Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse Part 13

Like ter see the brooks and ponds dimpled up all over, Like ter see the di'mon's s.h.i.+ne on the bendin' clover, Like ter see the happy ducks in the puddles sailin'

And the stuck-up rooster all draggled, wet and trailin'.

But I like it best inside, with the fire a-gleamin', And myself, with ch.o.r.es all done, settin' round and dreaming With the kitten on my knee, and the kettle hummin', And the rain-drops on the roof, "Home, Sweet Home" a-drummin'.

Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together, Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complaining And a-pesterin' around, wis.h.i.+n' it was rainin'.

THE HAND-ORGAN BALL

When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down.

And hushed is the roar and the din, When Evening is cooling the sweltering town, 'Tis then that the frolics begin; And up in dim "Finnegan's Court," on the pavement, Shut in by the loom of the tenement's wall, 'Neath the swinging arc-light, on a warm summer's night, They gather to dance at the hand-organ ball.

'Tis not a society function, you see, But quite an informal affair; The costumes are varied, yet simple and free, And gems are exceedingly rare; The ladies are gowned in their calicoes, fetching, And coatless and cool are the gentlemen, all.

In a jacket, they say, one's not rated _au fait_ By the finicky guests at the hand-organ ball.

There's "Ikey," the newsboy, and "Muggsy" who "s.h.i.+nes"; There's Beppo who peddles "banan'"; There's A. Lincoln Johnson, whose "Pa" kalsomines-- His skin has a very deep tan; There's Rosy, the cash-girl, and Mame, who ties bundles, And Maggie, who works in the factory, tall; She's much in demand, for she "pivots so grand,"

She's really the belle of the hand-organ ball.

Professor Spaghetti the music supplies, From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime; His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies, Is merrily thumping the rollicking time; The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper, The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall, And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball.

The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street, The mothers lean out from the windows to see, While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet, And tenement babies crow loud in their glee; And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,-- Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;-- There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light, In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"JIM"

Want to see me, hey, old chap?

Want to curl up in my lap, Do yer, Jim?

See him sit and purr and blink-- Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him?

Little kitten, nothin' more, When we found him at the door.

In the cold, And the baby, half undressed, Picked him up, and he was jest All she'd hold.

Put him up fer me to see, And she says, so 'cute, says she, "Baby's cat."

And we never had the heart Fer to keep them two apart After that.

Seem's if _I must_ hear the beat Of her toddlin' little feet 'Round about; Seem to see her tucked in bed, With the kitten's furry head Peekin' out.

Seem's if I could hear her say, In the cunnin' baby way That she had: "Say 'dood-night' to Jimmie, do, 'Coz if 'oo fordetted to He'd feel bad."

Miss her dreadful, don't we, boy?

Day do'n't seem to bring no joy With the dawn; Look's if night was everywhere,-- But there's glory over there Where she's gone.

Seems as if my heart would break, But I love yer for her sake, Don't I, Jim?

See him sit and purr and blink, Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him?

IN MOTHER'S ROOM

In Mother's room still stands the chair Beside the sunny window, where The flowers she loved now lightly stir In April's breeze, as though they were Forlorn without her loving care.

Her books, her work-box, all are there, And still the snowy curtains bear The soft, sweet scent of lavender In Mother's room.

Oh, spot so cool, and fresh, and fair, Where dwelt a soul so pure and rare, On me your fragrant peace confer, Make my life sweet with thoughts of her, As lavender makes sweet the air In Mother's room.

SUNSET-LAND

Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,-- If you look, as the sun sinks low, Where the cloud-hills rise in the western skies, Each one with its crest aglow, O'er the rosy sea, where the purple isles Have beaches of golden sand, To the fleecy height of the great cloud, white, You may catch a gleam of the twinkling light At the harbor of Sunset-land.

It's a wonderful place, little boy, little boy, And its city is Sugarplum Town, Where the slightest breeze through the candy trees Will tumble the bon-bons down; Where the fountains sprinkle their lemonade In syrupy, cooling streams; And they pave each street with a goody, sweet, And mark them off in a manner neat, With borders of chocolate creams.

It's a children's town, little boy, little boy, With a great big jail, you know, Where "grown-ups" stay who are heard to say, "Now don't!" or "You mustn't do so."

And half of the time it is Fourth of July, And 'tis Christmas all the rest, With plenty of toys that will make a noise, For Santa is king of this realm of joys, And knows what a lad likes best.

Shall I tell you the way, little boy, little boy, To get to this country, bright?

When you're snug in bed, and your prayers are said, You must shut up your eyelids tight; And wait till the sleepy old Sandman comes And gives you his kindly hand, And then you'll float in a drowsy boat, O'er the sea of rose to the cloud, remote, And the wonderful Sunset-land.

THE SURF ALONG THE Sh.o.r.e

Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks, Your valleys forest laden, your cliffs where Echo speaks; And ye, who by the prairies your childhood's joys have seen, Sing of your waving gra.s.ses, your velvet miles of green: But when my memory wanders down to the dear old home I hear, amid my dreaming, the seething of the foam, The wet wind through the pine trees, the sobbing crash and roar, The mighty surge and thunder of the surf along the sh.o.r.e.

I see upon the sand-dunes the beach-gra.s.s sway and swing, I see the whirling sea-birds sweep by on graceful wing, I see the silver breakers leap high on shoal and bar, And hear the bell-buoy tolling his lonely note afar.

The green salt-meadows fling me their salty, sweet perfume, I hear, through miles of dimness, the watchful fog-horn boom; Once more, beneath the blackness of night's great roof-tree high, The wild geese chant their marches athwart the arching sky.

The dear old Cape! I love it! I love its hills of sand, The sea-wind singing o'er it, the seaweed on its strand; The bright blue ocean 'round it, the clear blue sky o'erhead; The fis.h.i.+ng boats, the dripping nets, the white sails filled and spread;-- For each heart has its picture, and each its own home song, The sights and sounds which move it when Youth's fair memories throng; And when, down dreamland pathways, a boy, I stroll once more, I hear the mighty music of the surf along the sh.o.r.e.

AT EVENTIDE

The tired breezes are tucked to rest In the cloud-beds far away; The waves are pressed to the placid breast Of the dreaming, gleaming bay; The sh.o.r.e line swims in a hazy heat, Asleep in the sea and sky, And the m.u.f.fled beat where the breakers meet Is a soft, sweet lullaby.

The pine-clad hill has a crimson crown Of glittering sunset glows; The roofs of brown in the distant town Are bathed in a blush of rose; The radiant ripples s.h.i.+ne and s.h.i.+ft In s.h.i.+mmering shreds of gold; The seaweeds lift and drowse and drift, And the jellies fill and fold.

The great sun sinks, and the gray fog heaps His cloak on the silent sea; The night-wind creeps where the ocean sleeps, And the wavelets wake in glee; Across the bay, like a silver star, There twinkles the harbor-light, And faint and far from the outer bar The sea-birds call "Good-night."

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