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 di
vine 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 hispocket, and as the quiet little fellow sat on the back porch in hisfavorite position, his legs elbowed and flattened out beneath him likea 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 assumedtone of querulous displeasure, as he bent over the boy from behind andgently tweaked his ear.
"Oh, here, mister!" said the boy, without looking up; "you thist letup 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 downupon the fluffy towhead with more than ordinary admiration. "What yougot 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 throughthe back of a large bumblebee. "All these uns is, you kin bet! Youdon't think a feller 'ud try to string a live bumblebee, I reckon?"
"Well, no, 'Squire," said Mr. Judkins, airily, addressing the boy byone of the dozen nicknames he had given him; "not a live bumblebee--areal 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 parentalinquiry. "See him down there in the bottom, 'ith all th' other uns ontop 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 inhis 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 beetleI wouldn't let no boy my size knock the stuffin' out o' me with nobunch o' weeds, like I done him!"
"Howd'ye know you wouldn't?" said Mr. Judkins, austerely, biting hisnails and winking archly to himself.
"W'y, I know I wouldn't," said the boy, "'cause I'd keep up in the airwhere I could fly, an' wouldn't come low down ut all--bumpin' around'mongst them bushes, an' buzzin' against things, an' buttin' my brainsout 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 tosuit you, ef you want more'n one pair, and ever' day's a picnic with asnake-feeder, you know. Nothin' to do but jes' loaf up and down thecrick, and roost on reeds and cat-tails, er fool around a feller'sfish-line and light on the cork and bob up and down with it till shegoes clean under, don't you know?"
"Don't want to be no snake-feeder, neither," said the boy, "'causethey gits gobbled up, first thing they know, by these 'ere big greenbullfrogs ut they can't ever tell from the skum till they've lit rightin their mouth--and then they're goners! No, sir;" continued the boy,drawing an extra quinine-bottle from another pocket, and holding it upadmiringly before his father's eyes: "There's the feller in there utI'd ruther be than have a pony!"
"W'y, it's a nasty p'izen spider!" exclaimed Mr. Judkins, pushing backthe bottle with affected abhorrence, "and he's alive, too!"
"You bet he's alive!" said the boy, "an' you kin bet he'll never cometo no harm while I own him!" and as the little fellow spoke his faceglowed with positive affection, and the twinkle of his eyes, as hecontinued, seemed wonderfully like his father's own. "Tell you, I likespiders! Spiders is awful fat--all but their head--and that's level,you kin bet! Flies hain't got no business with a spider. Ef a spiderever reaches fer a fly, he's his meat! The spider, he likes to loafan' lay around in the shade an' wait fer flies an' bugs an' things tocome a-foolin' round his place. He lays back in the hole in the cornerof his web, an' waits till somepin' lights on it an' nen when he hears'em buzzin', he thist crawls out an' fixes 'em so's they can't buzz,an' he's got the truck to do it with! I bet ef you'd unwind all theweb-stuff out of thist one little spider not bigger'n a pill, it 'udbe long enough fer a kite-string! Onc't they wuz one in ourwood-house, an' a taterbug got stuck in his web, an' the spider workedpurt' nigh two days 'fore he got him so's he couldn't move. Nen hecouldn't eat him neither--'cause they's shells on 'em, you know, an'the spider didn't know how to hull him. Ever' time I'd go there thespider, he'd be a-wrappin' more stuff around th' ole bug, an' stoopin'down like he wuz a-whisperin' to him. An' one day I went in ag'in, an'he was a-hangin', alas an' cold in death! An' I poked him with asplinter an' his web broke off--'spect he'd used it all up on thewicked bug--an' it killed him; an' I buried him in a' ink-bottle an'mashed the old bug 'ith a chip!"
"Yes," said Judkins, in a horrified tone, turning away to conceal thereal zest and enjoyment his face must have betrayed; "yes, and someday you'll come home p'izened, er somepin'! And I want to say righthere, my young man, ef ever you do, and it don't kill you, I'll lintyou within an inch of your life!" And as the eccentric Mr. Judkinswhirled around the corner of the porch he heard the boy murmur in hislow, absent-minded way, "Yes, you will!"
