With the Colors
YOUTH O' THE YEAR [67]
"WRITE me," she ordered, nodding her
head,
"A song of the rippling Spring that is gone—
A song that's different from songs that are
dead—
Different as sunset is from the dawn.
Sparkling with happiness, heavy with dew,
Trilling and thrilling, all the way through;
Fill it with heaven's own laughing blue—
Write it!" she said. So I wrote it—"Love's
Pawn."
I spoke of the sunshine caught in her hair;
I sang of the peach blossom's pink in her
face;
I mentioned the heavenly blue with great care
That colored her wonderful eyes. And her
grace
I likened to that of a slender young tree
Bowing and laughing when breezes blow free;
In fact, there was naught in the Spring I could
see
Save this girl who with Love would ever keep
pace.
She took it and read it, that poor thing of
mine—
Old as a saga, young as the year—
Drank in the similes (flattering wine!),
Then gave her verdict, "You are a dear;
Surely no girl ever had such a song
Written for her; I will treasure it long;
It's so original—clever—and strong;
How could you know me so well—in one
year ?"
I read it myself—and grew red, I confess,
As a good workman should, when a poor job
is done;
But the joy of her laugh and the sweet, swift
caress
Overpaid me, a hundred to one! . . .
And then as she stood on the brow of the hill
And swayed in the wind, as Youth ever will,
I think that I heard her silv'ry laugh trill. . .
But perish the thought that she'd spoken in
fun!
UNFINISHED [69]
THE radiant dawn flows up the empty sky,
Its singing colors heralding the day,
And yet, before the tardy sun is high,
Unfinished morning fades and slips away.
While Nature holds her fragrant breath at
dawn
Watching the loveliness she's made—it's gone!
From dew-drenched garden thrills a thrush's
call—
That liquid note that all night long was
stilled—
The living chalice, brown and bright and small,
Seems with the joy of living overfilled—
Then suddenly, unfinished, clear and sweet
The song is drowned in noises from the street.
So at the edge of dusk my love for you
Would speak to your white soul, would
humbly come
To tell the age-old story, ever new—
But in the pulsing twilight Love is dumb!
Oh, heart of mine, within your quiet breast
Unfinished dawn—and song—and love—find
rest!
PAID IN ADVANCE [70]
WHAT is the cost of a day in Spring—
A wind-swept, rain-washed golden day?
A day that with joy is bubbling—
And dancing adown a world mad-gay?
You've paid for that day with days gone by—
The gloomy days and the days of rain;
The days that you'd like to forget—and try—
Days that were tuned to a note of pain.
Others there are who will never forget
The lowering clouds and the sodden world,
But—though you paid as they paid, eyes wet—
Your banner of .courage was still unfurled!
That was the price of this day in June,
Paid in advance with a shrug and a smile—
While others complained, you heard a tune,
Making the gloomiest day worth while!
WE RODE AT NIGHT [71]
WE rode at night, and the cut-steel stars
Daggered the black of the quiet sky;
Yet Venus had taken the place of Mars
In the Scheme of the Silent Worlds on high.
The ribbon of road ran straight ahead;
The night air whipped your hair and your
face,
Our hearts kept time to the horses' pace,
And we were alive, and our blood was red!
We rode at night. . . . Though you did not
speak
I nearer drew—there was none to see—
Love lent me strength to an arm not weak,
And I swept you out of your saddle—to me!
I rowelled your horse and he thundered on,
While in my arms you cuddled, and sighed;
And I kissed your hair and lips—and lied
When you asked if the coming light was the
dawn?
We rode at night; and our love, new-found,
Gloried our way, as the pace slowed down;
Heart against heart, your fingers wound
Close about mine, ere we reached the town.
You cared, you cared! Though your firm
white hand
Was cut by the reins you had held too long,
"Dear Cave-man, I love you," you said; "is
it wrong ?"
O, wonderful night in a wonderful land!
We ride no more, for the years have fled,
The wine of hot Youth is down to the lees;
Broken in body, I dream, instead,
Of the gold-shot Past that age ever sees.
We ride no more. . . . Yet the scar is still there
On the brave little hand that I kissed that
night,
And my love is as strong as the hand is white;
But I wonder—I wonder—do you still care?
NOW—AND THEN [73]
A THOUSAND years from now, how will
this earth
Conduct itself? Will there be wars, and men
Inventing things? Or will there be a dearth
Of ideas (such as we feel, now and then?)
Nobody knows. We can surmise, perchance—
But glancing that far off is quite some glance!
A thousand years from now—in Time's swift
flight—
The aeroplane itself may be passe,
And transportation on a beam of light
The natural and the ordinary way.
Men may have bodies made of metals cold
To match the hearts and brains those bodies
hold!
A thousand' years from now—why should we
care
What Science then brings forth—we won't
be here
To worry over things or to compare
The present with our past—won't that be
queer?
But men, as now, will hope (as we have done)
That each new year will be a better one!
