THE RIVALS
B P L D
’Twas three an’ thirty year ago,
When I was ruther young, you know, I had my last an’ only fight
About a gal one summer night.
’Twas me an’ Zekel Johnson; Zeke
’N’ me ’d be’n spattin’ ’bout a week,
Each of us tryin’ his best to show
That he was Liza Jones’s beau.
We couldn’t neither prove the thing,
Fur she was fur too sharp to fling
One over fur the other one
An’ by so doin’ stop the fun
That we chaps didn’t have the sense
To see she got at our expense.
But that’s the way a feller does,
Fur boys is fools an’ allus was;
An’ when they’s females in the game I reckon men’s about the same.
Well, Zeke an’ me went on that way
An’ fussed an’ quarreled day by day;
While Liza, mindin’ not the fuss,
Jest kep’ a-goin’ with both of us,
Tell we pore chaps, that’s Zeke an’ me, Was jest plum mad with jealousy.
Well, fur a time we kep’ our places,
An’ only showed by frownin’ faces
An’ looks ’at well our meanin’ boded
How full o’ fight we both was loaded.
At last it come, the thing broke out,
An’ this is how it come about.
One night (’twas fair, you’ll all agree)
I got Eliza’s company,
An’ leavin’ Zekel in the lurch, Went trottin’ off with her to church.
An’ jest as we had took our seat, (Eliza lookin’ fair an’ sweet), Why, I jest couldn’t help but grin When Zekel come a-bouncin’ in As furious as the law allows.
He’d jest be’n up to Liza’s house, To find her gone, then come to church To have this end put to his search. I guess I laffed that meetin’ through, An’ not a mortal word I knew Of what the preacher preached er read Er what the choir sung er said. Fur every time I’d turn my head I couldn’t skeercely help but see ’At Zekel had his eye on me.
An’ he ’ud sort o’ turn an’ twist
An’ grind his teeth an’ shake his fist. I laughed, fur la! the hull church seen us, An’ knowed that suthin’ was between us. Well, meetin’ out, we started hum, I sorter feelin’ what would come.
We’d jest got out, when up stepped Zeke, An’ said, “Scuse me, I’d like to speak To you a minute.” “Cert,” said I—
A-nudgin’ Liza on the sly
An’ laughin’ in my sleeve with glee, I asked her, please, to pardon me. We walked away a step er two, Jest to git out o’ Liza’s view, An’ then Zeke said, “I want to know Ef you think you’re Eliza’s beau,
An’ ’at I’m goin’ to let her go Hum with sich a chap as you?”
An’ I said bold, “You bet I do.”
Then Zekel, sneerin’, said ’at he Didn’t want to hender me, But then he ’lowed the gal was his
An’ ’at he guessed he knowed his biz,
An’ wasn’t feared o’ all my kin
With all my friends an’ chums throwed in. Some other things he mentioned there
That no born man could no ways bear
Er think o’ ca’mly tryin’ to stan’
Ef Zeke had be’n the bigges’ man
In town, an’ not the leanest runt
’At time an’ labor ever stunt.
An’ so I let my fist go “bim.”
I thought I’d mos’ nigh finished him.
But Zekel didn’t take it so.
He jest ducked down an’ dodged my blow
An’ then come back at me so hard,
I guess I must ’a’ hurt the yard,
Er spilet the grass plot where I fell,
An’ sakes alive it hurt me; well, It wouldn’t be’n so bad you see,
But he jest kep’ a-hittin’ me.
An’ I hit back an’ kicked an’ pawed,
But ’t seemed ’twas mostly air I clawed, While Zekel used his science well A-makin’ every motion tell.
He punched an’ hit, why, goodness lands, Seemed like he had a dozen hands.
Well, afterwhile, they stopped the fuss,
An’ some one kindly parted us.
