Chapter 8

The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." The quavering shriek of the Fly-up-the-creek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star.

The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wing On the opposite side of his head, And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies, And plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes.

The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance, And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub--dub-a-dub--dub! And the Crankadox cried, as he lay down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail," While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of crape to her tail.

JUNE

Queenly month of indolent repose! I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom I nestle like a drowsy child and doze The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom Before thy listless feet. The lily blows A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:-- All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!

WASH LOWRY'S REMINISCENCE

And you're the poet of this concern? I've seed your name in print A dozen times, but I'll be dern I'd 'a' never 'a' took the hint O' the size you are--fer I'd pictured you A kind of a tallish man-- Dark-complected and sallor too, And on the consumpted plan.

'Stid o' that you're little and small, With a milk-and-water face-- 'Thout no snap in your eyes at all, Er nothin' to suit the case! Kind o'look like a--I don't know-- One o' these fair-ground chaps That runs a thingamajig to blow, Er a candy-stand perhaps.

'Ll I've allus thought that poetry Was a sort of a--some disease-- Fer I knowed a poet once, and he Was techy and hard to please, And moody-like, and kindo' sad And didn't seem to mix With other folks--like his health was bad, Er his liver out o' fix.

Used to teach fer a livelihood-- There's folks in Pipe Crick yit Remembers him--and he was good At cipherin' I'll admit-- And posted up in G'ography But when it comes to tact, And gittin' along with the school, you see, He fizzled, and that's a fact!

Boarded with us fer fourteen months And in all that time I'll say We never catched him a-sleepin' once Er idle a single day. But shucks! It made him worse and worse A-writin' rhymes and stuff, And the school committee used to furse 'At the school warn't good enough.

He warn't as strict as he ought to been, And never was known to whip, Or even to keep a scholard in At work at his penmanship; 'Stid o' that he'd learn 'em notes, And have 'em every day, Spilin' hymns and a-splittin' th'oats With his "Do-sol-fa-me-ra!"

Tel finally it was jest agreed We'd have to let him go, And we all felt bad--we did indeed, When we come to tell him so; Fer I remember, he turned so white, And smiled so sad, somehow, I someway felt it wasn't right, And I'm shore it wasn't now!

He hadn't no complaints at all-- He bid the school adieu, And all o' the scholards great and small Was mighty sorry too! And when he closed that afternoon They sung some lines that he Had writ a purpose, to some old tune That suited the case, you see.

And then he lingered and delayed And wouldn't go away-- And shet himself in his room and stayed A-writin' from day to day; And kep' a-gittin' stranger still, And thinner all the time, You know, as any feller will On nothin' else but rhyme.

He didn't seem adzactly right, Er like he was crossed in love, He'd work away night after night, And walk the floor above; We'd hear him read and talk, and sing So lonesome-like and low, My woman's cried like ever'thing-- 'Way in the night, you know.

And when at last he tuck to bed He'd have his ink and pen; "So's he could coat the muse" he said, "He'd die contented then"; And jest before he past away He read with dyin' gaze The epitaph that stands to-day To show you where he lays.

And ever sence then I've allus thought That poetry's some disease, And them like you that's got it ought To watch their q's and p's ; And leave the sweets of rhyme, to sup On the wholesome draughts of toil, And git your health recruited up By plowin' in rougher soil.

THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN

"O Printerman of sallow face, And look of absent guile, Is it the 'copy' on your 'case' That causes you to smile? Or is it some old treasure scrap You cull from Memory's file?

"I fain would guess its mystery-- For often I can trace A fellow dreamer's history Whene'er it haunts the face; Your fancy's running riot In a retrospective race!

"Ah, Printerman, you're straying Afar from 'stick' and type-- Your heart has 'gone a-maying,' And you taste old kisses, ripe Again on lips that pucker At your old asthmatic pipe!

"You are dreaming of old pleasures That have faded from your view; And the music-burdened measures Of the laughs you listen to Are now but angel-echoes-- O, have I spoken true?"

