Chapter 5

As long as my legs keeps stiddy, And long as my head keeps plum', And the buildin' stays in the front lot, I still kin whistle, _some_! But about the time the old clock Flops off'n the mantel-shelf, And the bureau skoots fer the kitchen, I'm a-goin' to skoot, myself!

Plague-take! ef you keep me stabled While any earthquakes is around!-- I'm jes' like the stock,--I'll beller And break fer the open ground! And I 'low you'd be as nervous And in jes' about my fix, When yer whole farm slides from in-under you, And on'y the mor'gage sticks!

Now cars hain't a-goin' to kill you Ef you don't drive 'crost the track; Crediters never'll jerk you up Ef you go and pay 'em back; You kin stand all moral and mundane storms Ef you'll on'y jes' behave-- But a' EARTHQUAKE:--Well, ef it wanted you It 'ud husk you out o' yer grave!

LEWIS D. HAYES

OBIT DECEMBER 28, 1886

In the midmost glee of the Christmas And the mirth of the glad New Year, A guest has turned from the revel, And we sit in silence here.

The band chimes on, yet we listen Not to the air's refrain, But over it ever we strive to catch The sound of his voice again;--

For the sound of his voice was music, Dearer than any note Shook from the strands of harp-strings, Or poured from the bugle's throat.--

A voice of such various ranges, His utterance rang from the height Of every rapture, down to the sobs Of every lost delight.

Though he knew Man's force and his purpose, As strong as his strongest peers, He knew, as well, the kindly heart, And the tenderness of tears.

So is it the face we remember Shall be always as a child's That, grieved some way to the very soul, Looks bravely up and smiles.

O brave it shall look, as it looked its last On the little daughter's face-- Pictured only--against the wall, In its old accustomed place--

Where the last gleam of the lamplight Out of the midnight dim Yielded its grace, and the earliest dawn Gave it again to him.

IN DAYS TO COME

In days to come--whatever ache Of age shall rack our bones, or quake Our slackened thews--whatever grip Rheumatic catch us i' the hip,-- We, each one, for the other's sake, Will of our very wailings make Such quips of song as well may shake The spasm'd corners from the lip-- In days to come.

Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rake The past up!--how our dry eyes slake Their sight upon the dewy drip Of juicy-ripe companionship, And blink stars from the blind opaque-- In days to come.

LUTHER A. TODD

OBIT JULY 27, 1887, KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

Gifted, and loved, and praised By every friend; Never a murmur raised Against him, to the end! With tireless interest He wrought as he thought best,-- And--lo, we bend Where now he takes his rest!

His heart was loyal, to Its latest thrill, To the home-loves he knew-- And now forever will,-- Mother and brother--they The first to pass away,-- And, lingering still, The sister bowed to-day.

Pure as a rose might be, And sweet, and white, His father's memory Was with him day and night:-- He spoke of him, as one May now speak of the son,-- Sadly and tenderly,-- Yet as a trump had done.

Say, then, of him: He knew Full depths of care And stress of pain, and you Do him scant justice there,-- Yet in the lifted face Grief left not any trace, Nor mark unfair, To mar its manly grace.

It was as if each day Some new hope dawned-- Each blessing in delay, To him, was just beyond; Between whiles, waiting, he Drew pictures, cunningly-- Fantastic--fond-- Things that we laughed to see.

Sometimes, as we looked on His crayon's work, Some angel-face would dawn Out radiant, from the mirk Of features old and thin, Or jowled with double-chin, And eyes asmirk, And gaping mouths agrin.

That humor in his art, Of genius born, Welled warmly from a heart That could not but adorn All things it touched with love-- The eagle, as the dove-- The burst of morn-- The night--the stars above.

Sometimes, amid the wild Of faces queer, A mother, with her child Pressed warm and close to her; This, I have thought, somehow, The wife, with head abow, Unreconciled, In the great shadow now.

* * * * *

O you of sobbing breath, Put by all sighs Of anguish at his death-- Turn--as he turned _his_ eyes, In that last hour, unknown In strange lands, all alone-- Turn thine eyes toward the skies, And, smiling, cease thy moan.

WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK

A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street: The slow hearse and the hosses--slow enough, to say the least, Fer to even tax the patience of the gentleman deceased! The low scrunch of the gravel--and the slow grind of the wheels,-- The low, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels! So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whiplash crack A quickstep fer the hosses, When the Hearse Comes Back!

Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes-- But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise-- You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day! Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest-- Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast! And this is why--when airth and sky's a-gittin' blurred and black I like the flash and hurry When the Hearse Comes Back!

It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes, Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks;-- I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps-- Fer my heart's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's,-- I've buried father, mother--but I'll haf to jes' git _you_ To "excuse _me_," as the feller says.--The p'int I'm drivin' to Is, simply, when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack, It he'ps to shape us up, like, When the Hearse Comes Back!