All beat an’ cuffed an’ clawed an’ scratched,
An’ needin’ both our faces patched, Each started hum a different way;
An’ what o’ Liza, do you say,
Why, Liza—little humbug—darn her, Why, she’d gone home with Hiram Turner
—Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Co., New York, and used by special arrangement.
THE FIRST FURROW
B J J. M
Don’t you ever feel a yearnin’, ’long about this time o’ year, For a robin’s song to tell you that the summer time is near?
Don’t you ever sort o’ hanker for the blackbird’s whistlin’ call, Echoin’ through the hillside orchard, where the blossoms used to fall?
Don’t you wish that you were out there, breathin’ in the April air, Full o’ glad an’ careless boyhood, an’ with strength an’ health to spare?
Don’t it hurt you to remember, when the springtime comes around, How the first, long, rollin’ furrow used to wake the sleepy ground?
How’d you like to take the children, born to dirty city streets, Out to where the brook goes pulsin’ when the heart o’ nature beats?
How’d you like to watch ’em wonder at the boomin’ of the bees, Or to see ’em dodge the petals that are snowin’ from the trees?
How’d you like to see their faces catch the color o’ the rose, As they raced across the meadow where the earliest crocus grows? Wouldn’t it be joy to watch ’em follow on behind the plow, As it cut the first brown furrow, like it’s doin’ out there now?
SUNSHINE
B F E B
Some people have the sunshine, While others have the rain; But God don’t change the weather Because the folks complain.
Don’t waste your time in grumbling, Nor wrinkle up your brow; Some other soul has trouble, Most likely has it now.
When nature lies in shadow,
On damp and cloudy days, Don’t blame the sun, good people, But loan a few bright rays. The sun is always shining Above the misty shroud, And if your world be murky, The fault lies in the cloud.
Take sunshine to your neighbor, In all you do and say; Have sunshine in your labor, And sunshine in your play. Where’er the storm-cloud lowers, Take in the sunlight glow, And Heaven will show what flowers From seeds of kindness grow.
—Copyright by Forbes & Co., Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.
“CICELY”
ALKALI STATION
B B H
Cicely says you’re a poet: maybe; I ain’t much on rhyme: I reckon you’d give me a hundred, and beat me every time.
Poetry!—that’s the way some chaps puts up an idee, But I takes mine “straight without sugar,” and that’s what’s the matter with me.
Poetry!—just look round you,—alkali, rock, and sage; Sage-brush, rock, and alkali; ain’t it a pretty page! Sun in the east at mornin’, sun in the west at night, And the shadow of this ’yer station the on’y thing moves in sight.
Poetry!—Well now—Polly! Polly run to your mam; Run right away, my pooty! By by! Ain’t she a lamb?
Poetry!—that reminds me o’ suthin’ right in that suit: Jest shet that door thar, will yer?—for Cicely’s ears is cute.
Ye noticed Polly,—the baby? A month afore she was born, Cicely—my old woman—was moody-like and forlorn; Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees; Family man yourself, sir? Well, you know what a woman be’s.
Narvous she was, and restless,—said that she “couldn’t stay,” Stay,—and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o’ land.
One night,—the tenth of October,—I woke with a chill and fright, For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn’t in sight, But a note was pinned on the blanket, which said that she “couldn’t stay,” But had gone to visit her neighbor,—seventeen miles away.
When and how she stampeded, I didn’t wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she: Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent, For there warn’t no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went.
I’ve had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot,— Lost on the plains in ’50, drowned almost, and shot; But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy wife, Was ra’ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life.
“Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” I called, and I held my breath, And “Cicely!” came from the canyon,—and all was as still as death. And “Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” came from the rocks below, And jest but a whisper of “Cicely!” down from them peaks of snow.
I ain’t what you call religious,—but I jest looked up to the sky, And—this ’yer’s to what I’m coming, and maybe ye think I lie: But up away to the east’ard, yaller and big and far, I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star
Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me: Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see: Big and yaller and dancing,—I never saw such a star, And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and thar.
Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead: Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led. It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh, Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby’s cry.
Listen! thar’s the same music; but her lungs they are stronger now Than the day I packed her and her mother,—I’m derned if I jest know how.
But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o’ the whole thing is That Cis. never knew what happened from that very night to this!
But Cicely says you’re a poet, and maybe you might, some day, Jest sling her a rhyme ’bout a baby that was born in a curious way, And see what she says; but, old fellow, when you speak of the star, don’t tell As how ’twas the doctor’s lantern,—for maybe ’twon’t sound so well.
—Copyright by Houghton Mifflin & Co., Boston, and used by their kind permission.
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE
B A C
O good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw? Ay? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and cornfields, a little brown,— The picture must not be over-bright,— Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing-room Under their tassels,—cattle near, Biting shorter the short green grass, And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around,— (Ah, good painter, you can’t paint sound)— These and the house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide,— Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush: Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Roses crowding the selfsame way, Out of a wilding, wayside bush. Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon, you must paint for me; Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman’s soul, and the angel’s face
That are beaming on me all the while!— I need not speak these foolish words: Yet one word tells you all I would say,— She is my mother: you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me,—
The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,—
God knoweth if he be living now,—
He sailed in the good ship Commodore,— Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, ’tis twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck; I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother’s knee: That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea.
Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn leaves rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so far and still,—
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door, And over the haystack’s pointed top, All of a tremble, and ready to drop, The first half-hour, the great yellow star
That we with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree, Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—
Dead at the top—just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day:—
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,— The other, a bird held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn’t eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still.
ONE, TWO, THREE
B H C. B
It was an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy who was half-past three, And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see.
She couldn’t go running and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee.
They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree; And the game that they played I’ll tell you, Just as it was told to me.
It was hide-and-go-seek they were playing, Though you’d never have known it to be— With an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy with a twisted knee.
The boy would bend his face down On his one little sound right knee, And he’d guess where she was hiding, In guesses One, Two, Three.
“You are in the china closet!”
He would cry, and laugh with glee. It wasn’t the china closet; But he still had Two and Three.
“You are up in papa’s big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key!” And she said: “You are warm and warmer; But you’re not quite right,” said she.
“It can’t be the little cupboard Where Mamma’s things used to be, So it must be the clothespress, Gran’ma!” And he found her with his Three.
Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three.
And they never had stirred from their places, Right under the maple tree—
This old, old, old, old lady, And the boy with a lame little knee; This dear, dear, dear old lady, And the boy who was half-past three.
RECIPROCITY
B H. B -J
Would you have men play square with you, Play fair with you, and bear with you
In all the little weaknesses so easy to condemn? Then simply try to do the same— Hold up your head and play the game, And when the others are to blame Be sure to bear with them!
Would you have men, when new to you,
Be true to you and do to you
The things that faith and brother-love and nothing else impel?
Then give them faith and brother-love
And set sincerity above
All other things—and it will prove That you have builded well!
THE YOUNG TRAMP
B C . F. A
Hello, thar, stranger! Whar yer frum?
Come in and make yerself ter hum!
We’re common folks, ain’t much on style; Come in and stop a little while; ’Twon’t do no harm ter rest yer some.
Youngster, yer pale, and don’t look well! What, way from Bosting? Naow, dew tell! Why, that’s a hundred mile or so; What started yer, I’d like ter know, On sich a tramp; got goods ter sell?
No home, no friends? Naow that’s too bad!
Wall, cheer up, boy, and don’t be sad,— Wife, see what yer can find ter eat, And put the coffee on ter heat,—
We’ll fix yer up all right, my lad.
Willing ter work, can’t git a job, And not a penny in yer fob?
Wall, naow, that’s rough, I dew declare! What, tears? Come, youngster, I can’t bear Ter see yer take on so, and sob.
How came yer so bad off, my son? Father was killed? ’Sho’; whar? Bull Run? Why, I was in that scrimmage, lad,
And got used up, too, pretty bad; I shan’t forgit old ’sixty-one!
So yer were left in Bosting, hey! A baby when he went away? Those Bosting boys were plucky, wife, Yer know one of ’em saved my life, Else I would not be here to-day.
’Twas when the “Black Horse Cavalcade” Swept down on our small brigade, I got the shot that made me lame, When down on me a trooper came, And this ’ere chap struck up his blade.
Poor feller! He was stricken dead; The trooper’s sabre cleaved his head. Joe Billings was my comrade’s name, He was a Bosting boy, and game! I almost wished I’d died, instead.
Why, lad! what makes yer tremble so? Your father! what, my comrade Joe? And you his son? Come ter my heart. My home is yours; I’ll try in part, Ter pay his boy the debt I owe.
HULLO!
B S W F
When you see a man in woe, Walk straight up and say, “Hullo!” Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do? How’s the world been using you?”
Slap the fellow on his back, Bring your hand down with a whack! Waltz straight up and don’t go slow,
Shake his hand and say “Hullo!”
Is he clothed in rags? Oh, ho. Walk straight up and say “Hullo!”
Rags are but a cotton roll
Just for wrapping up a soul; And a soul is worth a true Hale and hearty “How d’ye do?”
Don’t wait for the crowd to go. Walk straight up and say “Hullo!”
When big vessels meet, they say, They salute and sail away; Just the same as you and me, Lonely ships upon the sea, Each one sailing his own jog For a port beyond the fog; Let your speaking trumpet blow, Lift your horn and cry, “Hullo!”
Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do?”
Other folks are good as you. When you leave your house of clay, Wandering in the far away, When you travel through the strange Country far beyond the range, Then the souls you’ve cheered will know Who you be, and say “Hullo!”
COLUMBUS
B A H C
How in heaven’s name did Columbus get over, Is a pure wonder to me, I protest, Cabot, and Raleigh, too, that well-read rover, Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest;
Bad enough all the same, For them that after came; But in great heaven’s name, How he should think That on the other brink Of this wild waste, terra firma should be, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
How a man should ever hope to get thither, E’en if he knew that there was another side; But to suppose he should come any whither, Sailing straight on into chaos untried, In spite of the motion, Across the whole ocean, To stick to the notion That in some nook or bend Of a sea without end, He should find North and South America, Was a pure madness, indeed, I must say.
What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy, Judged that the earth like an orange was round, None of them ever said, Come along, follow me, Sail to the West, and the East will be found. Many a day before Ever they’d come ashore Sadder and wiser men, They’d have turned back again; And that he did not, but did cross the sea, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
—Copyright by
Macmillan & Co.
, New York, and used by arrangement.
THE USUAL WAY
A
There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, “I’ll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook.” And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met—in the usual way.
Then he sat down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; “I thought,” she shyly whispered, “you’d be fishing all the day!” And he was—in the usual way.
So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; And he said, “Sweetheart, I love you,” but she said she could not stay,
But she did—in the usual way.
Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by; “We must say good-by,” she whispered by the alders old and gray. And they did—in the usual way.
And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much—in the usual way.
And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey? Well, they do—in the usual way.
HUMOROUS SELECTIONS IN POETRY
LITTLE MISS STUDY AND LITTLE MISS PLAY
B F E B
Little Miss Study and little Miss Play, Each came to the school from an opposite way; While little Miss Study could always recite, This little Miss Play hardly ever was right; For little Miss Study found she could do more By learning her lessons the evening before; But, fond of a frolic, this little Miss Play Would put off her lessons until the next day At the head of her class Miss Study was put, While little Miss Play had to stay at the foot! Thus little Miss Study and little Miss Play Went onward through life—in an opposite way.
—Copyright by Forbes & Co., Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.