MR. JUDKINS' REMARKS
Judkins stopped us in front of the post-office yesterday to say thatthat boy of his was "the blamedest boy outside o' the annals o'history!" "Talk about this boy-naturalist out here at Indianapolis,"says Judkins,--"w'y, he ain't nowhere to my boy! The little cuss don'tdo nothin' either only set around and look sleepy, and dern him, hegits off more dry things than you could print in your paper. Of latehe's been a-displayin' a sort o' weakness fer Nature, don't you know;and he's allus got a bottle o' bugs in his pocket. He come homeyesterday evening with a blame' mud-turtle as big as an unabridgeddictionary, and turned him over in the back yard and commenced biffin'away at him with a hammer and a cold-chisel. 'W'y, you're a-killin'the turtle,' says I. 'Kill nothin'!' says he, 'I'm thist a-takin' thelid off so's I can see his clock works.' Hoomh!" says Judkins: "He's agood one!--only," he added, "I wouldn't have the _boy_ think so fer theworld!"
JUDKINS' BOY ON THE MUD-TURTLE
The mud-turtle is not a beast of pray, but he dearly loves catfishbait. If a mud-turtle gits your big toe in his mouth he will hang ontill it thunders. Then he will spit it out like he was disgusted. Themud-turtle kin swim and keep his chin out of water ef he wants to buthe don't care ef he does sink. The turtle kin stay under water untilhis next birthday, an' never crack a smile. He kin breathe like agrown person, but he don't haf to, on'y when he is on dry land, an'then I guess he thist does it to be soshibul. Allus when you seebubbles a-comin' up in the swimmin' hole, you kin bet your gallusesthey's a mud-turtle a-layin' down there, studyin' up some cheap way togit his dinner. Mud-turtles never dies, on'y when they make soup outof 'em. They is seven kinds of meat in the turtle, but I'd ruther eatthist plain burnt liver.
ON FROGS
Frogs is the people's friend, but they can't fly. Onc't they wuztadpoles about as big as lickerish drops, an' after while legs growedon 'em. Oh, let us love the frog--he looks so sorry. Frogs kin swimbetter'n little boys, and they don't haf to hold their nose when theydive, neither. Onc't I had a pet frog; an' the cars run over him. Itthist squshed him. Bet he never knowed what hurt him! Onc't they wuz arich lady swallered one--when he wuz little, you know; an' he growedup in her, an' it didn't kill him ut all. An' you could hear himholler in her bosom. It was a tree-toad; and so ever' time he'd gop-r-r-r-r- w'y, nen the grand lady she'd know it was goin' to rain,an' make he
r little boy run an' putt the tub under the spout. Wasn'tthat a b'utiful frog?
ON PIRUTS
Piruts is reckless to a fault. They ain't afeard of nobody nernothin'. Ef ever you insult a pirut onc't, he'll foller you to thegrave but what he will revenge his wrongs. Piruts all looks likepictures of "Buffalo Bill"--on'y they don't shave off the whiskersthat sticks out over the collar of their low-necked shirt. Ever' dayis a picknick fer the piruts of the high seas. They eat gunpowder an'drink blood to make 'em savage, and then they kill people all day, an'set up all night an' tell ghost stories an' sing songs such as mortalear would quail to listen to. Piruts never comes on shore on'y whenthey run out of tobacker; an' then it's a cold day ef they don't landat midnight, an' disguize theirselves an' slip up in town like asleuth houn', so's the Grand Jury can't git on to 'em. They don't carefer the police any more than us people who dwells right in theirmidst. Piruts makes big wages an' spends it like a king. "Come easy,go easy," is the fatal watchword of them whose deeds is Deth. Onc'tthey wuz a pirut turned out of the house an' home by his cruel parentswhen he wuz but a kid, an' so he always went by that name. He wasthrust adrift without a nickel, an' sailed fer distant shores to hidehis shame fer those he loved. In the dead of night he stol'd a newsuit of the captain's clothes. An' when he growed up big enough to fit'em, he gaily dressed hissef and went up an' paced the quarter-deck indeep thought. He had not fergot how the captain onc't had lashed himto the jib-boom-poop an' whipped him. That stung his proud spirit eventhen; an' so the first thing he done was to slip up behind the cruelofficer an' push him over-board. Then the ship wuz his fer better erfer worse. An' so he took command, an' hung high upon the beetlingmast the pirut flag. Then he took the Bible his old mother give him,an' tied a darnic round it an' sunk it in the sand with a mockinglaugh. Then it wuz that he wuz ready fer the pirut's wild seafaringlife. He worked the business fer all they wuz in it fer many years,but wuz run in ut last. An', standin' on the gallus-tree, he sung asong which wuz all wrote off by hissef. An' then they knocked the trapon him. An' thus the brave man died and never made a kick. In life hewuz allus careful with his means, an' saved up vast welth, which hedug holes and buried, an' died with the secret locked in his bosom tothis day.