Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse Part 11

What would I give to view it--that old house by the sea-- Filled with the dear lost faces which made it home for me!

The sobbing wind sings softly the song of long ago, And in that country churchyard the graves are draped in snow; But there, beyond the arches of Heaven's star-jeweled dome, Perhaps they know I'm dreaming of winter nights at home.

"THE LITTLE FELLER'S STOCKIN'"

O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill, And the frosty Christmas holly s.h.i.+nes and sparkles on the hill, And the Christmas sleigh-bells jingle and the Christmas laughter rings, As the last stray shoppers hurry, takin' home the Christmas things; And up yonder in the attic there's a little trundle bed Where there's Christmas dreams a-dancin' through a sleepy, curly head; And it's "Merry Christmas," Mary, once agin fer me and you, With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

'Tisn't silk, that little stockin', and it isn't much fer show, And the darns are pretty plenty 'round about the heel and toe, And the color's kind er faded, and it's sort er worn and old, But it really is surprisin' what a lot of love 'twill hold; And the little hand that hung it by the chimney there along Has a grip upon our heartstrings that is mighty firm and strong; So old Santy won't fergit it, though it isn't fine and new,-- That plain little worsted stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

And the crops may fail and leave us with our plans all knocked ter smash, And the mortgage may hang heavy, and the bills use up the cash, But whenever comes the season, jest so long's we've got a dime, There'll be somethin' in that stockin'--won't there, Mary?--every time.

And if in amongst our suns.h.i.+ne there's a shower or two of rain, Why, we'll face it bravely smilin', and we'll try not ter complain, Long as Christmas comes and finds us here together, me and you, With the little feller's stockin' hangin' up beside the flue.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE ANT AND THE GRa.s.sHOPPER

You know the story--it's centuries old-- How the Ant and the Gra.s.shopper met, we're told, On a bl.u.s.tering day, when the wind was cold And the trees were bare and brown; And the Gra.s.shopper, being a careless blade, Who all the summer had danced and played, Now came to the rich old Ant for aid, And the latter "turned him down."

It's only fancy, but I suppose That the Gra.s.shopper wore his summer clothes, And stood there kicking his frozen toes And shaking his bones apart; And the Ant, with a sealskin coat and hat, Commanded the Gra.s.shopper, brusque and flat, To "Dance through the winter," and things like that, Which he thought were "cute" and "smart."

But, mind you, the Ant, all summer long, Had heard the Gra.s.shopper's merry song, And had laughed with the rest of the happy throng At the bubbling notes of glee; And he said to himself, as his cash he lent, Or started out to collect his rent, "The s.h.i.+f'less fool do'n't charge a cent,-- I'm getting the whole show free."

I've never been told how the pair came out-- The Gra.s.shopper starved to death, no doubt, And the Ant grew richer, and had the gout, As most of his brethren do; I know that it's better to save one's pelf, And the Ant is considered a wise old elf, But I like the Gra.s.shopper more myself,-- Though that is between we two.

THE CROAKER

Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool, Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool, Where bushes over the water hung, And gra.s.ses nodded and rushes swung-- Just where the brook flowed out of the bog-- There lived a gouty and mean old Frog, Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak, And do just nothing but croak and croak.

'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know, What _is_ the trouble down there below?

Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?"

The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot!

Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime, For me to look at the livelong time.

'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke, And voiced his woes in a mournful croak.

"But you're looking _down!_" the Blackbird said.

"Look at the blossoms overhead; Look at the lovely summer skies; Look at the bees and b.u.t.terflies-- Look _up_, old fellow! Why, bless your soul, You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!"

But still, with his gurgling sob and choke, The Frog continued to croak and croak.

And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near, Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here: Don't shed your tears over him, for he Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be!

He's one of the kind who _won't_ be glad; It makes him happy to think he's sad.

_I'll_ tell you something--and it's no joke-- Don't waste your pity on those who croak!"

THE OLD-FAs.h.i.+ONED GARDEN

Oh, those sweet old-fas.h.i.+oned posies, that were mother's pride and joy, In the sunny little garden where I wandered when a boy!

Oh, the morning-glories twining 'mongst the s.h.i.+ning sunflowers tall, And the clematis a-tangle in the angle of the wall!

How the mignonette's sweet blooming was perfuming all the walks, Where the hollyhocks stood proudly with their blossom-dotted stalks; While the old-maids' pinks were nodding groups of gossips, here and there, And the bluebells swung so lightly in the lazy, hazy air!