A SIMILAR CASE
A
Jack, I hear you’ve gone and done it,— Yes, I know; most fellows will; Went and tried it once myself, sir, Though you see I’m single still. And you met her—did you tell me— Down at Newport, last July, And resolved to ask the question At a soiree?—So did I.
I suppose you left the ball-room,
With its music and its light; For they say Love’s flame is brightest In the darkness of the night. Well, you walked along together, Overhead, the starlit sky; And I’ll bet—old man, confess it— You were frightened.—So was I.
So you strolled along the terrace, Saw the summer moonlight pour, All its radiance on the waters, As they rippled on the shore, Till at length you gathered courage, When you saw that none was nigh— Did you draw her close and tell her, That you loved her?—So did I.
Well, I needn’t ask you further, And I’m sure I wish you joy, Think I’ll wander down and see you When you’re married,—eh, my boy? When the honeymoon is over And you’re settled down, we’ll try— What? The deuce you say! Rejected? You rejected?—So was I.
IRISH CASTLES
B
F -J O’B
“Sweet Norah, come here, and look into the fire; Maybe in its embers good luck we might see; But don’t come too near, or your glances so shining, Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree!
“Just look ’twixt the sods, where so brightly they’re burning, There’s a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees,
And a house on the bank, quite as big as the squire’s— Who knows but some day we’ll have something like these?
“And now there’s a coach and four galloping horses, A coachman to drive, and a footman behind; That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage, And dash through the streets with the speed of the wind.”
As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney, Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth-stone: While mansion and carriage, in smoke-wreaths evanished, And left the poor dreamer dejected and lone.
Then Norah to Dermot, these words softly whispered: “’Tis better to strive than to vainly desire: And our little hut by the roadside is better Than palace, and servants, and coach—in the fire!”
’Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming— Since Norah’s sweet counsel effected its cure; For, ever since then hath he toiled night and morning, And now his snug mansion looks down on the Suir
THE DEACON’S DRIVE
B F E B
Good Deacon Jones, although a pious man, Was not constructed on the meager plan; And he so loved the Sabbath day of rest, Of all the seven deemed it far the best; Could he have made the year’s allotment o’er, He would have put in many rest-days more. One Sunday morn, on sacred matters bent, With his good wife, to church the deacon went. And since there was no fear of being late, The horse slow jogged along his Sunday gait. This horse he got by trading with a Jew,
And called him Moses,—nothing else would do. He’d been a race-horse in his palmy days, But now had settled down, to pious ways,— Save now and then backsliding from his creed, When overtempted to a burst of speed.
’Twas early, and the deacon’s wife was driving, While from the book the deacon hard was striving On sacred things to concentrate his mind— The sound of clattering hoofs is heard behind; Old Mose pricked up his ears and sniffed the air; The deacon mused: “Some racers, I declare!
Fast horse, fast man, fast speeds the life away, While sluggish blood is slow to disobey!”
He closed the book; he’d read enough of psalms— And, looking backward, spat upon his palms, Then grabbed the sagging reins: “Land sakes alive! It’s late, Jerushee, guess I’d better drive!”
The wife suspects there’s something on his mind; Adjusts her spectacles and looks behind:
“Pull out, good Silas, let that sinner past Who breaks the Sabbath day by drivin’ fast!
What pretty horses; he’s some city chap; My, how he drives; he’ll meet with some mishap! Be quick thar, Silas; further to the side; He’s comin’; thank the Lord the road is wide!
Jes’ look at Mose; if he ain’t in fer war!
Say, Silas, what on earth you bracin’ for? Old man, have you forgot what day it is?”
“Git up thar, Mose! Jerushee, mind yer biz!”
“Upon my soul, look how that nag’s a-pacin’; Why, Silas, dear, I do believe you’re racin’!
Land sakes alive, what will the people say?
Good Deacon Jones a-racin’, Sabbath day!”
“Jerushee, now you hold yer pious tongue,
