There has always been an inclination, or desire, rather, on my part tobelieve in the mystic--even as far back as stretches the gum-elasticremembrance of my first "taffy-pullin'" given in honor of my fifthbirthday; and the ghost-stories, served by way of ghastly dessert, byour hired girl. In fancy I again live over all the scenes of thateventful night:--
The dingy kitchen, with its haunting odors of a thousand feasts andwash-days; the old bench-legged stove, with its happy family ofskillets, stewpans and round-bellied kettles crooning and blubberingabout it. And how we children clustered round the genial hearth, withthe warm smiles dying from our faces just as the embers dimmed anddied out in the open grate, as with bated breath we listened to howsome one's grandmother had said that her first man went through agraveyard once, one stormy night, "jest to show the neighbors that hewasn't afeard o' nothin'," and how when he was just passing the graveof his first wife "something kind o' big and white-like, with greatbig eyes like fire, raised up from behind the headboard, and kind o're'ched out for him"; and how he turned and fled, "with that air whitething after him as tight as it could jump, and a hollerin''wough-yough-yough!' till you could hear it furder'n you could abullgine," and how, at last, just as the brave and daring intruder wasclearing two graves and the fence at one despairing leap, the "whitething," had made a grab at him with its iron claws, and had nicked himso close his second wife was occasioned the onerous duty of affixinganother patch in his pantaloons. And in conclusion, our hired girlwent on to state that this blood-curdling incident had so wrought uponthe feelings of "the man that wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and had givenhim such a distaste for that particular graveyard, that he nevervisited it again, and even entered a clause in his will to the effectthat he would ever remain an unhappy corpse should his remains beinterred in said graveyard.
I forgot my pop-corn that night; I forgot my taffy; I forgot allearthly things; and I tossed about so feverishly in my little bed, andwithal so restlessly, that more than once my father's admonition abovethe footboard of the big bed, of "Drat you! go to sleep, there!"foreshadowed my impending doom. And once he leaned over and made avicious snatch at me, and holding me out at arm's length by one leg,demanded in thunder-tones, "what in the name o' flames and flashes Imeant, anyhow!"
I was afraid to stir a muscle from that on, in consequence of which Iat length straggled off in fitful dreams--and heavens! what dreams!--Avery long and lank, and slim and slender old woman in white knocked atthe door of my vision, and I let her in. She patted me on thehead--and oh! how cold her hands were! And they were very hard hands,too, and very heavy--and, horror of horrors!--they were nothands--they were claws!--they were iron!--they were like the things Ihad seen the hardware man yank nails out of a keg with. I quailed andshivered till the long and slim and slender old woman jerked my headup and snarled spitefully, "What's the matter with you, bub," and Isaid, "Nawthin'!" and she said, "Don't you dare to lie to me!" Imoaned.
"Don't you like me?" she asked.
I hesitated.
"And lie if you dare!" she said--"Don't you like me?"
"Oomh-oomh!" said I.
"Why?" said she.
"Cos, you're too long--and slim--an'"--
"Go on!" said she.
"--And tall!" said I.
"Ah, ha!" said she,--"and that's it, hey?"
And then she began to grow shorter and thicker, and fatter andsquattier.
"And how do I suit you now?" she wheezed at length, when she hadwilted down to about the size of a large loaf of bread.
I shook more violently than ever at the fearful spectacle.
"How do you like me now?" she yelped again,--"And don't you lie to meneither, or I'll swaller you whole!"
I writhed and hid my face.
"Do you like me?"
"No-o-oh!" I moaned.
She made another snatch at my hair. I felt her jagged claws sink intomy very brain. I struggled and she laughed hideously.
"You don't, hey?"
"Yes, yes, I do. I love you!" said I.
"You lie! You lie!" She shrieked derisively. "You know you lie!" andas I felt the iron talons sinking and gritting in my very brain, withone wild, despairing effort, I awoke.
I saw the fire gleaming in the grate, and by the light it made I dimlysaw the outline of the old mantelpiece that straddled it, holding theold clock high upon its shoulders. I was awake then, and the littlesquatty woman with her iron talons was a dream! I felt an oilygladness stealing over me, and yet I shuddered to be all alone.
If only some one were awake, I thought, whose blessed company woulddrown all recollections of that fearful dream; but I dared not stir ormake a noise. I could only hear the ticking of the clock, and myfather's sullen snore. I tried to compose my thoughts to pleasantthemes, but that telescopic old woman in white would rise up and mockmy vain appeals, until in fancy I again saw her altitudinousproportions dwindling into that repulsive and revengeful figure withthe iron claws, and I grew restless and attempted to sit up. Heavens!something yet held me by the hair. The chill sweat that betokensspeedy dissolution gathered on my brow. I made another effort andarose, that deadly clutch yet fastened in my hair. Could it bepossible! The short, white woman still held me in her vengeful grasp!I could see her white dress showing from behind either of my ears. Shestill clung to me, and with one wild, unearthly cry of "Pap!" Istarted round the room.
