Part 2

For now I’m of a certain age, Or “old,” as you may view it; And single still, up to this stage I’ve never seemed to rue it.

Still, ’twasn’t that I wouldn’t have If some had made advances, Nor can I say I couldn’t have, For laws! I’ve had my chances.

It was fine, it was jolly, and no one could tell How it all came about that the chaperon fell; It seemed that her hoops, near the end of the dance, Got caught on the knob of a door by a chance, And the knob being firm and the hoops being strong The hoops had to stay where they didn’t belong. The chaperon tripped and she tumbled, of course, But was up in a trice, looking not so much worse While the dancers all laughed but she kept on a-singing And never looked back where the hoops were still clinging.

It was a mistake and the chaperon knew That she should not have sung--she apologized, too-- There’s no one can tell what the young people think When their elders look sidewise on folly to wink-- ’Tis a gap in the fences that leads to the clover, And the dignified ruling of prudence is over. They cut up--that’s nothing, they carried it on Till Malindy, ashamed of the things that were done, Took the bachelor out for a short, quiet walk And lectured him soundly on orderly talk

And then he behaved--’tis a marvelous thing What order from chaos a woman can bring; But Malindy, of course, had a very wise head And none ever knew of the thing that she said When she took her short stroll with the bachelor. Well, There were others to conquer, the wit had a spell, But she mastered him quickly and put him to rout By looking askance and pretending to pout. ’Twas a trick of Malindy’s--the girls of Dinwiddie All knew it, they laughed and they laughed, oh, so giddy.

* * * * *

Tim Dolor, the bashful, could sing very well When once he was rid of his timorous spell; They coaxed him and pulled him, and though he was shy, They would not release him until he would try; But his voice had the ring of a poor, distressed call, And the wail of his song was pathetic to all, For the eyes of Selina had pierced the boy’s heart; ’Twas also her smile that had speeded the dart. Poor Dolor was love-sick, as ev’ry one knew, And his sad song was drowned in the tears that it drew.

TIM DOLOR’S SONG

Oh! mother, mother, my poor heart Is all but now a-breaking; I’ve seen a girl with such an art Of ways that were so taking.

I thought her smiles were meant for me; I foolishly grew bolder, When from that hour ’twas plain to see Her smiles were growing colder.

I loved her so, she was so fair; With eyes that shone so brightly, And such a dream of golden hair That curled and clustered lightly.

She was so fair, I loved her so-- I may have been too daring-- I told her of my love, but oh! She said she wasn’t caring.

Oh! make my bed and make it high, So that I there may smother Some of these heart-aches while I lie Among the feathers, mother.

But mother, mother, do not cry For this, your boy’s undoing, If ’mong the feathers I should die I’ll not regret my wooing.

* * * * *

’Twas midnight; the tables were spread to regale, Then followed a story, a song and some ale; The “Oracle” sang of a magical stream That murmured a strangely mysterious theme; The shy Letha Lane and the bold Roland Rare Gave a song and a dance that was passingly fair, And so plaintive and sad was the sweet bachelor When he sang of the valley he came from afar, That Malindy confessed, though she couldn’t tell why, It affected her so that she almost could cry.

THE HAPPY HOLLOW DREAM

(_By the “Oracle.”_)

There’s an unfrequented valley In the mountain of Somally, Where the skies so lulling seem, That they call the “Happy Hollow,” And you’ll find it if you follow Up an ever-winding stream.

There if ever you should wander, Linger for awhile to ponder By the subtle flowing stream, Winding over rude or mallow, Where it murmurs deep or shallow Of a strange, alluring theme.

For it springs from hidden fountains In the distant, misty mountains, Where it weaves a silver ream. Then it hastens to the valley, There to whirl and sing and dally In a dance of crystal gleam.

It may seem an idle fancy, Or a scheme of Pegomancy That was practiced long ago, But you’ll find that unexpected, All your being is affected By the waters murmuring so.

Of the fountains that they sprang from, Of the mountains that they sang from At an altitude so high That they even heard the whispers In the mornings and the vespers Of the saints that were so nigh.

And the waters bring the tidings, And they tell of the abidings Of departed souls _you_ know, For their voices seemed to follow Down into the Happy Hollow Where the winding waters flow.

Where a light that has the seeming Of a pure benignly beaming-- Ever there the day and night-- Brings to you a tranquil feeling Through its soft rays to you stealing Of a calm, serene delight.

Then you’ll fall to sweetly dreaming While the mellow light is gleaming On the ever-winding stream; And the world will turn to smiling, Through the strange and soft beguiling Of the Happy Hollow Dream.