The idy! wadin' round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe, When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine, don't you know! When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars: And so when _my_ time comes to die, and I've got ary friend 'At wants expressed my last request--I'll, mebby, rickommend To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the _out'ard_ track, But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em When the Hearse Comes Back!"

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun; It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not, Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot; It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black, And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;-- But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay, And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway; I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall, That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all; I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can; I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman; But most I like--with you, my boy--our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

DAN O'SULLIVAN

Dan O'Sullivan: It's your Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure!-- To be trillin' praise av me, Dhrippin' shwate wid poethry!-- Not that I'd not have ye sing-- Don't lave off for anything-- Jusht be aisy whilst the fit Av me head shwells up to it!

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man, Whilst yer singin', loike ye can, To cry shtop because ye've blesht My songs more than all the resht:-- I'll not be the b'y to ax Any shtar to wane or wax, Or ax any clock that's woun', To run up inshtid av down!

Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan!-- Him that made the Irishman Mixt the birds in wid the dough, And the dew and mistletoe Wid the whusky in the quare Muggs av us--and here we air, Three parts right, and three parts wrong, Shpiked wid beauty, wit, and song!

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY

SEPULTURE--BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890

Dead? this peerless man of men-- Patriot, Poet, Citizen!-- Dead? and ye weep where he lies Mute, with folded eyes!

Courage! All his tears are done; Mark him, dauntless, face the sun! He hath led you.--Still, as true, He is leading you.

Folded eyes and folded hands Typify divine commands He is hearkening to, intent Beyond wonderment.

'Tis promotion that has come Thus upon him. Stricken dumb Be your moanings dolorous! God knows what He does.

Rather as your chief, _aspire_!-- Rise and seize his toppling lyre, And sing Freedom, Home, and Love, And the rights thereof!

Ere in selfish grief ye sink, Come! catch rapturous breath and think-- Think what sweep of wing hath he, Loosed in endless liberty.

MEREDITH NICHOLSON

Keats, and Kirk White, David Gray and the rest of you Heavened and blest of you young singers gone,-- Slender in sooth though the theme unexpressed of you, Leave us this like of you yet to sing on! Let your Muse mother him and your souls brother him, Even as now, or in fancy, you do: Still let him sing to us ever, and bring to us Musical musings of glory and--you.

Never a note to do evil or wrong to us-- Beauty of melody--beauty of words,-- Sweet and yet strong to us comes his young song to us Rippled along to us clear as the bird's. No fame elating him falsely, nor sating him-- Feasting and fêting him faint of her joys, But singing on where the laurels are waiting him, Young yet in art, and his heart yet a boy's.

GOD'S MERCY

Behold, one faith endureth still-- Let factions rail and creeds contend-- God's mercy _was_, and _is_, and _will_ Be with us, foe and friend.

CHRISTMAS GREETING

A word of Godspeed and good cheer To all on earth--or far or near, Or friend or foe, or thine or mine-- In echo of the voice divine, Heard when the Star bloomed forth and lit The world's face, with God's smile on it.

TO RUDYARD KIPLING

To do some worthy deed of charity In secret and then have it found out by Sheer accident, held gentle Elia-- That--that was the best thing beneath the sky! Confirmed in part, yet somewhat differing-- (Grant that his gracious wraith will pardon me If impious!)--I think a better thing Is: being found out when one strives to be.

So, Poet and Romancer--old as young, And wise as artless--masterful as mild,-- If there be sweet in any song I've sung, 'Twas savored for that palate, O my Child! For thee the lisping of the children all-- For thee the youthful voices of old years-- For thee all chords untamed or musical-- For thee the laughter, and for thee the tears.

And thus, borne to me o'er the seas between Thy land and mine, thy Song of certain wing Circles above me in the "pure serene" Of our high heaven's vast o'er-welcoming; While, packeted with joy and thankfulness, And fair hopes many as the stars that shine, And bearing all love's loyal messages, Mine own goes homing back to thee and thine.

THE GUDEWIFE

My gudewife--she that is tae be-- O she sall seeme sang-sweete tae me As her ain croon tuned wi' the chiel's Or spinnin'-wheel's. An' faire she'll be, an' saft, an' light, An' muslin-bright As her spick apron, jimpy laced The-round her waiste.-- Yet aye as rosy sall she bloome Intil the roome (The where alike baith bake an' dine) As a full-fine Ripe rose, lang rinset wi' the raine, Sun-kist againe,-- Sall seate me at her table-spread, White as her bread.-- Where I, sae kissen her for _grace_, Sall see her face Smudged, yet aye sweeter, for the bit O' floure on it, Whiles, witless, she sall sip wi' me Luve's tapmaist-bubblin' ecstasy.

TENNYSON

ENGLAND, OCTOBER 5, 1892

We of the New World clasp hands with the Old In newer fervor and with firmer hold And nobler fellowship,-- O Master Singer, with the finger-tip Of Death laid thus on thy melodious lip!

All ages thou has honored with thine art, And ages yet unborn thou wilt be part Of all songs pure and true! Thine now the universal homage due From Old and New World--ay, and still The New!

ROSAMOND C. BAILEY

Thou brave, good woman! Loved of every one; Not only that in singing thou didst fill Our thirsty hearts with sweetness, trill on trill, Even as a wild bird singing in the sun-- Not only that in all thy carols none But held some tincturing of tears to thrill Our gentler natures, and to quicken still Our human sympathies; but thou hast won Our equal love and reverence because That thou wast ever mindful of the poor, And thou wast ever faithful to thy friends. So, loving, serving all, thy best applause Thy requiem--the vast throng at the door Of the old church, with mute prayers and amens.

MRS. BENJAMIN HARRISON

WASHINGTON, OCTOBER 25, 1892

Now utter calm and rest; Hands folded o'er the breast In peace the placidest, All trials past; All fever soothed--all pain Annulled in heart and brain, Never to vex again-- She sleeps at last.

She sleeps; but O most dear And best beloved of her Ye sleep not--nay, nor stir, Save but to bow The closer each to each, With sobs and broken speech, That all in vain beseech Her answer now.

And lo! we weep with you, One grief the wide world through: Yet with the faith she knew We see her still, Even as here she stood-- All that was pure and good And sweet in womanhood-- God's will her will.

GEORGE A. CARR

GREENFIELD, JULY 21, 1914

O playmate of the far-away And dear delights of Boyhood's day, And friend and comrade true and tried Through length of years of life beside, I bid you thus a fond farewell Too deep for words or tears to tell.

But though I lose you, nevermore To greet you at the open door, To grasp your hand or see your smile, I shall be thankful all the while Because your love and loyalty Have made a happier world for me.

So rest you, Playmate, in that land Still hidden from us by His hand, Where you may know again in truth All of the glad days of your youth-- As when in days of endless ease We played beneath the apple trees.

TO ELIZABETH

OBIT JULY 8, 1893

O noble, true and pure and lovable As thine own blessed name, ELIZABETH!-- Ay, even as its cadence lingereth Upon the lips that speak it, so the spell Of thy sweet memory shall ever dwell As music in our hearts. Smiling at Death As on some later guest that tarrieth, Too gratefully o'erjoyed to say farewell, Thou hast turned from us but a little space-- We miss thy presence but a little while, Thy voice of sympathy, thy word of cheer, The radiant glory of thine eyes and face, The glad midsummer morning of thy smile,-- For still we feel and know that thou art here.

TO ALMON KEEFER

INSCRIBED IN "TALES OF THE OCEAN"

This first book that I ever knew Was read aloud to me by you! Friend of my boyhood, therefore take It back from me, for old times' sake-- The selfsame "Tales" first read to me, Under "the old sweet apple tree," Ere I myself could read such great Big words,--but listening all elate, At your interpreting, until Brain, heart, and soul were all athrill With wonder, awe, and sheer excess Of wildest childish happiness.

So take the book again--forget All else,--long years, lost hopes, regret; Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain, Prayers we have lifted all in vain; Tears for the faces seen no more, Once as the roses at the door! Take the enchanted book--And lo, On grassy swards of long ago, Sprawl out again, beneath the shade The breezy old-home orchard made, The veriest barefoot boy indeed-- And I will listen as you read.

TO--"THE J. W. R. LITERARY CLUB"

Well, it's enough to turn his head to have a feller's name Swiped with a _Literary_ Club!--But _you're_ the ones to blame!-- I call the World to witness that I never _agged_ ye to it By ever writin' _Classic-like_--_because I couldn't_ do it: I never run to "Hellicon," ner writ about "Per-nassus," Ner ever tried to rack or ride around on old "P-_gassus_"! When "Tuneful Nines" has cross'd my lines, the ink 'ud blot and blur it, And pen 'ud jest putt back fer home, and take the short way fer it! And so, as I'm a-sayin',--when you name your Literary In honor o' this name o' mine, it's railly nessessary-- Whilse I'm _a-thankin'_ you and all--to _warn_ you, ef you do it, I'll haf to jine the thing myse'f 'fore I can live up to it!

LITTLE MAID-O'-DREAMS

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with your Eery eyes so clear and pure Gazing, where we fain would see Into far futurity,-- Tell us what you there behold, In your visions manifold! What is on beyond our sight, Biding till the morrow's light, Fairer than we see to-day, As our dull eyes only may?