I remember nothing further, until as the glowing morn sifted throughthe maple at the window, powdering with gold the drear old room, andbaptizing with its radiance the anxious group of old home-facesleaning over my bed, I heard my father's voice once more rasping on mysenses--"Now get the booby up, and wash that infernal wax out of hishair!"
BECAUSE
Why did we meet long years of yore? And why did we strike hands and say: "We will be friends, and nothing more"; Why are we musing thus to-day? Because because was just because, And no one knew just why it was.
Why did I say good-by to you? Why did I sail across the main? Why did I love not heaven's own blue Until I touched these shores again? Because because was just because, And you nor I knew why it was.
Why are my arms about you now, And happy tears upon your cheek? And why my kisses on your brow? Look up in thankfulness and speak! Because because was just because, And only God knew why it was.
TO THE CRICKET
The chiming seas may clang; and Tubal Cain May clink his tinkling metals as he may; Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away; Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strain Till not a note of melody remain!-- But thou, O cricket, with thy roundelay, Shalt laugh them all to scorn! So wilt thou, pray, Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again: I shall not weary; there is purest worth In thy sweet prattle, since it sings the lone Heart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearth Of childish memories--no harsher tone Than we might listen to in gentlest mirth, Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth.
THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood That now but in mem'ry I sadly review; The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood, The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto; The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple, The doves that came fluttering out overhead As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.
The blessed old volume! The face bent above it-- As now I recall it--is gravely severe, Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear, And, as down his features it trickles and glistens, The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-
bound Bible my grandfather read.
Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derision And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies In the dust of the past, while this newer revision Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies? Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven? Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said, When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven To hear the old Bible my grandfather read? The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.
UNCOMFORTED
Lelloine! Lelloine! Don't you hear me calling? Calling through the night for you, and calling through the day; Calling when the dawn is here, and when the dusk is falling-- Calling for my Lelloine the angels lured away!
Lelloine! I call and listen, starting from my pillow-- In the hush of midnight, Lelloine! I cry, And o'er the rainy window-pane I hear the weeping willow Trail its dripping leaves like baby-fingers in reply.
Lelloine, I miss the glimmer of your glossy tresses, I miss the dainty velvet palms that nestled in my own; And all my mother-soul went out in answerless caresses, And a storm of tears and kisses when you left me here alone.
I have prayed, O Lelloine, but Heaven will not hear me, I can not gain one sign from Him who leads you by the hand; And O it seems that ne'er again His mercy will come near me-- That He will never see my need, nor ever understand.
Won't you listen, Lelloine?--just a little leaning O'er the walls of Paradise--lean and hear my prayer, And interpret death to Him in all its awful meaning, And tell Him you are lonely without your mother there.
WHAT THEY SAID
Whispering to themselves apart, They who knew her said of her, "Dying of a broken heart-- Death her only comforter-- For the man she loved is dead-- She will follow soon!" they said.
Beautiful? Ah! brush the dust From Raphael's fairest face, And restore it, as it must First have smiled back from its place On his easel as he leant Wrapt in awe and wonderment!
Why, to kiss the very hem Of the mourning-weeds she wore, Like the winds that rustled them, I had gone the round world o'er; And to touch her hand I swear All things dareless I would dare!
But unto themselves apart, Whispering, they said of her, "Dying of a broken heart-- Death her only comforter-- For the man she loved is dead-- She will follow soon!" they said.
So I mutely turned away, Turned with sorrow and despair, Yearning still from day to day For that woman dying there, Till at last, by longing led, I returned to find her--dead?
"Dead?"--I know that word would tell Rhyming there--but in this case "Wed" rhymes equally as well In the very selfsame place-- And, in fact, the latter word Is the one she had preferred.
Yet unto themselves apart, Whisp'ring they had said of her-- "Dying of a broken heart-- Death her only comforter-- For the man she loved is dead-- She will follow soon!" they said.
AFTER THE FROST
After the frost! O the rose is dead, And the weeds lie pied in the garden-bed, And the peach tree's shade in the wan sunshine, Faint as the veins in these hands of mine, Streaks the gray of the orchard wall Where the vine rasps loose, and the last leaves fall, And the bare boughs writhe, and the winds are lost-- After the frost--the frost!
After the frost! O the weary head And the hands and the heart are quieted; And the lips we loved are locked at last, And kiss not back, though the rain falls fast And the lashes drip, and the soul makes moan, And on through the dead leaves walks alone Where the bare boughs writhe and the winds are lost-- After the frost--the frost!
CHARLES H. PHILLIPS
OBIT NOVEMBER 5TH, 1881
O friend! There is no way To bid farewell to thee! The words that we would say Above thy grave to-day Still falter and delay And fail us utterly.