You will hear a loved one singing, On the waters that are bringing To your dream-enraptured ear, Oh! the very tones that ravished Once your heart until it lavished Ev’ry love to lovers dear!

And beyond the mind’s creation, In a pleasing presentation, Faces to you will appear Of departed ones you well knew, Who will smile as if to tell you They are ever, ever near.

In the mountains of Somally Where the stream winds through the valley, And the skies so lulling seem, There the world will turn to smiling Through the strange and soft beguiling Of the Happy Hollow Dream.

* * * * *

Where’s Letha? Where’s Letha? Now where did she go? And what could possess her to run away so? “’Tis like her, she’s shy, and she’s hiding somewhere, While the bold Roland Rare is awaiting her here.” Thus the chap’ron ran calling and searching for Letha Till she found her at last in a hiding beneath a Round table. “I wish I could stay here and die,” Said Letha, “I hate to pretend that I cry.” But she tripped to the floor with a little shy glance, And began with bold Roland to sing and to dance.

THE LOVERS’ QUARREL

(_By Roland Rare and Letha Lane._)

_Roland_-- Letha Lane, why! Letha Lane, Now I beg you to explain Why so many things you say In that tantalizing way; Why you sigh, ’Tend to cry, When no tears are in your eye.

_Letha_-- I could tell you, Roland Rare, Things of which you’re well aware, That you’d hardly care to hear; Things that sometimes bring a tear To my eye, Though I try Not to let you know I cry.

_Roland_-- Letha Lane, now I would fain Know the reason you disdain To express your thoughts at all-- Any time I’m asked to call, I appear, Then I fear You are vexed that I am near.

_Letha_-- Roland Rare, how can you dare Look at me with such an air? So it seems I called you then, Oh! how long ago that’s been! Not this year, And I fear ’Twas no other time, my dear.

_Roland Rare! Letha Lane!_ { I will tell you once again, { If you do not cease your fooling, _Both_--{ You will find my fond love cooling, { Though it seems you do not care, _Letha Lane! Roland Rare!_

_Roland_-- Letha Lane, it is so plain That your love is on the wane, And ’tis time to say good-bye; I shall go away and try To forget That we met, Though this parting brings regret.

_Letha_-- Now I ask you, Roland Rare, Do you think that it is fair Thus to leave me as you say, Leave me when I feel this way, While I sigh And I cry With real tear-drops in my eye?

_Roland_-- Letha! Why now, Letha Lane! Did you think me so insane? Never meant a word of it; I was fooling, too, a bit-- Do not sigh, Do not cry, Why! real tears are in your eye.

_Roland Rare! Letha Lane!_ { We must never quarrel again. { If we do not cease our fooling, _Both_--{ We will find our fond love cooling, { Then, Oh! then, we both will care; _Letha Lane! Roland Rare!_

* * * * *

“I’m thinking of something I never will tell,” Came a whispering voice. “Oh, we know it as well,” Piped a dozen small voices. “You mean about Tim?” “Oh, every one knows ’bout the Timorous him, They say he’s in love with Celina.” “Oh, no, Why Tim was in love with Jeannette, don’t you know?” “Jeannette, who was married a few weeks ago?” “Yes, he loved her, I’m sure, for Jeannette told me so.” “She told us the same, so we know it as well, But we’re glad that _you_ told us. We never will tell.”

Then they would have a song from the dolorous Tim, And it seemed there was nothing to do but for him To sing them a song that had broken his heart; He never could sing it but salt tears would start To his tender blue eyes. Tim Dolor began, And the dancers all witnessed the tears as they ran To his chin, where they dangled a moment, then--fell On the floor, and the dancers all knew very well That the words of the song were the sad solemn truth, And every one pitied the heart-broken youth.

TIM DOLOR’S SONG

While I may sing my song of woe, Pray sympathize politely, And if my tears should start to flow Oh, do not treat them lightly.

There was a time I loved a maid-- And none of you will doubt it-- But being shy, I was afraid To tell the maid about it.

I thought that she would surely know, Or maybe she would guess it, And seeing that I loved her so, Would help me to confess it.

Oh, secret love with nameless pain, And only sighs relieving, And now and then to hope again To leave your bosom heaving.

One night I thought I heard a bell; I walked the street and listened; The night was cold, the snow that fell Was colder still and glistened.

It was her wedding bell, I knew; I did not need to guess it; Another who had loved her, too, Had hastened to confess it.

I wandered out into the lane That led up to her dwelling, And there I stood--I think insane, I’m sure, there was no telling.

I saw the guests pass by in glee, And all of them were laughing, And every one looked back at me, And at me seemed a-chaffing.

