The Cornflower, and Other Poems Part 5

Oh, I'd give all this world away If I could hear him laugh to-day!

I get so lonesome, it's so still, An' him out sleepin' on that hill; There's nothin' seems just worth the while A doin' up in the old style; 'Cause everything we used to do Seemed allus just to need us two.

My throat aches till I think 'twill crack-- I don't know why--it must be Jack.

There ain't no fun, there ain't no stir.

His mother--well, it's hard on her, But she can knit an' sew, an' such-- Oh, she can't miss him half as much!

AT THE SICK CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL.

A little crippled figure, two big pathetic eyes, A face that looked unchildish, so wan it was and wise; I watched her as the homesick tears came chasing down each cheek.

"I had to come," she whispered low, "I was so tired and weak.

My spine, you know! I used to be so strong, and tall, and straight!

I went to school and learned to read and write upon a slate, And add up figures--such a lot, and play with all my might, Until I hurt my back--since then I just ache day and night.

'Tis most a year since I could stand, or walk around at all; All I am good for now, you see, is just to cry and crawl."

Poor, pale-faced thing! there came to us the laughter gay and sweet Of little ones let out from school, the sound of flying feet.

She listened for a moment, then turned her to the wall To hide the tears. "Oh, me!" she cried, "I'm tired of it all.

I feel so hurt and useless, why can't I run about As others do?" "Some day, please G.o.d, you will," I said, but doubt Was in the eyes she turned on mine, and doubt was in her tone.

"Perhaps," she faltered, then the pain grew harsh; the plaintive moan Smote sharply on my heart. I knew she had but lately come From mother's care and father's love, and all the joys of home.

"I wished I'd lived on earth," she sobbed, "a long, long time ago, When Jesus came at eventide, because He loved folks so, And just by stretching out His hand made all the sick folks well.

If it were now, oh, wouldn't I creep close to Him, and tell All that I wanted Him to do. I'd kneel down low and say: 'It is my back, dear Jesus, please cure it right away.

I'm tired of being weak and sick, I want to jump and run, And play at games, and laugh out loud, and have such heaps of fun!

Be good to your poor crippled girl,' and He would touch me--so-- And every atom of the pain and crookedness would go."

I held her close, and kissed her, and soothed her off to rest, So frail she was, so homesick for the ones she loved the best!

But yesterday I saw her, and would have pa.s.sed her by Had I not caught the greeting smile, the glance so bright and shy.

"Can this be you?" I questioned. She laughed, "O yes, I thought You'd hardly know me when you came, I've changed, oh, such a lot!

For see how tall and straight I am! My back don't hurt at all, And I can stand and I can walk--I never have to crawl.

I'll tell you, it's a secret, I raced with nurse last night.

Just think of it! I raced and won," and then, in sheer delight, She laughed so loudly and so long the nurse looked in to say, "Is not this little girl of ours quite boisterous to-day?"

"They are so good to me," she said, "I know I'll want to cry When I start off for home next week, and have to say good-bye.

What if I hadn't come at all?"--the sweet blue eyes grew wet-- "My back would ache and throb and hurt--I'd be a cripple yet.

For folks as poor as my folks are, they haven't much to spare For nurse's bills, and doctor's bills, and all--but won't they stare When I go home, red-cheeked and straight, and fat as I can be?

My daddy, he will never take his dear eyes off of me; My mamma, she will cry some tears, and bend her head and pray, While all the others kiss and hug; then I can hear her say: 'Give me my girlie, she's been gone so many long months--five,'

And hold me close--oh, I will be the gladdest thing alive!"

CHRISTY AND THE PIPERS.

'Twas a score of years since I'd heard the pipes, But the other night I heard them; There are sweet old memories in my heart, And the music woke and stirred them.

In the armories, at the big parade The highland regiment was giving, A half-dozen pipers piping away-- Ah! 'twas music, as sure as your living.

Donald's lowland, he shook his head at me, And glowered with every feature, And a pretty young la.s.sie just behind Said: "Oh, what a funny old creature!"

But the skirl o' the pipes got in my ears, In my eyes, and made them misty; I laughed and I cried, and Donald said low: "Dinna act so daft, noo, Christy!"

"Do ye no see the elder sitting there?

Dinna act sae daft, my wooman.

Can ye no hear the airs o' auld lang syne Wi'oot fas.h.i.+n' yersel' sae, wooman?"

But the skirl o' the pipes got in my heart, It got in my throat and choked me, It got in my feet, and tapped my toes, And my shame-faced Donald poked me.

"But isn't it grand? O, isn't it grand?"

"Ay, a fine auld player is Mylands, But the pipes' wild sound disna stir my bluid"-- He was not born in the highlands.

Do you know what I saw as I sat there?

I saw the hills and the heather, The green, and the lads and the la.s.sies there All dancing the reels together.

I saw our glen, half hid, and the rocks Standing guard like grim old watchmen.

Oh, the land o' heather and hill and loch Must e'en be dear to a Scotchman.

And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and brave Their flag to the breeze unfurling, As they marched away on a morning fair To the bagpipes' merry skirling.

My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek, I could hear him proudly saying: "Ho! you'll know when we come marching home, For you'll hear our pipers playing."

Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose-- Braver men, you cannot find them-- And few, so few, came marching home To the loved ones left behind them.

'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm, With a stubborn foe before them; A soldier's grave in a far off land, And G.o.d's blue sky bending o'er them.

As I hearkened to sweet old martial airs I could hear my brother saying: "Ho! you'll know when we come marching home, For you'll hear our pipers playing."

There are only harps in heaven, I'm told, And maybe I shouldn't say it, For a harp of gold's a wondrous thing In a hand that's skilled to play it.

But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's call They heard morning, noon, and even, And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart, They will hear in the streets of heaven.

They marched to the old beloved airs 'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle; 'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears 'Mid the clamor and clang of battle.

O a harp when an angel strikes the strings Is softer and sweeter, but try As I will, I cannot fancy a harp In the hands of, say, Peter MacKay.

And were an angel to proffer him one, Methinks I can hear him saying: "'Twas not on an instrument like the same That Pete MacKay will be playing,

"For she neffer set eyes on it before, Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer; She'd break the strings if she took it in hand, She couldn't do it, whateffer.

"So please be excusing old Pete MacKay-- But hark! bring the chanter to me, I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,'

And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.'"

I told this to Donald late that night; He said, as he sipped his toddy, "Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night?

Yersel' is the doited body.

"And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven?

Ah, Christy, I'm that astoonded I'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye, For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded."