Ballads of a Bohemian Part 16

Oh, won't I be the busy man when I am Sixty-five.

I'll revel in my library; I'll read De Morgan's books; I'll grow so garrulous I fear you'll write me down a bore; I'll watch the ways of ants and bees in quiet sunny nooks, I'll understand Creation as I never did before.

When gossips round the tea-cups talk I'll listen to it all; On smiling days some kindly friend will take me for a drive: I'll own a s.h.a.ggy collie dog that dashes to my call: I'll celebrate my second youth when I am Sixty-five.

Ah, though I've twenty years to go, I see myself quite plain, A wrinkling, twinkling, rosy-cheeked, benevolent old chap; I think I'll wear a tartan shawl and lean upon a cane.

I hope that I'll have silver hair beneath a velvet cap.

I see my little grandchildren a-romping round my knee; So gay the scene, I almost wish 'twould hasten to arrive.

Let others sing of Youth and Spring, still will it seem to me The golden time's the olden time, some time round Sixty-five.

From old men to children is but a step, and there too, in the shadow of the Fontaine de Medicis, I spend much of my time watching the little ones. Childhood, so innocent, so helpless, so trusting, is somehow pathetic to me.

There was one jolly little chap who used to play with a large white Teddy Bear. He was always with his mother, a sweet-faced woman, who followed his every movement with delight. I used to watch them both, and often spoke a few words.

Then one day I missed them, and it struck me I had not seen them for a week, even a month, maybe. After that I looked for them a time or two and soon forgot.

Then this morning I saw the mother in the rue D'a.s.sas. She was alone and in deep black. I wanted to ask after the boy, but there was a look in her face that stopped me.

I do not think she will ever enter the garden of the Luxembourg again.

Teddy Bear

O Teddy Bear! with your head awry And your comical twisted smile, You rub your eyes--do you wonder why You've slept such a long, long while?

As you lay so still in the cupboard dim, And you heard on the roof the rain, Were you thinking . . . what has become of _him_?

And when will he play again?

Do you sometimes long for a chubby hand, And a voice so sweetly shrill?

O Teddy Bear! don't you understand Why the house is awf'ly still?

You sit with your muzzle propped on your paws, And your whimsical face askew.

Don't wait, don't wait for your friend . . . because He's sleeping and dreaming too.

Aye, sleeping long. . . . You remember how He stabbed our hearts with his cries?

And oh, the dew of pain on his brow, And the deeps of pain in his eyes!

And, Teddy Bear! you remember, too, As he sighed and sank to his rest, How all of a sudden he smiled to you, And he clutched you close to his breast.

I'll put you away, little Teddy Bear, In the cupboard far from my sight; Maybe he'll come and he'll kiss you there, A wee white ghost in the night.

But me, I'll live with my love and pain A weariful lifetime through; And my Hope: will I see him again, again?

Ah, G.o.d! If I only knew!

After old men and children I am greatly interested in dogs. I will go out of my way to caress one who shows any desire to be friendly. There is a very filthy fellow who collects cigarette stubs on the Boul' Mich', and who is always followed by a starved yellow cur. The other day I came across them in a little side street. The man was stretched on the pavement brutishly drunk and dead to the world. The dog, lying by his side, seemed to look at me with sad, imploring eyes. Though all the world despise that man, I thought, this poor brute loves him and will be faithful unto death.

From this incident I wrote the verses that follow:

The Outlaw

A wild and woeful race he ran Of l.u.s.t and sin by land and sea; Until, abhorred of G.o.d and man, They swung him from the gallows-tree.

And then he climbed the Starry Stair, And dumb and naked and alone, With head unbowed and brazen glare, He stood before the Judgment Throne.

The Keeper of the Records spoke: "This man, O Lord, has mocked Thy Name.

The weak have wept beneath his yoke, The strong have fled before his flame.

The blood of babes is on his sword; His life is evil to the brim: Look down, decree his doom, O Lord!

Lo! there is none will speak for him."

The golden trumpets blew a blast That echoed in the crypts of h.e.l.l, For there was Judgment to be pa.s.sed, And lips were hushed and silence fell.

The man was mute; he made no stir, Erect before the Judgment Seat . . .

When all at once a mongrel cur Crept out and cowered and licked his feet.

It licked his feet with whining cry.

Come Heav'n, come h.e.l.l, what did it care?

It leapt, it tried to catch his eye; Its master, yea, its G.o.d was there.

Then, as a thrill of wonder sped Through throngs of s.h.i.+ning seraphim, The Judge of All looked down and said: "Lo! here is ONE who pleads for him.

"And who shall love of these the least, And who by word or look or deed Shall pity show to bird or beast, By Me shall have a friend in need.

Aye, though his sin be black as night, And though he stand 'mid men alone, He shall be softened in My sight, And find a pleader by My Throne.

"So let this man to glory win; From life to life salvation glean; By pain and sacrifice and sin, Until he stand before Me--_clean_.

For he who loves the least of these (And here I say and here repeat) Shall win himself an angel's pleas For Mercy at My Judgment Seat."

I take my exercise in the form of walking. It keeps me fit and leaves me free to think. In this way I have come to know Paris like my pocket.

I have explored its large and little streets, its stateliness and its slums.

But most of all I love the Quays, between the leaf.a.ge and the sunlit Seine. Like shuttles the little steamers dart up and down, weaving the water into patterns of foam. Cigar-shaped barges stream under the lacework of the many bridges and make me think of tranquil days and willow-fringed horizons.

But what I love most is the stealing in of night, when the sky takes on that strange elusive purple; when eyes turn to the evening star and marvel at its brightness; when the Eiffel Tower becomes a strange, shadowy stairway yearning in impotent effort to the careless moon.

Here is my latest ballad, short if not very sweet:

The Walkers

(_He speaks._)