The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches

ON RED HAIR

Onc't a pore boy wuz red-hedded, an' got mad at the other boys when they'd throw it up to him. An' when they'd laugh at his red hed, an' ast him fer a light, er wuzn't he afeard he'd singe his cap, an' orto' wear a tin hat, er pertend to warm their hands by him, – w'y, sometimes the red-hedded boy'd git purty hot indeed; an' onc't he told another boy that wuz a-bafflin' him about his red hair that ef he wuz him he'd git a fine comb an' go to canvassin' his own hed, and then he'd be liabul to sceer up a more livelier subjeck to talk about than red hair. An' then the other boy says, "You're a liar" an' that got the red-hedded boy into more trouble; fer the old man whipped him shameful' fer breakin' up soil with the other boy. An' this here red-hedded boy had freckles, too. An' warts. An' nobody ortn't to 'a' jumpt on to him fer that. Ef anybody wuz a red-hedded boy they'd have also warts an' freckles – an' thist red-hair's bad enough. Onc't another boy told him ef he wuz him he bet he could make a big day look sick some night. An' when the red-hedded boy says "How?" w'y, the other boy he says "Easy enough. I'd thist march around bare-hedded in the torch-light p'cession." – "Yes, you would," says the red-hedded boy, an' pasted him one with a shinny club, an' got dispelled from school 'cause he wuz so high-tempered an' impulsiv. Ef I wuz the red-hedded boy I'd be a pirut; but he allus said he wuz goin' to be a baker.

THE CROSS-EYED GIRL

"You don't want to never tamper with a cross-eyed girl," said Mr. Judkins, "and I'll tell you w'y: They've natur'lly got a better focus on things than a man would ever guess – studyin' their eyes, you understand. A man may think he's a-foolin' a cross-eyed girl simply because she's apparently got her eyes tangled on other topics as he's a-talkin' to her, but at the same time that girl may be a-lookin' down the windin' stairway of the cellar of his soul with one eye, and a-winkin' in a whisper to her own soul with the other, and her unconscious victim jes' a-takin' it fer granted that nothin' is the matter with the girl, only jes' cross-eyes! You see I've studied 'em," continued Judkins, "and I'm on to one fact dead sure – and that is, their natures is as deceivin' as their eyes is! Knowed one onc't that had her eyes mixed up thataway – sensitive little thing she was, and always referrin' to her 'misfortune,' as she called it, and eternally threatenin' to have some surgeon straighten 'em out like other folks' – and, sir, that girl so worked on my feelin's, and took such underholts on my sympathies that, blame me, before I knowed it I confessed to her that ef it hadn't 'a' been fer her defective eyes (I made it 'defective') I never would have thought of lovin' her, and, furthermore ef ever she did have 'em changed back normal, don't you understand, she might consider our engagement at an end – I did, honest. And that girl was so absolute cross-eyed it warped her ears, and she used to amuse herself by watchin' 'em curl up as I'd be a-talkin' to her, and that maddened me, 'cause I'm natur'lly of a jealous disposition, you know, and so, at last, I jes' casually hinted that ef she was really a-goin' to git them eyes carpentered up, w'y she'd better git at it: and that ended it.

"And then the blame' girl turned right around and married a fellow that had a better pair of eyes than mine this minute! Then I struck another cross-eyed girl – not really a legitimate case, 'cause, in reality, she only had one off eye – the right eye, ef I don't disremember – the other one was as square as a gouge. And that girl was, ef any difference, a more confusin' case than the other, and besides all that, she had some money in her own right, and warn't a-throwin' off no big discount on one game eye. But I finally got her interested, and I reckon something serious might 'a' come of it – but, you see, her father was dead, and her stepmother sort o' shet down on my comin' to the house; besides that, she had three grown uncles, and you know how uncles is. I didn't want to marry no family, of course, and so I slid out of the scheme, and tackled a poor girl that clerked in a post-office. Her eyes was bad! I never did git the hang of them eyes of hern. She had purty hair, and a complexion, I used to tell her, which outrivalled the rose. But them eyes, you know! I didn't really appreciate how bad they was crossed, at first. You see, it took time. Got her to give me her picture, and I used to cipher on that, but finally worked her off on a young friend of mine who wanted to marry intellect – give her a good send-off to him – and she was smart – only them eyes, you know! Why, that girl could read a postal card, both sides at once, and smile at a personal friend through the office window at the same time!"

HOMESICKNESS

There was a more than ordinary earnestness in the tone of Mr. Judkins as he said: "Referrin' to this thing of bein' homesick, I want to say right here that of all diseases, afflictions er complaints, this thing of bein' homesick takes the cookies! A man may think when he's got a' aggrivated case of janders, er white-swellin', say, er bone-erysipelas, that he's to be looked up to as bein' purty well fixed in this vale of trouble and unrest, but I want to tell you, when I want my sorrow blood-raw, don't you understand, you may give me homesickness – straight goods, you know – and I'll git more clean, legitimate agony out of that than you can out of either of the other attractions – yes, er even ef you'd ring in the full combination on me! You see, there's no way of treatin' homesickness only one – and that is to git back home – but as that's a remedy you can't git at no drug store, at so much per box – and ef you could, fer instance, and only had enough ready money anyhow to cover half the cost of a full box – and nothin' but a full box ever reached the case – w'y, it follers that your condition still remains critical. And homesickness don't show no favors. It's jes' as liable to strike you as me. High er low, er rich er poor, all comes under her jurishdiction, and whenever she once reaches fer a citizen, you can jes' bet she gits there Eli, ever' time!

"She don't confine herse'f to youth, ner make no specialty of little children either, but she stalks abroad like a census-taker, and is as conscientious. She visits the city girl clean up to Maxinkuckee, and makes her wonder how things really is back home without her. And then she haunts her dreams, and wakes her up at all hours of the night, and sings old songs over fer her, and talks to her in low thrillin' tones of a young man whose salary ain't near big enough fer two; and then she leaves her photograph with her and comes away, and makes it lively fer the boys on the train, the conductor, the brakeman and the engineer. She even nests out the travellin' man, and yanks him out of his reclinin' chair, and walks him up and down the car, and runs him clean out of cigars and finecut, and smiles to hear him swear. Then she gits off at little country stations and touches up the night operator, who grumbles at his boy companion, and wishes to dernation 'six' was in, so's he could 'pound his ear.'

"And I'll never forgit," continued Mr. Judkins, "the last case of homesickness I had, and the cure I took fer it. 'Tain't been more'n a week ago neither. You see my old home is a'most too many laps from this base to make it very often, and in consequence I hadn't been there fer five years and better, till this last trip, when I jes' succumbed to the pressure, and th'owed up my hands and went. Seemed like I'd 'a' died if I hadn't. And it was glorious to rack around the old town again – things lookin' jes' the same, mighty nigh, as they was when I was a boy, don't you know. Run acrost an old schoolmate, too, and tuck supper at his happy little home, and then we got us a good nickel cigar, and walked and walked, and talked and talked! Tuck me all around, you understand, in the meller twilight – till, the first thing you know, there stood the old schoolhouse where me and him first learnt to chew tobacco, and all that! Well, sir! you hain't got no idea of the feelin's that was mine! W'y, I felt like I could th'ow my arms around the dear old buildin' and squeeze it till the cupolo would jes' pop out of the top of the roof like the core out of a b'ile! And I think if they ever was a' epoch in my life when I could 'a' tackled poetry without no compunctions, as the feller says, w'y, then was the time – shore!"

TO THE QUIET OBSERVER

ERASMUS WILSON, AFTER HIS LONG SILENCE

 
Dear old friend of us all in need
Who know the worth of a friend indeed,
How rejoiced are we all to learn
Of your glad return.
 
 
We who have missed your voice so long —
Even as March might miss the song
Of the sugar-bird in the maples when
They're tapped again.
 
 
Even as the memory of these
Blended sweets, – the sap of the trees
And the song of the birds, and the old camp too,
We think of you.
 
 
Hail to you, then, with welcomes deep
As grateful hearts may laugh or weep! —
You give us not only the bird that sings,
But all good things.
 

AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING

900

 
Father all bountiful, in mercy bear
With this our universal voice of prayer —
The voice that needs must be
Upraised in thanks to Thee,
O Father, from Thy Children everywhere.
 
 
A multitudinous voice, wherein we fain
Wouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain —
No murmur of distress,
Nor moan of loneliness,
Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain.
 
 
And, Father, give us first to comprehend,
No ill can come from Thee; lean Thou and lend
Us clearer sight to see
Our boundless debt to Thee,
Since all thy deeds are blessings, in the end.
 
 
And let us feel and know that, being Thine,
We are inheritors of hearts divine,
And hands endowed with skill,
And strength to work Thy will,
And fashion to fulfilment Thy design.
 
 
So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside,
Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride;
As here to Thee we dare
Uplift our faltering prayer,
Lend it some fervor of the glorified.
 
 
We thank Thee that our land is loved of Thee
The blessèd home of thrift and industry,
With ever-open door
Of welcome to the poor —
Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly.
 
 
Even thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grew
Into a right that heroes battled to,
With brothers long estranged,
Once more as brothers ranged
Beneath the red and white and starry blue.
 
 
Ay, thanks – though tremulous the thanks expressed —
Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best —
For all the clanging fray
Whose discord dies away
Into a pastoral song of peace and rest.
 

WILLIAM PINKNEY FISHBACK

 
Say first he loved the dear home-hearts, and then
He loved his honest fellow citizen —
He loved and honored him, in any post
Of duty where he served mankind the most.
 
 
All that he asked of him in humblest need
Was but to find him striving to succeed;
All that he asked of him in highest place
Was justice to the lowliest of his race.
 
 
When he found these conditions, proved and tried,
He owned he marvelled, but was satisfied —
Relaxed in vigilance enough to smile
And, with his own wit, flay himself a while.
 
 
Often he liked real anger – as, perchance,
The summer skies like storm-clouds and the glance
Of lightning – for the clearer, purer blue
Of heaven, and the greener old earth, too.
 
 
All easy things to do he did with care,
Knowing the very common danger there;
In noblest conquest of supreme debate
The facts are simple as the victory great.
 
 
That which had been a task to hardiest minds
To him was as a pleasure, such as finds
The captive-truant, doomed to read throughout
The one lone book he really cares about.
 
 
Study revived him: Howsoever dim
And deep the problem, 'twas a joy to him
To solve it wholly; and he seemed as one
Refreshed and rested as the work was done.
 
 
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.