Then the sleepy poppies, stooping low their drooping, drowsy heads, And the modest young sweet-williams hiding in their shady beds!

By the edges of the hedges, where the spiders' webs were spun, How the marigolds lay, yellow as the mellow summer sun That made all the gra.s.s a-dapple 'neath the leafy apple tree, Whence you heard the locust drumming and the humming of the bee; While the soft breeze in the trellis, where the roses used to grow, Sent the silken petals flying like a scented shower of snow!

Oh, the quaint old-fas.h.i.+oned garden, and the pathways cool and sweet, With the dewy branches splas.h.i.+ng flas.h.i.+ng jewels o'er my feet!

And the dear old-fas.h.i.+oned blossoms, and the old home where they grew, And the mother-hands that plucked them, and the mother-love I knew!

Ah, of all earth's fragrant flowers in the bowers on her breast, Sure the blooms which memory brings us are the brightest and the best; And the fairest, rarest blossoms ne'er could win my love, I know, Like the sweet old-fas.h.i.+oned posies mother tended long ago.

THE LIGHT-KEEPER

For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the sh.o.r.e; For years the surge has tossed its kelp and wrack about my door; I've heard the sea-wind sing its song in whispers 'round the place, And fought it when it flung the sand, like needles, in my face.

I've seen the sun-rays turn the roof ter blist'rin', tarry coal; I've seen the ice-drift clog the bay from foamin' shoal ter shoal; I've faced the winter's snow and sleet, I've felt the summer's shower, But every night I've lit the lamp up yonder in the tower.

I've seen the sunset flood the earth with streams of rosy light, And every foot of sea-line specked with twinklin' sails of white; I've woke ter find the sky a mess of scud and smoky wreath, A blind wind-devil overhead and h.e.l.l let loose beneath.

And then ter watch the rollers pound on ledges, bars and rips, And pray fer them that go, O Lord, down ter the sea in s.h.i.+ps!

Ter see the lamp, when darkness comes, throw out its s.h.i.+nin' track, And think of that one gleamin' speck in all the world of black.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right."]

And often, through a night like that, I've waited fer the day That broke and showed a lonesome sea, a sky all cold and gray; And, may be, on the spit below, where sea-gulls whirl and screech, I've seen a somethin' stretched among the fresh weed on the beach; A draggled, frozen somethin', in the ocean's tangled sc.u.m, That meant a woman waitin' fer a man who'd never come; And all the drop of comfort in my sorrer I could git Was this: "I done my best ter save; thank G.o.d, the lamp was lit."

And there's lots of comfort, really, to a strugglin' mortal's breast In the sayin', if it's truthful, of "I done my level best"; It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right, No matter if yer rule a land or if yer tend a light.

My lot is humble, but I've kept that lamp a-burnin' clear, And so, I reckon, when I die I'll know which course ter steer; The waves may roar around me and the darkness hide the view, But the lights'll mark the channel and the Lord'll tow me through.

THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE Sh.o.r.e

It stands at the bend where the road has its end, And the blackberries nod on the vine; And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown, Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine.

The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked, And the gra.s.ses grow high at the door, But hid in my heart is an altar, apart, To the little old house by the sh.o.r.e.

For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare, With the blossoms that cl.u.s.tered above, When a mother's dear face gave a charm to the place As she sang at her labor of love.

And the breeze, as it strays through the window and plays With the dust and the leaves on the floor, Is a memory sweet of the pattering feet In the little old house by the sh.o.r.e.

And again in my ears, through the dream of the years, They whisper, the playmates of old, The brother whose eyes were a glimpse of the skies, The sister with ringlets of gold; And Father comes late to the path at the gate, As he did when the fis.h.i.+ng was o'er, And the echoes ring out, at our welcoming shout, From the little old house by the sh.o.r.e.

But the night-wind has blown and the vision has flown, And the sound of the children is still, And the shadowy mist, like a spirit, has kissed The graves by the church on the hill; But softly, afar, sing the waves on the bar, A song of the suns.h.i.+ne of yore: A lullaby deep for the loved ones who sleep Near the little old house by the sh.o.r.e.

WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT

When the tide goes out, how the foam-flakes dance Through the wiry sedge-gra.s.s near the sh.o.r.e; How the ripples spark in the sunbeam's glance, As they madly tumble the pebbles o'er!