The ancient Printer hinted With a motion full of grace To where the words were printed On a card above his "case,"-- "I am deaf and dumb!" I left him With a smile upon his face.

PRIOR TO MISS BELLE'S APPEARANCE

What makes you come HERE fer, Mister, So much to our house?--SAY? Come to see our big sister!-- An' Charley he says 'at you kissed her An' he ketched you, th'uther day!-- Didn' you, Charley?--But we p'omised Belle An' crossed our heart to never to tell-- 'Cause SHE gived us some o' them-er Chawk'lut-drops 'at you bringed to her!

Charley he's my little b'uther-- An' we has a-mostest fun, Don't we, Charley?--Our Muther, Whenever we whips one anuther, Tries to whip US--an' we RUN-- Don't we, Charley?--An' nen, bime-by, Nen she gives us cake--an' pie-- Don't she, Charley?--when we come in An' pomise never to do it ag'in!

HE'S named Charley.--I'm WILLIE-- An' I'm got the purtiest name! But Uncle Bob HE calls me "Billy"-- Don't he, Charley?--'N' our filly We named "Billy," the same Ist like me! An' our Ma said 'At "Bob puts foolishnuss into our head!"-- Didn' she, Charley?--An' SHE don't know Much about BOYS!--'Cause Bob said so!

Baby's a funniest feller! Nain't no hair on his head-- IS they, Charley?--It's meller Wite up there! An' ef Belle er Us ask wuz WE that way, Ma said,-- "Yes; an' yer PA'S head wuz soft as that, An' it's that way yet!"--An' Pa grabs his hat An' says, "Yes, childern, she's right about Pa-- 'Cause that's the reason he married yer Ma!"

An' our Ma says 'at "Belle couldn' Ketch nothin' at all but ist 'BOWS!"-- An' PA says 'at "you're soft as puddun!"-- An' UNCLE BOB says "you're a good-un-- 'Cause he can tell by yer nose!"- Didn' he, Charley?--An' when Belle'll play In the poller on th' pianer, some day, Bob makes up funny songs about you, Till she gits mad-like he wants her to!

Our sister FANNY she's 'LEVEN Years old! 'At's mucher 'an _I_-- Ain't it, Charley? . . . I'm seven!-- But our sister Fanny's in HEAVEN! Nere's where you go ef you die!-- Don't you, Charley?--Nen you has WINGS-- IST LIKE FANNY!--an' PURTIEST THINGS!-- Don't you, Charley?--An' nen you can FLY-- Ist fly-an' EVER'thing! . . . I Wisht I'D die!

WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR

When Memory, with gentle hand, Has led me to that foreign land Of childhood days, I long to be Again the boy on bended knee, With head a-bow, and drowsy smile Hid in a mother's lap the while, With tender touch and kindly care, She bends above and combs my hair.

Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares Had paled it to the hue it wears, Its tangled threads of amber light Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white, That only knew the light caress Of loving hands, or sudden press Of kisses that were sifted there The times when mother combed my hair.

But its last gleams of gold have slipped Away; and Sorrow's manuscript Is fashioned of the snowy brow-- So lined and underscored now That you, to see it, scarce would guess It e'er had felt the fond caress Of loving lips, or known the care Of those dear hands that combed my hair.

. . . . . . . .

I am so tired! Let me be A moment at my mother's knee; One moment--that I may forget The trials waiting for me yet: One moment free from every pain-- O! Mother! Comb my hair again! And I will, oh, so humbly bow, For I've a wife that combs it now.

A WRANGDILLION

Dexery-tethery! down in the dike, Under the ooze and the slime, Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke, Blubbering bubbles of rhyme: Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth-- Though the Graigroll and the Cheest Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath, Nothing affects him the least.

He sinks to the dregs in the dead o' the night, And he shuffles the shadows about As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight And sets there and hatches them out: The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine In scorn with the Will-o'-the-wisp, As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine That ends in a luminous lisp.