When walking with us here, The hand we loved to press Was gentle, and sincere As thy frank eyes were clear Through every smile and tear Of pleasure and distress.
In years, young; yet in thought Mature; thy spirit, free, And fired with fervor caught Of thy proud sire, who fought His way to fame, and taught Its toilsome way to thee.
So even thou hast gained The victory God-given-- Yea, as our cheeks are stained With tears, and our souls pained And mute, thou hast attained Thy high reward in Heaven!
WHEN IT RAINS
When it rains, and with the rain Never bird has heart to sing, And across the window-pane Is no sunlight glimmering; When the pitiless refrain Brings a tremor to the lips, Our tears are like the rain As it drips, drips, drips-- Like the sad, unceasing rain as it drips.
When the light of heaven's blue Is blurred and blotted quite, And the dreary day to you Is but a long twilight; When it seems that ne'er again Shall the sun break its eclipse, Our tears are like the rain As it drips, drips, drips-- Like the endless, friendless rain as it drips.
When it rains! weary heart, O be of better cheer! The leaden clouds will part, And the morrow will be clear; Take up your load again, With a prayer upon your lips, Thanking Heaven for the rain As it drips, drips, drips-- With the golden bow of promise as it drips.
AN ASSASSIN
Cat-like he creeps along where ways are dim, From covert unto covert's secrecy; His shadow in the moonlight shrinks from him And crouches warily.
He hugs strange envies to his breast, and nurses Wild hatreds, till the murderous hand he grips Falls, quivering with the tension of the curses He launches from his lips.
Drenched in his victim's blood he holds high revel; He mocks at justice, and in all men's eyes Insults his God--and no one but the devil Is sorry when he dies.
BEST OF ALL
Of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall, Is not silence the best of all?
The deep, sweet hush when the song is closed, And every sound but a voiceless ghost;
And every sigh, as we listening leant, A breathless quiet of vast content?
The laughs we laughed have a purer ring With but their memory echoing;
And the joys we voiced, and the words we said, Seem so dearer for being dead.
So of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall, Is not silence the best of all?
BIN A-FISHIN'
W'en de sun's gone down, un de moon is riz, Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'! It's I's aguine down wha' the by-o is! Bin a-fishin' all night long!
Chorus
Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin' clean fum de dusk of night Twell away 'long on in de mornin' light.
Bait my hook, un I plunk her down! Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'! Un I lay dat catfish weigh five pound! Bin a-fishin' all night long!
Chorus
Folks tells me ut a sucker won't bite, Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'! Yit I lif' out fo' last Chuesday night, Bin a-fishin' all night long!
Chorus
Little fish nibble un de big fish come; Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'! "Go way, little fish! I want some!" Bin a-fishin' all night long!
Chorus
Sez de bull frog, "D-runk!" sez de ole owl, "Whoo!" Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'! 'Spec, Mr. Nigger, dey's a-meanin' you, Bin a-fishin' all night long!
Chorus
UNCLE DAN'L IN TOWN OVER SUNDAY
I cain't git used to city ways-- Ner never could, I' bet my hat! Jevver know jes' whur I was raised?-- Raised on a farm! D' ever tell you that? Was undoubta
tly, I declare! And now, on Sunday--fun to spare Around a farm! Why jes' to set Up on the top three-cornered rail Of Pap's old place, nigh La Fayette, I'd swap my soul off, hide and tail! You fellers in the city here, You don't know nothin'!--S'pose to-day, This clatterin' Sunday, you waked up Without no jinglin'-janglin' bells, Ner rattlin' of the milkman's cup, Ner any swarm of screechin' birds Like these here English swallers--S'pose Ut you could miss all noise like those, And git shet o' thinkin' of 'em afterwerds, And then, in the country, wake and hear Nothin' but silence--wake and see Nothin' but green woods fur and near?-- What sort o' Sunday would that be?... Wisht I hed you home with me! Now think! The laziest of all days-- To git up any time--er sleep-- Er jes' lay round and watch the haze A-dancin' 'crost the wheat, and keep My pipe a-goern laisurely, And puff and whiff as pleases me-- And ef I leave a trail of smoke Clean through the house, no one to say, "Wah! throw that nasty thing away; Hev some regyard fer decency!" To walk round barefoot, if you choose; Er saw the fiddle--er dig some bait And go a-fishin'--er pitch hoss shoes Out in the shade somewhurs, and wait For dinner-time, with an appetite Ut folks in town cain't equal quite! To laze around the barn and poke Fer hens' nests--er git up a match Betwixt the boys, and watch 'em scratch And rassle round, and sweat and swear And quarrel to their hearts' content; And me a-jes' a-settin' there A-hatchin' out more devilment! What sort o' Sunday would that be?... Wisht I hed you home with me!