Journeys Through Bookland Volume Iv Part 46

Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior strength to his country's foes.--

Mild and gentle, as he was brave,-- When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things;--Where the violets grew Pure as the eyes they were likened to,

The touches of his hand have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed:

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.--

Think of him still as the same, I say; He is not dead--he is just away!

LITTLE GIFFIN OF TENNESSEE

Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire, Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene-- Eighteenth battle and he sixteen-- Spectre such as you seldom see, Little Giffin of Tennessee.

"Take him and welcome," the surgeon said, "But much your doctor can help the dead!"

And so we took him and brought him where The balm was sweet on the summer air; And we laid him down on a lonesome bed, Utter Lazarus, heels to head.

Weary war with bated breath!

Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death!

Months of torture, how many such!

Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!

And still the glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn't die,

And didn't--nay more, in Death's despite The crippled skeleton learned to write.

"Dear Mother," at first, of course, and then, "Dear Captain," asking about the men.

Captain's answer, "Of eighty and five, Giffin and I are still alive."

"Johnston's pressed at the front," they say-- Little Giffin was up and away.

A tear, the first, as he bade good-bye, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.

"I'll write, if spared."--There was news of fight, But none of Giffin--he didn't write.

I sometimes fancy that when I'm king, And my gallant courtiers form a ring, Each so careless of power and pelf, Each so thoughtful for all but self, I'd give the best on his bended knee-- Yes, barter them all, for the loyalty Of Little Giffin of Tennessee.

LITTLE BREECHES

A PIKE COUNTY VIEW OF SPECIAL PROVIDENCE

By JOHN HAY [Footnote: John Hay was born in Indiana, and in 1861 became the law- partner of Abraham Lincoln, and for the greater part of the time during the latter's life as president of the United States, acted as his private secretary. After the War he held various political offices and was an editorial Writer on the New York Tribune. He became known for his unusual tact and foresight, and finally became secretary of state.

He is well known, too, for his writings, the most notable of which is his _Abraham Lincoln_, which was written in company with John G Nicolay.

Besides this he wrote a number of humorous poems, of which _Little Breeches_ is perhaps the best known.]

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know.

I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will, and that sort of thing,-- But I b'lieve in G.o.d and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Went team, Little Breeches, and all]

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along,-- No four-year-old in the country Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sa.s.sy, Always ready to swear and fight,-- And I'd larnt him ter chaw terbacker, Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I pa.s.sed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of mola.s.ses And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started,-- I heard one little squall, And h.e.l.l-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.

h.e.l.l-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near.

At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,--but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me Of my fellow-critter's aid,-- I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night.

We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white;

And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm.

They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm.

And I think that saving a little child, And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.

This little poem is an imitation of what was the rude dialect of some parts of Pike County, Indiana. One must not be too critical of the roughness and the apparent irreverence of some of the lines, for the sentiment is a pleasing one. An ignorant man who believes in "G.o.d and the angels" may be forgiven for the crudity of his ideas, and the mistakes he makes in bringing up his boy, especially as he "never ain't had no show."

THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL"

_By_ W. S. GILBERT

'Twas on the sh.o.r.es that round our coasts From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone, on a piece of stone, An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he; And I heard this wight on the sh.o.r.e recite, In a singular minor key:--

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a mids.h.i.+pmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."