The Morning is born like a baby of gold, And it lies in a spasm of pink, And rallies the Cheest for the horrible cold He has dragged to the willowy brink, The Gryke blots his tears with a scrap of his grief, And growls at the wary Graigroll As he twunkers a tune on a Tiljicum leaf And hums like a telegraph pole.

GEORGE MULLEN'S CONFESSION

For the sake of guilty conscience, and the heart that ticks the time Of the clockworks of my nature, I desire to say that I'm A weak and sinful creature, as regards my daily walk The last five years and better. It ain't worth while to talk--

I've been too mean to tell it! I've been so hard, you see, And full of pride, and--onry--now there's the word for me-- Just onry--and to show you, I'll give my history With vital points in question, and I think you'll all agree.

I was always stiff and stubborn since I could recollect, And had an awful temper, and never would reflect; And always into trouble--I remember once at school The teacher tried to flog me, and I reversed that rule.

O I was bad I tell you! And it's a funny move That a fellow wild as I was could ever fall in love; And it's a funny notion that an animal like me, Under a girl's weak fingers was as tame as tame could be!

But it's so, and sets me thinking of the easy way she had Of cooling down my temper--though I'd be fighting mad. "My Lion Queen" I called her--when a spell of mine occurred She'd come in a den of feelings and quell them with a word.

I'll tell you how she loved me--and what her people thought: When I asked to marry Annie they said "they reckoned not-- That I cut too many didoes and monkey-shines to suit Their idea of a son-in-law, and I could go, to boot!"

I tell you that thing riled me! Why, I felt my face turn white, And my teeth shut like a steel trap, and the fingers of my right Hand pained me with their pressure--all the rest's a mystery Till I heard my Annie saying--"I'm going, too, you see."

We were coming through the gateway, and she wavered for a spell When she heard her mother crying and her raving father yell That she wa'n't no child of his'n--like an actor in a play We saw at Independence, coming through the other day.

Well! that's the way we started. And for days and weeks and months And even years we journeyed on, regretting never once Of starting out together upon the path of life-- Akind o' sort o' husband, but a mighty loving wife,--

And the cutest little baby--little Grace--I see her now A-standin' on the pig-pen as her mother milked the cow-- And I can hear her shouting--as I stood unloading straw,-- "I'm ain't as big as papa, but I'm biggerest'n ma."

Now folks that never married don't seem to understand That a little baby's language is the sweetest ever planned-- Why, I tell you it's pure music, and I'll just go on to say That I sometimes have a notion that the angels talk that way!

There's a chapter in this story I'd be happy to destroy; I could burn it up before you with a mighty sight of joy; But I'll go ahead and give it--not in detail, no, my friend, For it takes five years of reading before you find the end.

My Annie's folks relented--at least, in some degree; They sent one time for Annie, but they didn't send for me. The old man wrote the message with a heart as hot and dry As a furnace--"Annie Mullen, come and see your mother die."

I saw the slur intended--why I fancied I could see The old man shoot the insult like a poison dart at me; And in that heat of passion I swore an inward oath That if Annie pleased her father she could never please us both.

I watched her--dark and sullen--as she hurried on her shawl; I watched her--calm and cruel, though I saw her tear-drops fall; I watched her--cold and heartless, though I heard her moaning, call For mercy from high Heaven--and I smiled throughout it all.

Why even when she kissed me, and her tears were on my brow, As she murmured, "George, forgive me--I must go to mother now!" Such hate there was within me that I answered not at all, But calm, and cold and cruel, I smiled throughout it all.

But a shadow in the doorway caught my eye, and then the face Full of innocence and sunshine of little baby Grace. And I snatched her up and kissed her, and I softened through and through For a minute when she told me "I must kiss her muvver too."

I remember, at the starting, how I tried to freeze again As I watched them slowly driving down the little crooked lane-- When Annie shouted something that ended in a cry, And how I tried to whistle and it fizzled in a sigh.

I remember running after, with a glimmer in my sight-- Pretending I'd discovered that the traces wasn't right; And the last that I remember, as they disappeared from view, Was little Grace a-calling, "I see papa! Howdy-do!"

