Chapter 7

And he had gathered, from all wealth of lore That time has written, such a treasure store, His mind held opulence--his speech the rare Fair grace of sharing all his riches there--

Sharing with all, but with the greatest zest Sharing with those who seemed the neediest: The young he ever favored; and through these Shall he live longest in men's memories.

JOHN CLARK RIDPATH

To the lorn ones who loved him first and best, And knew his dear love at its tenderest, We seem akin--we simplest friends who knew His fellowship, of heart and spirit too:

We who have known the happy summertide Of his ingenuous nature, glorified With the inspiring smile that ever lit The earnest face and kindly strength of it:

His presence, all-commanding, as his thought Into unconscious eloquence was wrought, Until the utterance became a spell That awed us as a spoken miracle.

Learning, to him, was native--was, in truth, The earliest playmate of his lisping youth, Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress, It was as laughter, health and happiness:

And so he played with it--joyed at its call-- Ran rioting with it, forgetting all Delights of childhood, and of age and fame,-- A devotee of learning, still the same!

In fancy, even now we catch the glance Of the rapt eye and radiant countenance, As when his discourse, like a woodland stream, Flowed musically on from theme to theme:

The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea, He worshipped as their high divinity-- Nor did his reverent spirit find one thing On earth too lowly for his worshipping.

The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain, The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain-- All--all were fashioned beautiful and good, As the soul saw and senses understood.

Thus broadly based, his spacious faith and love Enfolded all below as all above-- Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind, He gave his love's vast largess as designed.

Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, he Wrought ever bravely for humanity-- Stood, first of heroes for the Right allied-- Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died.

This was the man we loved--are loving yet, And still shall love while longing eyes are wet With selfish tears that well were brushed away Remembering his smile of yesterday.--

For, even as we knew him, smiling still, Somewhere beyond all earthly ache or ill, He waits with the old welcome--just as when We met him smiling, we shall meet again.

NEW YEAR'S NURSERY JINGLE

Of all the rhymes of all the climes Of where and when and how, We best and most can boost and boast The Golden Age of NOW!

TO THE MOTHER

The mother-hands no further toil may know; The mother-eyes smile not on you and me; The mother-heart is stilled, alas!--But O The mother-love abides eternally.

TO MY SISTER

A BELATED OFFERING FOR HER BIRTHDAY

These books you find three weeks behind Your honored anniversary Make me, I fear, to here appear Mayhap a trifle cursory.-- Yet while the Muse must thus refuse The chords that fall caressfully, She seems to stir the publisher And dealer quite successfully.

As to our _birthdays_--let 'em run Until they whir and whiz! Read Robert Louis Stevenson, And hum these lines of his:-- "The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, Shall break on hill and plain And put all stars and candles out Ere we be young again."

A MOTTO

The _Brightest_ Star's the _modestest_, And more'n likely writes His motto like the lightnin'-bug's-- _Accordin' To His Lights_.

TO A POET ON HIS MARRIAGE

MADISON CAWEIN

Ever and ever, on and on, From winter dusk to April dawn, This old enchanted world we range From night to light--from change to change-- Or path of burs or lily-bells, We walk a world of miracles.

The morning evermore must be A newer, purer mystery-- The dewy grasses, or the bloom Of orchards, or the wood's perfume Of wild sweet-williams, or the wet Blent scent of loam and violet.

How wondrous all the ways we fare-- What marvels wait us, unaware!... But yesterday, with eyes ablur And heart that held no hope of Her, You paced the lone path, but the true That led to where she waited you.

ART AND POETRY

TO HOMER C. DAVENPORT

"Wess," he says, and sort o' grins, "Art and Poetry is twins. 'F I could draw as you have drew, Like to jes' swap pens with you."

HER SMILE OF CHEER AND VOICE OF SONG

ANNA HARRIS RANDALL

Spring fails, in all its bravery of brilliant gold and green,-- The sun, the grass, the leafing tree, and all the dazzling scene Of dewy morning--orchard blooms, And woodland blossoms and perfumes With bird-songs sown between.

Yea, since _she_ smiles not any more, so every flowery thing Fades, and the birds seem brooding o'er her silence as they sing-- Her smile of cheer and voice of song Seemed so divinely to belong To ever-joyous Spring!

Nay, still she smiles.--Our eyes are blurred and see not through our tears: And still her rapturous voice is heard, though not of mortal ears:-- Now ever doth she smile and sing Where Heaven's unending clime of Spring Reclaims those gifts of hers.