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with face Like as in some woodland place Lifts a lily, chaste and white, From the shadow to the light;-- Tell us, by your subtler glance, What strange sorcery enchants You as now,--here, yet afar As the realms of moon and star?-- Have you magic lamp and ring, And genii for vassaling?

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, confess You're divine and nothing less,-- For with mortal palms, we fear, Yet must pet you, dreaming here-- Yearning, too, to lift the tips Of your fingers to our lips; Fearful still you may rebel, High and heav'nly oracle! Thus, though all unmeet our kiss, Pardon this!--and this!--and this!

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, we call Truce and favor, knowing all!-- All your magic is, in truth, Pure foresight and faith of youth-- You're a child, yet even so, You're a sage, in embryo-- Prescient poet--artist--great As your dreams anticipate.-- Trusting God and Man, you do Just as Heaven inspires you to.

TO THE BOY WITH A COUNTRY

DAN WALLINGFORD

Dan Wallingford, my jo Dan!-- Though but a child in years, Your patriot spirit thrills the land And wakens it to cheers,-- You lift the flag--you roll the drums-- We hear the bugle blow,-- Till all our hearts are one with yours, Dan Wallingford, my jo!

CLAUDE MATTHEWS

GOVERNOR OF INDIANA

Steadfastly from his childhood's earliest hour-- From simplest country life to state and power-- His worth has known advancement,--each new height A newer glory in his fellow's sight.

So yet his happy fate--though mute the breath Of thronging multitudes and thundrous cheers,-- Faith sees him raised still higher, through our tears, By this divine promotion of his death.

TO LESLEY

Burns sang of bonny Lesley As she gaed o'er the border,-- Gaed like vain Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

I sing another Lesley, Wee girlie, more alluring, Who stays at home, the wise one, Her conquests there securing.

A queen, too, is my Lesley, And gracious, though blood-royal, My heart her throne, her kingdom, And I a subject loyal.

Long shall you reign, my Lesley, My pet, my darling dearie, For love, oh, little sweetheart, Grows never old or weary.

THE JUDKINS PAPERS

FATHER AND SON

Mr. Judkins' boy came home yesterday with a bottle of bugs in his pocket, and as the quiet little fellow sat on the back porch in his favorite position, his legs elbowed and flattened out beneath him like a letter "W," his genial and eccentric father came suddenly upon him.

"And what's the blame' boy up to now?" said Mr. Judkins, in an assumed tone of querulous displeasure, as he bent over the boy from behind and gently tweaked his ear.

"Oh, here, mister!" said the boy, without looking up; "you thist let up on that, will you!"

"What you got there, I tell you!" continued the smiling Mr. Judkins, in a still gruffer tone, relinquishing the boy's ear, and gazing down upon the fluffy towhead with more than ordinary admiration. "What you got there?"

"Bugs," said the boy--"you know!"

"Dead, are they?" said Mr. Judkins.

"Some of 'em's dead," said the boy, carefully running a needle through the back of a large bumblebee. "All these uns is, you kin bet! You don't think a feller 'ud try to string a live bumblebee, I reckon?"

"Well, no, 'Squire," said Mr. Judkins, airily, addressing the boy by one of the dozen nicknames he had given him; "not a live bumblebee--a real stem-winder, of course not. But what in the name o' limpin' Lazarus air you stringin' 'em fer?"

"Got a live snake-feeder," said the boy, ignoring the parental inquiry. "See him down there in the bottom, 'ith all th' other uns on top of him. Thist watch him now, an' you kin see him pant. I kin. Yes, an' I got a beetle 'at's purt' nigh alive, too--on'y he can't pull in his other wings. See 'em?" continued the boy, with growing enthusiasm, twirling the big-mouthed bottle like a kaleidoscope. "Hate beetles! 'cause they allus act so big, an' make s'much fuss about theirselves, an' don't know nothin' neither! Bet ef I had as many wings as a beetle I wouldn't let no boy my size knock the stuffin' out o' me with no bunch o' weeds, like I done him!"

"Howd'ye know you wouldn't?" said Mr. Judkins, austerely, biting his nails and winking archly to himself.

"W'y, I know I wouldn't," said the boy, "'cause I'd keep up in the air where I could fly, an' wouldn't come low down ut all--bumpin' around 'mongst them bushes, an' buzzin' against things, an' buttin' my brains out a-tryin' to git thue fence cracks."

"'Spect you'd ruther be a snake-feeder, wouldn't you, Bud?" said Mr. Judkins suggestively. "Snake-feeders has got about enough wings to suit you, ef you want more'n one pair, and ever' day's a picnic with a snake-feeder, you know. Nothin' to do but jes' loaf up and down the crick, and roost on reeds and cat-tails, er fool around a feller's fish-line and light on the cork and bob up and down with it till she goes clean under, don't you know?"