And left alone to ponder, I again took up my hate For the old man who would chuckle that I was desolate; And I mouthed my wrongs in mutters till my pride called up the pain His last insult had given me--until I smiled again

Till the wild beast in my nature was raging in the den-- With no one now to quell it, and I wrote a letter then Full of hissing things, and heated with so hot a heat of hate That my pen flashed out black lightning at a most terrific rate.

I wrote that "she had wronged me when she went away from me-- Though to see her dying mother 'twas her father's victory, And a woman that could waver when her husband's pride was rent Was no longer worthy of it." And I shut the house and went.

To tell of my long exile would be of little good-- Though I couldn't half-way tell it, and I wouldn't if I could! I could tell of California--of a wild and vicious life; Of trackless plains, and mountains, and the Indian's scalping-knife.

I could tell of gloomy forests howling wild with threats of death; I could tell of fiery deserts that have scorched me with their breath; I could tell of wretched outcasts by the hundreds, great and small, And could claim the nasty honor of the greatest of them all.

I could tell of toil and hardship; and of sickness and disease, And hollow-eyed starvation, but I tell you, friend, that these Are trifles in comparison with what a fellow feels With that bloodhound, Remorsefulness, forever at his heels.

I remember--worn and weary of the long, long years of care, When the frost of time was making early harvest of my hair-- I remember, wrecked and hopeless of a rest beneath the sky, My resolve to quit the country, and to seek the East, and die.

I remember my long journey, like a dull, oppressive dream, Across the empty prairies till I caught the distant gleam Of a city in the beauty of its broad and shining stream On whose bosom, flocked together, float the mighty swans of steam.

I remember drifting with them till I found myself again In the rush and roar and rattle of the engine and the train; And when from my surroundings something spoke of child and wife, It seemed the train was rumbling through a tunnel in my life.

Then I remember something--like a sudden burst of light-- That don't exactly tell it, but I couldn't tell it right-- A something clinging to me with its arms around my neck-- A little girl, for instance--or an angel, I expect--

For she kissed me, cried and called me "her dear papa," and I felt My heart was pure virgin gold, and just about to melt-- And so it did--it melted in a mist of gleaming rain When she took my hand and whispered, "My mama's on the train."

There's some things I can dwell on, and get off pretty well, But the balance of this story I know I couldn't tell; So I ain't going to try it, for to tell the reason why-- I'm so chicken-hearted lately I'd be certain 'most to cry.

"TIRED OUT"

"tired out!" Yet face and brow Do not look aweary now, And the eyelids lie like two Pure, white rose-leaves washed with dew. Was her life so hard a task?-- Strange that we forget to ask What the lips now dumb for aye Could have told us yesterday!

"Tired out!" A faded scrawl Pinned upon the ragged shawl-- Nothing else to leave a clue Even of a friend or two, Who might come to fold the hands, Or smooth back the dripping strands Of her tresses, or to wet Them anew with fond regret.

"Tired out!" We can but guess Of her little happiness-- Long ago, in some fair land, When a lover held her hand In the dream that frees us all, Soon or later, from its thrall-- Be it either false or true, We, at last, must tire, too.

HARLIE

Fold the little waxen hands Lightly. Let your warmest tears Speak regrets, but never fears,-- Heaven understands! Let the sad heart, o'er the tomb, Lift again and burst in bloom Fragrant with a prayer as sweet As the lily at your feet.

Bend and kiss the folded eyes-- They are only feigning sleep While their truant glances peep Into Paradise. See, the face, though cold and white, Holds a hint of some delight E'en with Death, whose finger-tips Rest upon the frozen lips.

When, within the years to come, Vanished echoes live once more-- Pattering footsteps on the floor, And the sounds of home,-- Let your arms in fancy fold Little Harlie as of old-- As of old and as he waits At the City's golden gates.