OLD INDIANY

FRAGMENT

INTENDED FOR A DINNER OF THE INDIANA SOCIETY OF CHICAGO

Old Indiany, 'course we know Is first, and best, and _most_, also, Of _all_ the States' whole forty-four:-- She's first in ever'thing, that's shore!-- And _best_ in ever'way as yet Made known to man; and you kin bet She's _most_, because she won't confess She ever was, or will be, _less_! And yet, fer all her proud array Of sons, how many gits away!-- No doubt about her bein' _great_ But, fellers, she's a leaky State! And them that boasts the most about Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out. Law! jes' to think of all you boys 'Way over here in Illinoise A-celebratin', like ye air, Old Indiany, 'way back there In the dark ages, so to speak, A-prayin' for ye once a week And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you From comin', like you ort to do. You're all a-lookin' well, and like You wasn't "sidin' up the pike," As the tramp-shoemaker said When "he sacked the boss and shed The blame town, to hunt fer one Where they didn't work fer fun!" Lookin' _extry_ well, I'd say, Your old home so fur away.-- Maybe, though, like the old jour., Fun hain't all yer workin' fer. So you've found a job that pays Better than in them old days You was on _The Weekly Press_, Heppin' run things, more er less; Er a-learnin' telegraph Operatin', with a half Notion of the tinner's trade, Er the dusty man's that laid Out designs on marble and Hacked out little lambs by hand, And chewed fine-cut as he wrought, "Shapin' from his bitter thought" Some squshed mutterings to say,-- "Yes, hard work, and porer pay!" Er you'd kind o' thought the far- Gazin' kuss that owned a car And took pictures in it, had Jes' the snap you wanted--bad! And you even wondered why He kep' foolin' with his sky- Light the same on shiny days As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.) Wondered what strange things was hid In there when he shet the door And smelt like a burnt drug store Next some orchard-trees, i swan! With whole roasted apples on! That's why Ade is, here of late, Buyin' in the dear old State,-- So's to cut it up in plots Of both town and country lots.

ABE MARTIN

Abe Martin!--dad-burn his old picture! P'tends he's a Brown County fixture-- A kind of a comical mixture Of hoss-sense and no sense at all! His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin', And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin', And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'-- From Genesis clean to baseball!

The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless He draws Abe most eyeless and earless, But he's never yet pictured him cheerless Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal,-- Whuther onto the fence er clean over A-rootin' up ragweed er clover, Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover" Er newfangled automo_beel_!

It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in; And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled That it was a pleasure to die.

But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at Both me and you lays back and shakes at His comic, miraculous cracks Which makes him--clean back of the power Of genius itse'f in its flower-- This Notable Man of the Hour, Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.

O. HENRY

WRITTEN IN THE CHARACTER OF "SHERRARD PLUMMER"

O. Henry, Afrite-chef of all delight!-- Of all delectables conglomerate That stay the starved brain and rejuvenate The mental man. Th' esthetic appetite-- So long anhungered that its "in'ards" fight And growl gutwise,--its pangs thou dost abate And all so amiably alleviate, Joy pats its belly as a hobo might Who haply hath attained a cherry pie With no burnt bottom in it, ner no seeds-- Nothin' but crispest crust, and thickness fit, And squshin'-juicy, and jes' mighty nigh Too dratted drippin'-sweet fer human needs, But fer the sosh of milk that goes with it.

"MONA MACHREE"

"_Mona Machree, I'm the wanderin' cr'ature now, Over the sea; Slave of no lass, but a lover of Nature now Careless and free._" --T. A. Daly.

Mona Machree! och, the sootherin' flow of it, Soft as the sea, Yet, in-under the mild, moves the wild undertow of it Tuggin' at me, Until both the head and the heart o' me's fightin' For breath, nigh a death all so grandly invitin' That--barrin' your own livin' yet--I'd delight in, Drowned in the deeps of this billowy song to you Sung by a lover your beauty has banned, Not alone from your love but his dear native land, Whilst the kiss of his lips, and touch of his hand, And his song--all belong to you, Mona Machree!

WILLIAM McKINLEY

CANTON, OHIO, SEPTEMBER 30, 1907

He said: "It is God's way: His will, not ours be done." And o'er our land a shadow lay That darkened all the sun. The voice of jubilee That gladdened all the air, Fell sudden to a quavering key Of suppliance and prayer.

He was our chief--our guide-- Sprung of our common Earth, From youth's long struggle proved and tried To manhood's highest worth: Through toil, he knew all needs Of all his toiling kind-- The favored striver who succeeds-- The one who falls behind.

The boy's young faith he still Retained through years mature-- The faith to labor, hand and will, Nor doubt the harvest sure-- The harvest of man's love-- A nation's joy that swells To heights of Song, or deeps whereof But sacred silence tells.