They mocked at me so light and gay, I could not seem to doubt it, I burst in tears and turned away And never told about it.

It was sad to the dancers, so sad; but the traces Of unbidden tears disappeared from their faces; For as Dolor concluded the hound came a prowling Right under the window and set up a howling, Which made the sad singer forget his great trouble And join in the laughter that bent them all double. “It seems”, said the witling, “that hounds have reverses And sing like some others their doggerel verses.” Then Malindy went pouting again, and the wit To get even, concluded _he’d_ sing for a bit.

THE SONG OF THE WITLING

She pouts, but yesterday she smiled, And since that moment I have whiled Away the hours with hope and doubt And see the lips that smile and pout.

So high at times she holds her head, I feel a certain awe or dread, But when she smiles, I know not why, Her head seems never held so high.

Her brow and eyes will often frown Until she sees how I’m cast down, And then she’ll turn and sympathize With placid brow and smiling eyes.

’Gainst pose of head and frown I cope, For in her smile I find a hope, And every hour I think about And see the lips that smile and pout.

* * * * *

From a land so replete with a chivalric story That even its name is a symbol of glory, Came a bachelor unloved, but as gentle and kind As though he were still a fond lover. His mind Often turned to the valley from which he had come, For throughout the wide world there was still but one home For which his heart yearned; but he could not return; It was but a mem’ry, the real home was gone, And all of the warmth of a bright Southern sun Could never revive what the war had undone.

SWEET SHENANDOAH

(_By the Bachelor._)

I’m thinking of Sweet Shenandoah That ever brings a pleasing dream Of mountain, plain, and winding stream, And joyous days of long ago, On silent wings of memory, Are coming back to me.

I hear the daybreak braggards crow, As oft I heard that shrill refrain When there I yawned and slept again; I hear the noon-day tin horn blow, Oh, sweeter than Æolian tones, Its welcome to the hungry zones, Where men afield with plow and hoe, Who hear its call, are turning home-- Their jaded horses, flecked with foam, Now answer with a knowing neigh-- It all comes back to me.

The meadows there seem ripe to mow, So tawny, thick, and redolent The bulky heads are downward bent. The long, sweet day is there, and oh! I hear the murmuring melody Of streams that wind so merrily, And romp and laugh as on they flow To mingle with the greater stream, Then lose themselves as in a dream, And still by day and night they go To dream and dream eternally-- It all comes back to me.

How often when the sun would glow, I’ve conjured o’er some boyish theme With lazy lollings by the stream As past me it would babbling go, Till, as the shadows forth would creep, I’ve yielded to a drowsy sleep, Unmindful that the sun was low, When nature’s own sweet lullaby Came soothingly to me.

Sweet eventide of long ago, When swallows circled near the barn And peacocks called their false forlorn; When over at the dusky row Was heard the darkies’ jamboree, In weird and unchecked rhapsody; Far down the milky way would bow-- ’Twas night and full of witchery In boyhood days to me.

I’m thinking of sweet Shenandoah And days before the Civil Strife-- I loved the old Virginia life, The joyous days of long ago When all the world to us we knew Was there; when tears and laughter, too, Were shared by all; if tears should flow ’Twas common cause for sympathy; To laugh was to intensify The cause of laughter so. I grow To fondly love the memory That now comes back to me.

* * * * *

“Malindy, Malindy, we’re waiting for you,” Cried the dancers, “Come sing of an old lover true, And tell us which one of them all was the best, Or if none of them suit who to you have confessed, Pray tell us if some one you know of will do; Then sing us a song of a love that is new, And tell us if ever you mean to be wed; Or if you intend to stay single instead-- Malindy, Malindy, we all want to know, Why is it you always are fooling ’round so?”

IN THE ANTE-DELUVIAN DAY

(_By Malindy._)

There once was a maid by the name of Mespay, Who believed in the luck of a leisurely way; At ninety, ’twas noticed (to tell the whole truth) She yet had neglected selecting a youth, Though many had wooed the young maiden, they say, In the Ante-Deluvian Day.

’Tis a matter of record the Chinese had kept-- At which there are none who have been so adept-- That Jabel had journeyed some hundreds of miles With a herd of slick cattle to win the maid’s smiles, When she took the whole herd, but she turned him away, In the Ante-Deluvian Day.

Then Jubel came playing a harp made of gold, Which he gave the fair maiden a moment to hold, And leaving, he felt it would be a great wrong If he then would ungallantly take it along, Still, for one hundred years he remembered, they say, The maid with the leisurely way.

