June At Woodruff
June At Woodruff
Out at Woodruff Place--afar
From the city's glare and jar,
With the leafy trees, instead
Of the awnings, overhead;
With the shadows cool and sweet,
For the fever of the street;
With the silence, like a prayer,
Breathing round us everywhere.
Gracious anchorage, at last,
From the billows of the vast
Tide of life that comes and goes,
Whence and where nobody knows--
Moving, like a skeptic's thought,
Out of nowhere into naught.
Touch and tame us with thy grace,
Placid calm of Woodruff Place!
Weave a wreath of beechen leaves
For the brow that throbs and grieves
O'er the ledger, bloody-lined,
'Neath the sun-struck window-blind!
Send the breath of woodland bloom
Through the sick man's prison room,
Till his old farm-home shall swim
Sweet in mind to hearten him!
Out at Woodruff Place the Muse
Dips her sandal in the dews,
Sacredly as night and dawn
Baptize lilied grove and lawn:
Woody path, or paven way--
She doth haunt them night and day,--
Sun or moonlight through the trees,
To her eyes, are melodies.
Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear
Through night-scenes, are songs to her--
Tinted lilts and choiring hues,
Blent with children's glad halloos;
Then belated lays that fade
Into midnight's serenade-Vine-
like words and zithern-strings
Twined through ali her slumberings.
Blessed be each hearthstone set
Neighboring the violet!
Blessed every rooftree prayed
Over by the beech's shadel
Blessed doorway, opening where
We may look on Nature--there
Hand to hand and face to face-
Storied realm, or Woodruff Place.
John McKeen
John McKeen
John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat,
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
And the wealth of a workman's vote!
Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets everywhere!
And let their voices be gladly blent
With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And old-time fiddle-tunes!
Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
And fill the hearing with childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound
Old book of the Used-to-be!
John McKeen of the Past! Ah John,
To have grown ambitious in worldly ways--!
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don
A broadcloth suit, and forgetful, gone
Out on election days!
John ah, John! Did it prove your worth
To yield you the office you still maintain--?
To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth
Of all the happier things on earth
To the hunger of heart and brain?
Under the dusk of your villa trees,
Edging the drives where your blooded span
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease--,
Where are the children about your knees,
And the mirth, and the happy man?
The blinds of your mansion are battened to;
Your faded wife is a close recluse;
And your 'finished' daughters will doubtless do
Dutifully all that is willed of you,
And marry as you shall choose--!
But O for the old-home voices, blent
With the watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And the motherly chirrup of glad content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And the old-time fiddle-tunes!
Johnson's Boy
Johnson's Boy
The world is turned ag'in' me,
And people says, 'They guess
That nothin' else is in me
But pure maliciousness!'
I git the blame for doin'
What other chaps destroy,
And I'm a-goin' to ruin
Because I'm 'Johnson's boy.'
THAT ain't my name--I'd ruther
They'd call me IKE or PAT--
But they've forgot the other--
And so have _I_, for that!
I reckon it's as handy,
When Nibsy breaks his toy,
Or some one steals his candy,
To say 'twas 'JOHNSON'S BOY!'
You can't git any water
At the pump, and find the spout
So durn chuck-full o' mortar
That you have to bore it out;
You tackle any scholar
In Wisdom's wise employ,
And I'll bet you half a dollar
He'll say it's 'Johnson's boy!'
Folks don't know how I suffer
In my uncomplainin' way--
They think I'm gittin' tougher
And tougher every day.
Last Sunday night, when Flinder
Was a-shoutin' out for joy,
And some one shook the winder,
He prayed for 'Johnson's boy.'
I'm tired of bein' follered
By farmers every day,
And then o' bein' collared
For coaxin' hounds away;
Hounds always plays me double-It's
a trick they all enjoy--
To git me into trouble,
Because I'm 'Johnson's boy.'
But if I git to Heaven,
I hope the Lord'll see
SOME boy has been perfect,
And lay it on to me;
I'll swell the song sonorous,
And clap my wings for joy,
And sail off on the chorus-
'Hurrah for 'Johnson's boy!''
Jim
Jim
He was jes a plain ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour.,
Consumpted-Iookin'-- but la!
The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliest
Feller you ever saw!
Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk,
And his feelin's too!
Lordy! Ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day, a- carryin' on
Like he ust to do!
Any shopmate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt,
A better feller'n Jim!
You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else--
You could git it o' him!
Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!
Give up ever' nickel he's worth--
And ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,
He'd a-give you the earth!
Allus a reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some
Pore feller onto his feet-He'd
a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f,
So's the feller got somepin' to eat!
Didn't make no differ'nce at all to him how he was dressed,
He ust to say to me--,
'You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, a huntin' a job,
And he'll git along!' says he.
Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly much
O' this world's goods at a time--.
'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and haf to, more'n
likely,
Turn round and borry a dime!
Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer awhile-- then jerk his coat,
And kindo' square his chin,
Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench,
And go to peggin' ag'in!
Patientest feller too, I reckon, 'at ever jes natchurly
Coughed hisse'f to death!
Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whisper and say
He could git ever'thing but his breath-'
You fellers,' he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say,
'Is a-pilin' onto me
A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to pack
Through all Eternity!'
Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me,
'At ortn't a-never a-died!
'But death hain't a-showin' no favors,' the old boss said-'
On'y to Jim!' and cried:
And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the shop--
Er the whole blame neighborhood--,
He says, 'When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that day
But jes set around and feel good!'
John Alden And Percilly
John Alden And Percilly
We got up a Christmas-doin's
Last Christmas Eve--
Kindo' dimonstration
'At I railly believe
Give more satisfaction--
Take it up and down--
Than ary intertainment
Ever come to town!
Railly was a _theater_-That's
what it was,--
But, bein' in the church, you know,
We had a '_Santy Clause_'--
So 's to git the _old folks_
To patternize, you see,
And _back_ the institootion up
Kindo' _morally_.
Schoolteacher writ the thing-(
Was a friend o' mine),
Got it out o' Longfeller's
Pome 'Evangeline'--
Er some'rs--'bout the _Purituns_--.
_Anyway_, the part
'_John Alden_' fell to _me_--
And learnt it all by heart!
Claircy was '_Percilly_'-(
Schoolteacher 'lowed
Me and her could act them two
Best of all the crowd)-Then--
blame ef he didn't
Git her Pap, i jing!--
To take the part o' '_Santy Clause_,'
To wind up the thing.
Law! the fun o' practisun!--
Was a week er two
Me and Claircy didn't have
Nothin' else to do!--
Kep' us jes a-meetin' round,
Kindo' here and there,
Ever' night rehearsin'-like,
And gaddin' ever'where!
Game was wo'th the candle, though!--
Christmas Eve at last
Rolled around.--And 'tendance jes
Couldn't been surpassed!--
Neighbors from the country
Come from Clay and Rush--
Yes, and 'crost the county-line
Clean from Puckerbrush!
Meetin'-house jes trimbled
As 'Old Santy' went
Round amongst the childern,
With their pepperment
And sassafrac and wintergreen
Candy, and 'a ball
O' popcorn,' the preacher 'nounced,
'Free fer each and all!'
Schoolteacher suddently
Whispered in my ear,-'
Guess I got you:--_Christmas-gift_!-_
Christmas is here_!'
I give _him_ a gold pen,
And case to hold the thing,--
And _Claircy_ whispered '_Christmas-gift_!'
And I give her a _ring_.
'And now,' says I, 'jes watch _me_-Christmas-
gift,' says I,
'_I'm_ a-goin' to git one-'_
Santy's_' comin' by!'--
Then I rech and grabbed him:
And, as you'll infer,
'Course I got the old man's,
And _he_ gimme _her_!
Iry And Billy Jo
Iry And Billy Jo
Iry an' Billy an' Jo!--
Iry an' Billy's _the boys_,
An' _Jo's_ their _dog_, you know,--
Their pictures took all in a row.
Bet they kin kick up a noise--
Iry and Billy, the boys,
And that-air little dog Jo!
_Iry's_ the one 'at stands
Up there a-lookin' so mild
An' meek--with his hat in his hands,
Like such a 'bediant child-(_
Sakes-alive_!)--An' _Billy_ he sets
In the cheer an' holds onto Jo an' _sweats_
Hisse'f, a-lookin' so good! Ho-ho!
Iry an' Billy an' Jo!
Yit the way them boys, you know,
Usen to jes turn in
An' fight over that dog Jo
Wuz a burnin'-shame-an'-a-sin !--
Iry _he'd_ argy 'at, by gee-whizz!
That-air little Jo-dog wuz _his_!--
An' Billy _he'd_ claim it wuzn't so-'
Cause the dog wuz _his'n_!--An' at it they'd go,
Nip-an'-tugg, tooth-an'-toenail, you know--
Iry an' Billy an' Jo!
But their Pa--(He wuz the marshal then)
He 'tended-like 'at he _jerked 'em up_;
An' got a jury o' Brickyard men
An' helt a _trial_ about the pup:
An' _he_ says _he_ jes like to a-died
When the rest o' us town-boys _testified_--
Regardin', you know,
Iry an' Billy an' Jo.-
'Cause we all knowed, when _the Gypsies_ they
Camped down here by the crick last Fall,
They brung Jo with 'em, an' give him away
To Iry an' Billy fer nothin' at all!--
So the jury fetched in the _verdick_ so
Jo he ain't _neether_ o' theirn fer _shore_-He's
_both_ their dog, an' jes no more!