To him his Country seemed Even as a Mother, where He rested--slept; and once he dreamed-- As on her bosom there-- And thrilled to hear, within That dream of her, the call Of bugles and the clang and din Of war.... And o'er it all

His rapt eyes caught the bright Old Banner, winging wild And beck'ning him, as to the fight ... When--even as a child-- He wakened--And the dream Was real! And he leapt As led the proud Flag through a gleam Of tears the Mother wept.

His was a tender hand-- Even as a woman's is-- And yet as fixed, in Right's command, As this bronze hand of his: This was the Soldier brave-- This was the Victor fair-- This is the Hero Heaven gave To glory here--and There.

BENJAMIN HARRISON

ON THE UNVEILING OF HIS MONUMENT AT INDIANAPOLIS

OCTOBER 27, 1908

As tangible a form in History The Spirit of this man stands forth as here He towers in deathless sculpture, high and clear Against the bright sky of his destiny. Sprung of our oldest, noblest ancestry, His pride of birth, as lofty as sincere, Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear-- Such was his sacred faith in you and me. Thus, natively, from youth his work was one Unselfish service in behalf of all-- Home, friends, and sharers of his toil and stress; Ay, loving all men and despising none, And swift to answer every righteous call, His life was one long deed of worthiness.

The voice of Duty's faintest whisper found Him as alert as at her battle-cry-- When awful War's battalions thundered by, High o'er the havoc still he heard the sound Of mothers' prayers and pleadings all around; And ever the despairing sob and sigh Of stricken wives and orphan children's cry Made all our Land thrice consecrated ground. So rang his "Forward!" and so swept his sword-- On!--on!--till from the fire-and-cloud once more Our proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlight As though the very Ensign of the Lord Unfurled in token that the strife was o'er, And victory--as ever--with the right.

LEE O. HARRIS

CHRISTMAS DAY--1909

O say not he is dead, The friend we honored so; Lift up a grateful voice instead And say: He lives, we know-- We know it by the light Of his enduring love Of honor, valor, truth, and right, And man, and God above.

Remember how he drew The child-heart to his own, And taught the parable anew, And reaped as he had sown; Remember with what cheer He filled the little lives, And stayed the sob and dried the tear With mirth that still survives.

All duties to his kind It was his joy to fill; With nature gentle and refined, Yet dauntless soul and will, He met the trying need Of every troublous call, Yet high and clear and glad indeed He sung above it all.

Ay, listen! Still we hear The patriot song, the lay Of love, the woodland note so dear-- These will not die away. Then say not he is dead, The friend we honor so, But lift a grateful voice instead And say: He lives, we know.

THE HIGHEST GOOD

WRITTEN FOR A HIGH-SCHOOL ANNUAL

To attain the highest good Of true man and womanhood, Simply do your honest best-- God with joy will do the rest.

MY CONSCIENCE

Sometimes my Conscience says, says he, "Don't you know me?" And I, says I, skeered through and through, "Of course I do. You air a nice chap ever' way, I'm here to say! You make me cry--you make me pray, And all them good things thataway-- That is, at _night_. Where do you stay Durin' the day?"

And then my Conscience says, onc't more, "You know me--shore?" "Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint, "You're jes' a saint! Your ways is all so holy-right, I love you better ever' night You come around,--tel' plum daylight, When you air out o' sight!"

And then my Conscience sort o' grits His teeth, and spits On his two hands and grabs, of course, Some old remorse, And beats me with the big butt-end O' _that_ thing--tel my clostest friend 'Ud hardly know me. "Now," says he, "Be keerful as you'd orto be And _allus_ think o' me!"

MY BOY

You smile and you smoke your cigar, my boy; You walk with a languid swing; You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy, And you lift up your voice and sing; The midnight moon is a friend of yours, And a serenade your joy-- And it's only an age like mine that cures A trouble like yours, my boy!

THE OBJECT LESSON

Barely a year ago I attended the Friday afternoon exercises of a country school. My mission there, as I remember, was to refresh my mind with such material as might be gathered, for a "valedictory," which, I regret to say, was to be handed down to posterity under another signature than my own.

There was present, among a host of visitors, a pale young man of perhaps thirty years, with a tall head and bulging brow and a highly intellectual pair of eyes and spectacles. He wore his hair without roach or "part" and the smile he beamed about him was "a joy forever." He was an educator--from the East, I think I heard it rumoured--anyway he was introduced to the school at last, and he bowed, and smiled, and beamed upon us all, and entertained us after the most delightfully edifying manner imaginable. And although I may fail to reproduce the exact substance of his remarks upon that highly important occasion, I think I can at least present his theme in all its coherency of detail. Addressing more particularly the primary department of the school, he said:--

"As the little exercise I am about to introduce is of recent origin, and the bright, intelligent faces of the pupils before me seem rife with eager and expectant interest, it will be well for me, perhaps, to offer by way of preparatory preface, a few terse words of explanation.