Then Magella presented the Mount of Tusong, And Jaered gave the maiden the valley of Hong, And ev’ry unmarried man sought the maid’s hand, Until she grew rich in both cattle and land, For she twenty years longer turned lovers away, In the Ante-Deluvian Day.

But when Noah appeared, and ’twas well understood He was building an ark, as he looked for a flood, She married him when, at one hundred and ten, She still felt too young to be marrying then, But she did it to prove, as the Chinese will say, There is luck in the leisurely way.

* * * * *

The fiddles were heard and they turned to the dance As though ev’ry one there had awaited the chance To be first on the floor for the old waltz quadrille, Which they never had danced but it brought a new thrill. They glided and whirled with a giddy, gay swing, Nor thought of the morrow nor what it would bring, For midnight was only a part of the night, While the night was all theirs till the morn’s early light; All they cared for was there, and so why should they borrow The shadow of thought for the coming to-morrow?

Thus, thoughtless of danger and heedless of warning The dancing went on till the dawn of the morning, When in terror the dancers then found that the flood Had surrounded the house and the barn, and they stood On an island alone in the midst of the stream. ’Twas as if they had waked from a long, pleasing dream To a fate that was ugly and stern, and appalled At impending destruction, they frantic’ly called; Some cried for a father, and some for a brother, And screaming they ran from one side to the other.

And if, for a moment, their fears would subside, Their terror returned as they watched the high tide, For the river seemed angry that swept o’er the highways, And madly it rushed o’er the country and byways, As with threats of destruction it held its mane high Like a monster that brooks no obstructions that lie In its way, while it lashed with its tail at the shore; Over country and highway, apast them it tore With a swirl and a whirl as the high waves would break To dash on the island a yellowish flake.

Since the Red Men had named it “the beautiful river,” No flood-tide was like it, nor yet was there ever Such woe on the fair verdant banks at its shore, As higher and onward the great torrent bore, As downward and forward the avalanche tore. ’Twas as wide as the valley from hill unto hill, And as deep as the valley with turmoil to fill; It bent the great oak standing upright and bold; It swept away houses, the new with the old, And together the hut and the mansion were rolled.

Oh! often the “Oracle” gave his command In a grand, sweeping wave with his lily-white hand; But the flood only laughed at the magical wand; And strange now to say, but the dancers did hope That somewhere a power was in it to cope ’Gainst the flood. They were ready to catch at a straw, For drowning ones know neither reason nor law, And to that which they ridiculed many a day They anxiously turned in their fear and dismay, Half trusting by that their destruction to stay.

We may laugh at all creeds, and discredit tradition, But danger discovers our blind superstition. When our bodies are sick and we lie on our backs, If we can not find doctors we send for the quacks; And if one should grow worse, there is no use denying That the priest whom he scoffed at he wants when he’s dying; In the absence of doctors or priests or of creeds, We then turn to conjure with magical deeds. ’Twas the same with the dancers--they wanted to live, And were ready to take what the faker could give.

’Twas a pitiful sight and a helpless appeal, For the dancers’ dilemma was awful and real. Though the stronger among them their fears would conceal, Still, their actions would show the forebodings they’d feel. There was motive enough, there was courage; in fact, They were anxious to dare, but were helpless to act. Ah! some would have risked there the watery grave If assured that their sweethearts by that they could save; The occasion, the time, and the motive were there, Had they only known how, they were ready to dare.

While the daring was there, still the river was wide, And an effort to rescue seemed useless if tried; So they talked and they planned with their heads close together; They looked at the river and also the weather, And the lovers were gathered real close to each other-- For the loud-roaring river their voices would smother-- And if still not so happy, they knew in each breast Was a feeling far deeper than either had guessed; But the river was wild, Oh! so wild and distracting, ’Twas hard to tell love from hysterical acting.

From the house to the barn and returning again, They wandered about till they came to the lane That led past the house, and uneasily ever, Retracing their footsteps, they watched the wild river; They saw the fixed marks they had set as a gauge Disappear in the flood as it reached to that stage; They saw a house floating apast them at last, They heard a child scream in the house as it passed! Amazed and bewildered, they sought ev’rywhere To escape from the peril that threatened them there.

But neither a boat nor a skiff was at hand Which they felt had the strength ’gainst the waves to withstand, Save an old, dinky john-boat, and it wasn’t fit, Yet Dan, the bass-fiddler, went rowing in it To see, so he said, if the john-boat would do, When out in the current the dinky boat flew, And the fiddler was helpless and had to go, too. They saw with alarm that his danger still grew As the boat on an end like a bobble was toss’d, Then plunged to a depth where it seemed to be lost.