Riley Child-Rhymes Part 4

WHO SANTY-CLAUS WUZ

[Ill.u.s.tration: Who Santy-Claus Wuz--t.i.tle]

Jes' a little bit o' feller--I remember still-- Ust to almost cry fer Christmas, like a youngster will.

Fourth o' July's nothin' to it!--New Year's ain't a smell!

Easter-Sunday--Circus-day--jes' all dead in the sh.e.l.l!

Lawzy, though! at night, you know, to set around an' hear The old folks work the story off about the sledge an' deer, An' "Santy" skootin' round the roof, all wrapt in fur an' fuzz-- Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

Ust to wait, an' set up late, a week er two ahead; Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed; Kittle stewin' on the fire, an' Mother settin' here Darnin' socks, an' rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer; Pap gap', an' wonder where it wuz the money went, An' quar'l with his frosted heels, an' spill his liniment; An' me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir an' buzz, Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

Size the fire-place up an' figger how "Ole Santy" could Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would; Wisht 'at I could hide an' see him--wunderd what he'd say Ef he ketched a feller layin' fer him thataway!

But I _bet_ on him, an' _liked_ him, same as ef he had Turned to pat me on the back an' say, "Look here, my lad, Here's my pack,--jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!"

Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

[Ill.u.s.tration: An' quar'l with his frosted heels]

Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it 'peared to be-- Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough fer me!-- Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child Climbin' in my lap to-night, an' beggin' me to tell 'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so well I'm half sorry fer this little-girl-sweetheart of his-- Long afore She knows who "Santy-Claus" is!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Who Santy-Claus Wuz--Tailpiece]

THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS

They all climbed up on a high board-fence-- Nine little Goblins, with green-gla.s.s eyes-- Nine little Goblins that had no sense, And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies; And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat-- And I asked them what they were staring at.

And the first one said, as he scratched his head With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear And rasped its claws in his hair so red-- "This is what this little arm is fer!"

And he scratched and stared, and the next one said, "How on earth do _you_ scratch your head?"

And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge-- Laughed and laughed till his face grew black; And when he choked, with a final twinge Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back With a fist that grew on the end of his tail Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Nine Little Goblins]

And the third little Goblin leered round at me-- And there were no lids on his eyes at all-- And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he, "What is the style of your socks this fall?"

And he clapped his heels--and I sighed to see That he had hands where his feet should be.

Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim, Bowed his head, and I saw him slip His eyebrows off, as I looked at him, And paste them over his upper lip; And then he moaned in remorseful pain-- "Would--Ah, would I'd me brows again!"

And then the whole of the Goblin band Rocked on the fence-top to and fro, And clung, in a long row, hand in hand, Singing the songs that they used to know-- Singing the songs that their grandsires sung In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.

And ever they kept their green-gla.s.s eyes Fixed on me with a stony stare-- Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise, And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair, And I felt the heart in my breast snap to As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.

And they sang "You're asleep! There is no board-fence, And never a Goblin with green-gla.s.s eyes!-- 'Tis only a vision the mind invents After a supper of cold mince-pies,-- And you're doomed to dream this way," they said,-- "_And you sha'n't wake up till you're clean plum dead!_"

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Nine Little Goblins--Tailpiece]

TIME OF CLEARER TWITTERINGS

[Ill.u.s.tration: Time of Clearer Twitterings--t.i.tle]

I.

Time of crisp and tawny leaves, And of tarnished harvest sheaves, And of dusty gra.s.ses--weeds-- Thistles, with their tufted seeds Voyaging the Autumn breeze Like as fairy argosies: Time of quicker flash of wings, And of clearer twitterings In the grove, or deeper shade Of the tangled everglade,-- Where the spotted water-snake Coils him in the sunniest brake; And the bittern, as in fright, Darts, in sudden, slanting flight, Southward, while the startled crane Films his eyes in dreams again.

II

Down along the dwindled creek We go loitering. We speak Only with old questionings Of the dear remembered things Of the days of long ago, When the stream seemed thus and so In our boyish eyes:--The bank Greener then, through rank on rank Of the mottled sycamores, Touching tops across the sh.o.r.es: Here, the hazel thicket stood-- There, the almost pathless wood Where the sh.e.l.lbark hickory tree Rained its wealth on you and me.

Autumn! as you loved us then, Take us to your heart again!

III

Season halest of the year!

How the zestful atmosphere Nettles blood and brain, and smites Into life the old delights We have tasted in our youth, And our graver years, forsooth!

How again the boyish heart Leaps to see the chipmunk start From the brush and sleek the sun Very beauty, as he runs!

How again a subtle hint Of crushed pennyroyal or mint, Sends us on our knees, as when We were truant boys of ten-- Brown marauders of the wood, Merrier than Robin Hood!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Where the sh.e.l.lbark hickory tree]

IV

Ah! will any minstrel say, In his sweetest roundelay, What is sweeter, after all, Than black haws, in early Fall-- Fruit so sweet the frost first sat, Dainty-toothed, and nibbled at!

And will any poet sing Of a lusher, richer thing Than a ripe May-apple, rolled Like a pulpy lump of gold Under thumb and finger-tips, And poured molten through the lips?

Go, ye bards of cla.s.sic themes, Pipe your songs by cla.s.sic streams!

I would tw.a.n.g the redbird's wings In the thicket while he sings!

THE CIRCUS-DAY PARADE

Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!

And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed, As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!

How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own, And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known!

And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind, Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined!

How the hors.e.m.e.n, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue, And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you.

Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore, Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that they wore!

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Circus-Day Parade]

How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed, And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side!

How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame, With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.