SAY SOMETHING TO ME

Say something to me! I've waited so long-- Waited and wondered in vain; Only a sentence would fall like a song Over this listening pain-- Over a silence that glowers and frowns,-- Even my pencil to-night Slips in the dews of my sorrow and wounds Each tender word that I write.

Say something to me--if only to tell Me you remember the past; Let the sweet words, like the notes of a bell, Ring out my vigil at last. O it were better, far better than this Doubt and distrust in the breast,-- For in the wine of a fanciful kiss I could taste Heaven, and--rest.

Say something to me! I kneel and I plead, In my wild need, for a word; If my poor heart from this silence were freed, I could soar up like a bird In the glad morning, and twitter and sing, Carol and warble and cry Blithe as the lark as he cruises awing Over the deeps of the sky.

LEONAINIE

Leonainie--Angels named her; And they took the light Of the laughing stars and framed her In a smile of white; And they made her hair of gloomy Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy Moonshine, and they brought her to me In the solemn night.--

In a solemn night of summer, When my heart of gloom Blossomed up to greet the comer Like a rose in bloom; All forebodings that distressed me I forgot as Joy caressed me-- (LYING Joy! that caught and pressed me In the arms of doom!)

Only spake the little lisper In the Angel-tongue; Yet I, listening, heard her whisper,-- "Songs are only sung Here below that they may grieve you-- Tales but told you to deceive you,-- So must Leonainie leave you While her love is young."

Then God smiled and it was morning. Matchless and supreme Heaven's glory seemed adorning Earth with its esteem: Every heart but mine seemed gifted With the voice of prayer, and lifted Where my Leonainie drifted From me like a dream.

A TEST OF LOVE

"Now who shall say he loves me not."

He wooed her first in an atmosphere Of tender and low-breathed sighs; But the pang of her laugh went cutting clear To the soul of the enterprise; "You beg so pert for the kiss you seek It reminds me, John," she said, "Of a poodle pet that jumps to 'speak' For a crumb or a crust of bread."

And flashing up, with the blush that flushed His face like a tableau-light, Came a bitter threat that his white lips hushed To a chill, hoarse-voiced "Good night!" And again her laugh, like a knell that tolled, And a wide-eyed mock surprise,-- "Why, John," she said, "you have taken cold In the chill air of your sighs!"

And then he turned, and with teeth tight clenched, He told her he hated her,-- That his love for her from his heart he wrenched Like a corpse from a sepulcher. And then she called him "a ghoul all red With the quintessence of crimes"-- "But I know you love me now," she said, And kissed him a hundred times.

FATHER WILLIAM

A NEW VERSION BY LEE O. HARRIS AND JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

"You are old, Father William, and though one would think All the veins in your body were dry, Yet the end of your nose is red as a pink; I beg your indulgence, but why?"

"You see," Father William replied, "in my youth-- 'Tis a thing I must ever regret-- It worried me so to keep up with the truth That my nose has a flush on it yet."

"You are old," said the youth, "and I grieve to detect A feverish gleam in your eye; Yet I'm willing to give you full time to reflect. Now, pray, can you answer me why?"

"Alas," said the sage, "I was tempted to choose Me a wife in my earlier years, And the grief, when I think that she didn't refuse, Has reddened my eyelids with tears."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And you never touch wine, you declare, Yet you sleep with your feet at the head of the bed; Now answer me that if you dare."

"In my youth," said the sage, "I was told it was true, That the world turned around in the night; I cherished the lesson, my boy, and I knew That at morning my feet would be right."

"You are old," said the youth, "and it grieved me to note, As you recently fell through the door, That 'full as a goose' had been chalked on your coat; Now answer me that I implore."

"My boy," said the sage, "I have answered you fair, While you stuck to the point in dispute, But this is a personal matter, and there Is my answer--the toe of my boot."

WHAT THE WIND SAID

'I muse to-day, in a listless way, In the gleam of a summer land; I close my eyes as a lover may At the touch of his sweetheart's hand, And I hear these things in the whisperings Of the zephyrs round me fanned':--

I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!