An' so
They've quit quarrelin' long ago,
Iry an' Billy an' Jo.
Jack-In-The-Box
Jack-In-The-Box
_(Grandfather, musing.)_
In childish days! O memory,
You bring such curious things to me!--
Laughs to the lip--tears to the eye,
In looking on the gifts that lie
Like broken playthings scattered o'er
Imagination's nursery floor!
Did these old hands once click the key
That let 'Jack's' box-lid upward fly,
And that blear-eyed, fur-whiskered elf
Leap, as though frightened at himself,
And quiveringly lean and stare
At me, his jailer, laughing there?
A child then! Now--I only know
They call me very old; and so
They will not let me have my way,--
But uselessly I sit all day
Here by the chimney-jamb, and poke
The lazy fire, and smoke and smoke,
And watch the wreaths swoop up the flue,
And chuckle--ay, I often do--
Seeing again, all vividly,
Jack-in-the-box leap, as in glee
To see how much he looks like me!
... They talk. I can't hear what they say--
But I am glad, clean through and through
Sometimes, in fancying that they
Are saying, 'Sweet, that fancy strays
In age back to our childish days!'
Inscribed
Inscribed
To the Elect of Love,--or side-by-side
In raptest ecstasy, or sundered wide
By seas that bear no message to or fro
Between the loved and lost of long ago.
So were I but a minstrel, deft
At weaving, with the trembling strings
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
Of rondels such as rapture sings,-I'd
loop my lyre across my breast,
Nor stay me till my knee found rest
In midnight banks of bud and flower
Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.
And there, drenched with the teary dews,
I'd woo her with such wondrous art
As well might stanch the songs that ooze
Out of the mockbird's breaking heart;
So light, so tender, and so sweet
Should be the words I would repeat,
Her casement, on my gradual sight,
Would blossom as a lily might.
In The South
In The South
There is a princess in the South
About whose beauty rumors hum
Like honey-bees about the mouth
Of roses dewdrops falter from;
And O her hair is like the fine
Clear amber of a jostled wine
In tropic revels; and her eyes
Are blue as rifts of Paradise.
Such beauty as may none before
Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips
Of fingers such as knights of yore
Had died to lift against their lips:
Such eyes as might the eyes of gold
Of all the stars of night behold
With glittering envy, and so glare
In dazzling splendor of despair.
So, were I but a minstrel, deft
At weaving, with the trembling strings
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
Of rondels such as rapture sings,-I'd
loop my lyre across my breast,
Nor stay me till my knee found rest
In midnight banks of bud and flower
Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.
And there, drenched with the teary dews,
I'd woo her with such wondrous art
As well might stanch the songs that ooze
Out of the mockbird's breaking heart;
So light, so tender, and so sweet
Should be the words I would repeat,
Her casement, on my gradual sight,
Would blossom as a lily might.
In Bohemia
In Bohemia
Ha! My dear! I'm back again--
Vendor of Bohemia's wares!
Lordy! How it pants a man
Climbing up those awful stairs!
Well, I've made the dealer say
Your sketch _might_ sell, anyway!
And I've made a publisher
Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.
In Bohemia, Kate, my dear--
Lodgers in a musty flat
On the top floor--living here
Neighborless, and used to that,--
Like a nest beneath the eaves,
So our little home receives
Only guests of chirping cheer-We'll
be happy, Kate, my dear!
Under your north-light there, you
At your easel, with a stain
On your nose of Prussian blue,
Paint your bits of shine and rain;
With my feet thrown up at will
O'er my littered window-sill,
I write rhymes that ring as clear
As your laughter, Kate, my dear.
Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair--
Bite my pencil-tip and gaze
At you, mutely mooning there
O'er your 'Aprils' and your 'Mays!'
Equal inspiration in
Dimples of your cheek and chin,
And the golden atmosphere
Of your paintings, Kate, my dear!
_Trying_! Yes, at times it is,
To clink happy rhymes, and fling
On the canvas scenes of bliss,
When we are half famishing!--
When your 'jersey' rips in spots,
And your hat's 'forget-me-nots'
Have grown tousled, old and sere--
It is trying, Kate, my dear!
But--as sure--_some_ picture sells,
And--sometimes--the poetry--
Bless us! How the parrot yells
His acclaims at you and me!
How we revel then in scenes
Of high banqueting!--sardines-Salads--
olives--and a sheer
Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear!
Even now I cross your palm,
With this great round world of gold!-'
Talking wild?' Perhaps I am--
Then, this little five-year-old!--
Call it anything you will,
So it lifts your face until
I may kiss away that tear
Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear.