laughter thrills the atmosphere, And drifting on its current calls the rook To other lands. As one who wades, alone, Deep in the dusk, and hears the minor talk Of distant melody, and finds the tone, In some wierd way compelling him to stalk The paths of childhood over,--so I moan, And like a troubled sleeper, groping, walk.

DUSK

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day Into the dusky forest-lands of gray And somber twilight. Far, and faint, and high The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry Sad as the wail of some poor castaway Who sees a vessel drifting far astray Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. The children, riotous from school, grow bold And quarrel with the wind, whose angry gust Plucks off the summer hat, and flaps the fold Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

NIGHT

Funereal Darkness, drear and desolate, Muffles the world. The moaning of the wind Is piteous with sobs of saddest kind; And laughter is a phantom at the gate Of memory. The long-neglected grate Within sprouts into flame and lights the mind With hopes and wishes long ago refined To ashes,--long departed friends await Our words of welcome: and our lips are dumb And powerless to greet the ones that press Old kisses there. The baby beats its drum, And fancy marches to the dear caress Of mother-arms, and all the gleeful hum Of home intrudes upon our loneliness.

OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS

"The voice of One hath spoken, And the bended reed is bruised-- The golden bowl is broken, And the silver cord is loosed."

Over the eyes of gladness The lids of sorrow fall, And the light of mirth is darkened Under the funeral pall.

The hearts that throbbed with rapture In dreams of the future years, Are wakened from their slumbers, And their visions drowned in tears.

. . . . . . . Two buds on the bough in the morning-- Twin buds in the smiling sun, But the frost of death has fallen And blighted the bloom of one.

One leaf of life still folded Has fallen from the stem, Leaving the symbol teaching There still are two of them,--

For though--through Time's gradations, The LIVING bud may burst,-- The WITHERED one is gathered, And blooms in Heaven first.

ONLY A DREAM

Only a dream! Her head is bent Over the keys of the instrument, While her trembling fingers go astray In the foolish tune she tries to play. He smiles in his heart, though his deep, sad eyes Never change to a glad surprise As he finds the answer he seeks confessed In glowing features, and heaving breast.

Only a dream! Though the fete is grand, And a hundred hearts at her command, She takes no part, for her soul is sick Of the Coquette's art and the Serpent's trick,-- She someway feels she would like to fling Her sins away as a robe, and spring Up like a lily pure and white, And bloom alone for HIM to-night.

Only a dream That the fancy weaves. The lids unfold like the rose's leaves, And the upraised eyes are moist and mild As the prayerful eyes of a drowsy child. Does she remember the spell they once Wrought in the past a few short months? Haply not--yet her lover's eyes Never change to the glad surprise.

Only a dream! He winds her form Close in the coil of his curving arm, And whirls her away in a gust of sound As wild and sweet as the poets found In the paradise where the silken tent Of the Persian blooms in the Orient,-- While ever the chords of the music seem Whispering sadly,--"Only a dream!"

OUR LITTLE GIRL

Her heart knew naught of sorrow, Nor the vaguest taint of sin-- 'Twas an ever-blooming blossom Of the purity within: And her hands knew only touches Of the mother's gentle care, And the kisses and caresses Through the interludes of prayer.

Her baby-feet had journeyed Such a little distance here, They could have found no briers In the path to interfere; The little cross she carried Could not weary her, we know, For it lay as lightly on her As a shadow on the snow.

And yet the way before us-- O how empty now and drear!-- How ev'n the dews of roses Seem as dripping tears for her! And the song-birds all seem crying, As the winds cry and the rain, All sobbingly,--"We want--we want Our little girl again!"

THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW

'Twas a Funny Little Fellow Of the very purest type, For he had a heart as mellow As an apple over ripe; And the brightest little twinkle When a funny thing occurred, And the lightest little tinkle Of a laugh you ever heard!

His smile was like the glitter Of the sun in tropic lands, And his talk a sweeter twitter Than the swallow understands; Hear him sing--and tell a story-- Snap a joke--ignite a pun,-- 'Twas a capture--rapture--glory, An explosion--all in one!

Though he hadn't any money-- That condiment which tends To make a fellow "honey" For the palate of his friends;-- Sweet simples he compounded-- Sovereign antidotes for sin Or taint,--a faith unbounded That his friends were genuine.

He wasn't honored, maybe-- For his songs of praise were slim,-- Yet I never knew a baby That wouldn't crow for him; I never knew a mother But urged a kindly claim Upon him as a brother, At the mention of his name.

The sick have ceased their sighing, And have even found the grace Of a smile when they were dying As they looked upon his face; And I've seen his eyes of laughter Melt in tears that only ran As though, swift-dancing after, Came the Funny Little Man.

He laughed away the sorrow And he laughed away the gloom We are all so prone to borrow From the darkness of the tomb; And he laughed across the ocean Of a happy life, and passed, With a laugh of glad emotion, Into Paradise at last.

And I think the Angels knew him, And had gathered to await His coming, and run to him Through the widely opened Gate, With their faces gleaming sunny For his laughter-loving sake, And thinking, "What a funny Little Angel he will make!"

SONG OF THE NEW YEAR

I heard the bells at midnight Ring in the dawning year; And above the clanging chorus Of the song, I seemed to hear A choir of mystic voices Flinging echoes, ringing clear, From a band of angels winging Through the haunted atmosphere: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."

And I thought of all the trials The departed years had cost, And the blooming hopes and pleasures That are withered now and lost; And with joy I drank the music Stealing o'er the feeling there As the spirit song came pealing On the silence everywhere: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."