"The Object Lesson is designed to fill a long-felt want, and is destined, as I think, to revolutionize, in a great degree, the educational systems of our land.--In my belief, the Object Lesson will supply a want which I may safely say has heretofore left the most egregious and palpable traces of mental confusion and intellectual inadequacies stamped, as it were, upon the gleaming reasons of the most learned--the highest cultured, and the most eminently gifted and promising of our professors and scientists both at home and abroad.

"Now this deficiency--if it may be so termed--plainly has a beginning; and probing deeply with the bright, clean scalpel of experience we discover that--'As the twig is bent the tree's inclined.' To remedy, then, a deeply seated error which for so long has rankled at the very root of educational progress throughout the land, many plausible, and we must admit, many helpful theories have been introduced to allay the painful errors resulting from the discrepancy of which we speak: but until now, nothing that seemed wholly to eradicate the defect has been discovered, and that, too, strange as it may seem, is, at last, emanating, like the mighty river, from the simplest source, but broadening and gathering in force and power as it flows along, until, at last, its grand and mighty current sweeps on in majesty to the vast illimitable ocean of--of--of--Success! Ahem!

"And, now, little boys and girls, that we have had by implication, a clear and comprehensive explanation of the Object Lesson and its mission, I trust you will give me your undivided attention while I endeavor--in my humble way--to direct your newly acquired knowledge through the proper channel. For instance:--

"This little object I hold in my hand--who will designate it by its proper name? Come, now, let us see who will be the first to answer. 'A peanut,' says the little boy here at my right. Very good--very good! I hold, then, in my hand, a peanut. And now who will tell me, what is the peanut? A very simple question--who will answer? 'Something good to eat,' says the little girl. Yes, 'something good to eat,' but would it not be better to say simply that the peanut is an edible? I think so, yes. The peanut, then, is--an edible--now, all together, an edible!

"To what kingdom does the peanut belong? The animal, vegetable, or mineral kingdom? A very easy question. Come, let us have prompt answers. 'The animal kingdom,' does the little boy say? Oh, no! The peanut does not belong to the animal kingdom! Surely the little boy must be thinking of a larger object than the peanut--the elephant, perhaps. To what kingdom, then, does the peanut belong? The v-v-veg--'The vegetable kingdom,' says the bright-faced little girl on the back seat. Ah! that is better. We find then that the peanut belongs to the--what kingdom? The 'vegetable kingdom.' Very good, very good!

"And now who will tell us of what the peanut is composed. Let us have quick responses now. Time is fleeting! Of what is the peanut composed? 'The hull and the goody,' some one answers. Yes, 'the hull and the goody' in vulgar parlance, but how much better it would be to say simply, the shell and the kernel. Would not that sound better? Yes, I thought you would agree with me there!

"And now who will tell me the color of the peanut! And be careful now! for I shouldn't like to hear you make the very stupid blunder I once heard a little boy make in reply to the same question. Would you like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was? You would, eh? Well, now, how many of you would like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was? Come now, let's have an expression. All who would like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was, may hold up their right hands. Very good, very good--there, that will do.

"Well, it was during a professional visit I was once called upon to make to a neighboring city, where I was invited to address the children of a free school--Hands down, now, little boy--founded for the exclusive benefit of the little newsboys and bootblacks, who, it seems, had not the means to defray the expenses of the commonest educational accessories, and during an object lessen--identical with the one before us now--for it is a favorite one of mine--I propounded the question, what is the color of the peanut? Many answers were given in response, but none as sufficiently succinct and apropos as I deemed the facts demanded; and so at last I personally addressed a ragged, but, as I then thought, a bright-eyed little fellow, when judge of my surprise, in reply to my question what is the color of the peanut, the little fellow, without the slightest gleam of intelligence lighting up his face, answered, that 'if not scorched in roasting, the peanut was a blond.' Why, I was almost tempted to join in the general merriment his inapposite reply elicited. But I occupy your attention with trivial things; and as I notice the time allotted to me has slipped away, we will drop the peanut for the present. Trusting the few facts gleaned from a topic so homely and unpromising will sink deep in your minds, in time to bloom and blossom in the fields of future usefulness--I--I----I thank you."

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Old Soldiers Story, by James Whitcomb Riley