Second Book of Verse Part 15

As buxom and smart and clean of heart As the Lord knew how to make 'em!

They were rich in spirit and common-sense, And piety all supportin'; They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too, And they made such likely courtin'!

There are no boys like the good old boys,-- When _we_ were boys together!

When the gra.s.s was sweet to the brown bare feet That dimpled the laughing heather; When the pewee sung to the summer dawn Of the bee in the billowy clover, Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will Echoed his night song over.

There is no love like the good old love,-- The love that mother gave us!

We are old, old men, yet we pine again For that precious grace,--G.o.d save us!

So we dream and dream of the good old times, And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder, As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams Of heaven away off yonder.

OUR WHIPPINGS.

COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise!

Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago; What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,-- Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,--oh, my!

The way that we played hookey those many years ago, We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know!

The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,-- Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold!

How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"!

It's many a hearty thras.h.i.+ng to that Deacon Morse we owe,-- Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though!

We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days, And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,-- But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand; And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed, Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red.

Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt!

For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we: But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,-- Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made _her_ cry!

Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did!

In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more!

Oh, how we s.h.i.+vered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: "I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!"

Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-b.u.t.tons flew,-- What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview!

Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly a.s.sert, With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt!

The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight The bufferings of childhood,--as we do here to-night.

The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times.

BION'S SONG OF EROS.

EROS is the G.o.d of love; He and I are hand-in-glove.

All the gentle, gracious Muses Follow Eros where he leads, And they bless the bard who chooses To proclaim love's famous deeds; Him they serve in rapturous glee,-- That is why they're good to me.

Sometimes I have gone astray From love's sunny, flowery way: How I floundered, how I stuttered!

And, deprived of ways and means, What egregious rot I uttered,-- Such as suits the magazines!

I was rescued only when Eros called me back again.

G.o.ds forefend that I should shun That benignant Mother's son!

Why, the poet who refuses To emblazon love's delights Gets the mitten from the Muses,-- Then what balderdash he writes!

I love Love; which being so, See how smooth my verses flow!

Gentle Eros, lead the way,-- I will follow while I may: Be thy path by hill or hollow, I will follow fast and free; And when I'm too old to follow, I will sit and sing of thee,-- Potent still in intellect, Sit, and sing, and retrospect.

MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE.

THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget; And the time I remember's the evening I met A haughty young scion of bluegra.s.s renown Who made my acquaintance while painting the town: A handshake, a c.o.c.ktail, a smoker, and then Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.

There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South, And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard: I felt that he honored and flattered me when Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.

I wonder that never again since that night A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill: I wonder and pine; for--I say it again-- Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.

I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud; But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud; To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day, With wheat going up, and the devil to pay, These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen: "Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten."

POET AND KING.

THOUGH I am king, I have no throne Save this rough wooden siege alone; I have no empire, yet my sway Extends a myriad leagues away; No servile va.s.sal bends his knee In grovelling reverence to me, Yet at my word all hearts beat high, And there is fire in every eye, And love and grat.i.tude they bring As tribute unto me, a king.

The folk that throng the busy street Know not it is a king they meet; And I am glad there is not seen The monarch in my face and mien.

I should not choose to be the cause Of fawning or of coa.r.s.e applause: I am content to know the arts Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts; For when unto their hearts I sing, I am a king, I am a king!

My sceptre,--see, it is a pen!

Wherewith I rule these hearts of men.

Sometime it pleaseth to beguile Its monarch fancy with a smile; Sometime it is athirst for tears: And so adown the laurelled years I walk, the n.o.blest lord on earth, Dispensing sympathy and mirth.

Aha! it is a magic thing That makes me what I am,--a king!

Let empires crumble as they may, Proudly I hold imperial sway; The suns.h.i.+ne and the rain of years Are human smiles and human tears That come or vanish at my call,-- I am the monarch of them all!

Mindful alone of this am I: The songs I sing shall never die; Not even envious Death can wring His glory from so great a king.

Come, brother, be a king with me, And rule mankind eternally; Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong, Defend the truth, combat the wrong!

You'll find no sceptre like the pen To hold and sway the hearts of men; Its edicts flow in blood and tears That will outwash the flood of years: So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing!

And be with me a king, a king!

LYDIA d.i.c.k.