Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse Part 10

NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE

Pavements a-frying in street and in square, Never a breeze in the blistering air, Never a place where a fellow can run Out of the s.h.i.+ne of the sizzling sun: "General Humidity" having his way, Killing us off by the hundred a day; Mercury climbing the tube like a shot,-- Suffering Caesar! I tell you it's hot!

Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck, Necktie and bosom and wristbands a wreck, Handkerchief dripping and worn to a shred Mopping and scouring my face and my head; Simply ablaze from my head to my feet, Back all afire with the p.r.i.c.kles of heat,-- Not on my cuticle one easy spot,-- Jiminy Moses! I tell you it's _hot_!

Give me a fan and a seat in the shade, Bring me a bucket of iced lemonade; Dress me in naught but the thinnest of clothes, Start up the windmill and turn on the hose: Set me afloat from my toes to my chin, Open the ice-box and fasten me in,-- If it should freeze me, why, that matters not,-- Brimstone and blazes! I tell you it's HOT!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck."]

SUMMER NIGHTS AT GRANDPA'S

Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't they soft and still!

Just the curtains rustlin' on the window-sill, And the wind a-blowin', warm and wet and sweet-- Smellin' like the meadows or the fields of wheat; Just the bullfrogs pipin' in amongst the gra.s.s, Where the water's s.h.i.+nin' like a lookin'-gla.s.s; Just a dog a-barkin' somewheres up along, So far off his yelpin' 's like a kind of song.

Summer nights at Grandpa's--hear the crickets sing, And the water bubblin' down beside the spring; Hear the cattle chewin' fodder in the shed, And an owl a-hootin' high up overhead; Hear the "way-off noises," faint and awful far-- So mixed-up a feller do'n't know what they are-- But so sort er lazy that they seem ter keep Sayin' over 'n' over, "Sonny, go ter sleep."

Summer nights at Grandpa's--ain't it fun ter lay In the early mornin' when it's gettin' day-- When the sun is risin' and it's fresh and cool, And you 're feelin' happy coz there ain't no school?-- When you hear the crowin' as the rooster wakes, And you think of breakfast and the buckwheat cakes; Sleepin' in the city's too much fuss and noise; Summer nights at Grandpa's are the things for boys.

GRANDFATHER'S "SUMMER SWEETS"

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe.

Out on the gnarled old tree, Out where the robin redb.r.e.a.s.t.s pipe, And buzzes the b.u.mblebee; Swinging high on the bending bough, Scenting the lazy breeze, What is the G.o.ds' ambrosia now To apples of gold like these?

Ruddy the blush of their maiden cheeks After the sunbeam's kiss-- Every quivering leaflet speaks, Telling a tale of bliss; Telling of dainties hung about, Each in a verdant wreath, s.h.i.+mmering satin all without, Honey and cream beneath.

Would ye haste to the banquet rare, Taste of the feast sublime?

Brush from the brow the lines of care, Scoff at the touch of Time?

Come in the glow of the olden days, Come with a youthful face, Come through the old familiar ways, Up from the dear, old place.

Barefoot, trip through the meadow lane, Laughing at bruise and scratch; Come, with your hands all rich with stain Fresh from the blackberry patch; Come where the orchard spreads its store And the breath of the clover greets; Quick! they are waiting you here once more,-- Grandfather's "summer sweets."

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe, Out on the gnarled, old tree-- Out where the robin redb.r.e.a.s.t.s pipe, And buzzes the b.u.mblebee; Swinging high on the bending bough, Scenting the lazy breeze, What is the G.o.ds' ambrosia now To apples of gold like these?

MIDSUMMER

Sun like a furnace hung up overhead, Burnin' and blazin' and blisterin' red; Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep, One little cloud-s.h.i.+p becalmed and asleep; Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin' still, s.h.i.+mmer of heat on the medder and hill,--Labor and laziness callin' to me: "Hoe or the fis.h.i.+n'-pole--which'll it be?"

There's the old cornfield out there in the sun, Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done; There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout, Seemin' ter stump me ter come clean 'em out; But, there's the river, so clear and so cool, There's the white lilies afloat on the pool, Scentin' the shade 'neath the old maple tree-- "Hoe or the fis.h.i.+n'-pole--which'll it be?"

Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat, Down by the river a robin sings sweet, Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say: "Who's the chump talkin' of _workin_' to-day?"

Robin's song tells how the pickerel wait Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait; I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know: But, "Where's the fis.h.i.+n'-pole? Hang the old hoe!"

"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S"

Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they're with us once agin, With the gra.s.ses wet and s.h.i.+nin', and the air so clear and thin, When the cheery face of Natur' seems ter want ter let yer know That she's done with lazy summer and is brimmin' full of "go"; When yer hear the cattle callin' and the hens a-singin' out, And the pigeons happy cooin' as they flutter 'round about, And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels, Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.

There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe; There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples s.h.i.+ne, And the juicy Concord cl.u.s.ters are a-purplin' on the vine; And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves, Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves; And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place, And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.

Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pa.s.s, Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sa.s.s, Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat, Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that; And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane, Kills his mem'ry full of suns.h.i.+ne, but it's suns.h.i.+ne mixed with rain,-- For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew When _he_ went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too.

Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul, And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time; And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here; That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn, But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.

[Ill.u.s.tration: boy looking at a turkey]

NOVEMBER'S COME

Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!

Struttin' round so big and proud.

Pretty quick I guess your beller Won't be goin' quite so loud.

Say, I'd run and hide, I bet you, And I'd leave off eatin' some, Else the choppin'-block'll get you,-- Don't you know November's come?

Don't you know that Grandma's makin'

Loads of mince and pun'kin pies?

Don't you smell those goodies cookin'?

Can't you see 'em? Where's your eyes?

Tell that rooster there that's crowin', Cute folks now are keepin' mum; _They_ don't show how fat they 're growin'

When they know November's come.

'Member when you tried ter lick me?

Yes, you did, and hurt me, too!

Thought't was big ter chase and pick me,-- Well, I'll soon be pickin' you.

Oh, I know you 're big and hearty, So you needn't strut and drum,-- Better make your will out, smarty, 'Cause, you know, November's come.

"Gobble! gobble!" oh, no matter!

Pretty quick you'll change your tune; You'll be dead and in a platter, And _I'll_ gobble pretty soon.

'F I was you I'd stop my puffin', And I'd look most awful glum;-- Hope they give you lots of stuffin'!

_Ain't_ you glad November's come?

THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME

A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white, The buildings blots of blackness, the windows gems of light, A moon, now clear, now hidden, as in its headlong race The north wind drags the cloud-wrack in tatters o'er its face; Mailed twigs that click and clatter upon the tossing tree, And, like a giant's chanting, the deep voice of the sea, As 'mid the stranded ice-cakes the bursting breakers foam,-- The old familiar picture--a winter night at home.

The old familiar picture--the firelight rich and red, The lamplight soft and mellow, the shadowed beams o'erhead; And father with his paper, and mother, calm and sweet, Mending the red yarn stockings stubbed through by careless feet.

The little attic bedroom, the window 'neath the eaves, Decked by the Frost King's brushes with silvered sprays and leaves; The rattling sash which gossips with idle gusts that roam About the ice-fringed gables--the winter nights at home.

What would I give to climb them--those narrow stairs so steep,-- And reach that little chamber, and sleep a boy's sweet sleep!