UNDERSTOOD [74]
OUT of the ruck and the roar of life
He stepped aside to rest one day,
And the flowers that grew along the way
Lifted him out of the wearisome strife
That had claimed his every waking thought
For years. . . and a miracle had been
wrought!
"Why have I never seen the rose
Just as a rose before?" asked he.
"Always its cost was the point to me,
And not its sweetness! Do you suppose
That all these years— how long, God
knows!
I really have not understood the rose?"
Walking along the quiet street
He noted a sick and fretting child;
And he waved his hand and paused and
smiled
Till the baby laughed—and its laugh was sweet.
His eyes were dim as his hand he kissed
To the child, and he whispered, "And that
I have missed!"
To the end of the day that was full of care
The song in his heart was strong and new,
And the woman who loved him heard it too:
"Now that his soul is awake, I dare
Hope that he understands me," she said;
But I fear he didn't—until he was dead!
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT [75]
"A MERRY CHRISTMAS!" You who
make each day
A little less unhappy for some soul
Weighted with sorrow; you who have been gay
For others' sake—although you paid the toll
In the still watches of the weary night,
Fighting despair. You who have faced the
world
With spirit and put cowardice to flight;
You, with your rugged banner still un—
furled—
"A Merry Christmas!" For in you I see
The Vision of the Man that I would be!
"A Merry Christmas!" Through the winter
chill,
The singing spring—hot summer and drear
fall,
You go your way, seeking for good, not ill,
Remembering life's joy and not its gall;
Clasping the hand that trembles, when you may,
Spending your love whole-heartedly the
while
For those who need it now, nor wait that day
When they no longer care for word or smile.
Doing your part with all sincerity—
A Vision of the Man that I would be!
THE REASON [76]
THE fetching airs you have; the way you
sing, dear;
The pretty uplift of your round, firm chin;
Into my heart the sunshine daily bring, dear;
To be downcast when you're here were a sin!
Yet ev'ry motion, ev'ry smile and word, dear,
I know full well—and lost are their effect.
All of your bell-like tones you see, I've heard,
dear,
When they were meant for me—and came
direct.
That golden hair! How well you know its
worth, dear,
To draw enraptured praise from lovers bold!
I, too, know well that from its very birth, dear,
Its meshes have entrapped the young and old.
Yet, when I watch you laughing, teasing—you,
dear,
Who have been given such a hold on hearts,
I do not thrill as all the others do, dear;
Lost on me (in a manner) are your arts!
Not that I'm jealous, indifferent, or cold, dear;
Not that I don't approve of all your charms;
Not that you're "just a little bit too old," dear;
Nor that you are a tiny babe in arms!
No, no; you're sweet, and fresh, and fair, dear,
Unspoiled, delightful—really "all the rage."
But somehow I can't seem to rightly care,
dear—
I wooed your mother—when she was your
age!
THE MODERN WAY [77]
OF tender missives—decorated treasures—
Of violets and roses, passing sweet;
Of throbbing heart-songs, tuned to lilting meas-
ures;
Of fervent verse—with somewhat halting
feet;
Of every dainty Valentine that's fashioned
You've had a rather goodly share each year;
So will you take, in place of love—impassioned
Epistles, something quieter, my dear?
Three words I'll send—that is, if they're
enough
To take the place of all that flossy stuff!
Throughout the year life is so full of trouble,
Saint Valentine, alas! is shoved aside;
Beneath grim work the lover's back must
double,
And then he lets poor sentiment go slide!
We try to think of what you'd have us say, dear,
But when we've coaxed a good thought half
way out,
A money-making idea's in the way, dear,
And then Love's gentle troops are put to rout.
So—with a business missive in each hand—
Will three words do? Or do you more de-
mand?
Gone are the days when troubadours sang daily
Of hearts and flowers, lips and eyes and hair;
We take (I fear) our deep emotions gaily,
And think we haven't time to love or care.
Yet once a year it shouldn't be impossible
To Valentine a little, that is true;
Then gloss the faults of mine you think are
glossible,
And I will troubadour a bit for you;
So, by the stars that shine above you,
Hark to my valentine, my dear, I love you!
BECAUSE—! [79]
THIS thing of writing "homely verse,"
With country phrases, jokes and slang;
With "jiminies!" "by hecks!" and such,
With "backwoods" odor, taste and tang—
This thing, I say, of making light
Of country life is funny—NOT!
!'d like to know where we would be
If farms were all to go to pot!
We talk a lot of "backyard farms,"
"Intensive gard'ning"—"how to raise
All vegetables that you need
On ten square feet in twenty days."
We figure fortunes that six hens
Will bring us—if we keep 'em penned;
And yet, when farmers are the butt
Of jokes, who rises to defend?
I'm weary of this silly pose,
This pseudo-humor, sickly wit;
I will not laugh or even smile
When at the farmers jokesmiths hit.
Especially this time of year
I do denounce it! ( Uncle Jim
Out on his farm lives well—and he
Has asked us all to visit him!)
THAT SMILE [80]
I SURE do like that kid, although I know
He's rotten spoiled, and ought to be sup—
pressed.
He's boiling over with boy-nonsense! So
The neighbors have no chance to get a rest.
Not bad, you understand; just "some unlucky"
In getting caught at things, once in a while;
Yet when he does, he never runs—he's plucky!
But plays that smile of his, that flashing
smile.
Sometimes when he has done a foolish thing—
Like "hoeing weeds" with our best garden
hose,
Or in the rose bed "built a min'rul spring,"
He's bound to make me peevish, goodness
knows!
Yet when he tries to "'splain it all" to me,
I don't succumb a moment to his guile;
I'm stern, as stern, indeed, as I can be—
Until he smiles that mother-given smile!
Perhaps he doesn't understand how strong
A weapon he possesses—Gracious me!
Disarmed by it, I can not right the wrong
By scolding him, however forcefully.
I do believe, if Fate itself were bent
On breaking him, 'twould hesitate a while
And feel ashamed! . . . He wins without in-
tent
Because—God bless him!—he knows when
to smile.
THE GIFT OF GIFTS [81]
IF Antoinette were sitting here before the
cheery blaze,
And she should ask me what I'd like to-mor-
row—day of days—
Would not my heart leap to my mouth, as any
chap's would do.
While leaning down to her pink ear, I softly
whispered, "You!"
If Antoinette were just to give me half a chance
to say
What gift of gifts I'd like the best, how long
would I delay
In taking her into my arms and keeping her
there, too,
While earnestly I answer her with one brief,
heartfelt "You!"
If Antoinette, dear Antoinette, were simply to
suggest
That question, don't you think that I would
quickly do the rest?
Well, you'd be wrong, because, alas! a year
ago—or two—
She asked Jim what he wanted, and the lucky
chap said "You!"
THE NEIGHBORS [82]
FOR years and years I practiced—
Tum-tum, tum-tum, tee-tum!
Pounding up and down the scale,
White keys, black keys—
They all fell beneath my faithful hammering;
And then—my pretty neighbor across the street
Put in a player-piano that could tear a hole
Through classics that I'd never learned even
to dent!
I was mad—hopping mad—
But I got even with her.
(She was studying for the operatic stage.)
I bought a phonograph—cheap—
And some records—not cheap.
They made her gargling voice
Sound like an imitation with a small i.
Then we both laughed—and quit our exercises.
To-day she's a moving picture actress,
Using her big eyes in a financially-effective way,
While I write things in prose or jingle
Or verse that is free-on-bail.
Sometimes I get by with it; and
Sometimes she doesn't spoil a film—
Isn't the public lucky that we didn't
Stick to our callings?
UNCLE BILL'S IDEA [83]
I'VE figgered out that worryin' don't pay a
little bit,
Fer every feller's got to have some trouble
in his day;
An' wonderin' what's comin' next don't help to
sidetrack hit—
You can't foretell afflictions, or stop 'em,
thataway!
It's better jest to take what's sent
And stand it, ef you ain't content!
Looks like to me that everyone has got a large
amount
Of things to bear that he don't like, as
through this life he goes;
And though of happy days we're apt to lose the
rightful count,
Things even up before we die, as every old
man knows.
There ain't no great monopoly
On sickness ner bad luck, I gee!
We've got to stand our share of pain and meet
a heap of sorrow;
We've got to shoulder burdens that no one
likes to tote;
But worryin' about the load, and thinkin' of th'
morrow
Don't make it one mite easier, er cheerfuller,
I note!
Th' way to do is jest t' grin
And hope for better times ag'in;
"But I can't grin!" some people say.
Then don't—but bear it, anyway!
'LIZABETH ANN'S PICTURE [85]
MA wanted a good, new picture of me; so
pa says, " 'Lizabeth Ann,
You come down town at noon to-day, and we'll
go to the picture man;
But don't tell mother—we'll have a surprise for
her on Christmas day,
And give her a real nice photograft—I know
just what she will say."
"Oh, goody!" I says, "I am awful glad! I'll
be there at noon, you see."
(I like to have a secret with pa—it's awful
much fun for me.)
I runned away at 'leven o'clock, and ma didn't
see me go,
Although I had dressed in my very best—and
that takes time, you know—
My party frock, and my best kid shoes; my
furs and my "picture" hat,
And my new red coat—the one she says, "Be
careful, my dear, of that."
And when I got to his office, pa looked awful
surprised, and said,
"Dear me, what a dressed-up little girl! Why,
really, you turn my head!"
And then we went to the picture man. He's
nice enough, I s'pose,
But what do you think he said to me? "You
seem to be mostly clothes!"
So pa and the man made me undress, till all
that I had on me
Was my shirtwaist slip—my arms and neck was
bare as they both could be!
It made me feel umbarrassed! And then I
guess that I nearly cried,
But pa just patted me on the head and said he
was satisfied.
And now the pictures are finished up, and one
is already framed;
But ma'll be mad, I am pretty sure—I know
that I feel ashamed;
For all that you see is my head and neck—and
not a bit of my dress—
She'll think I was funny to go down-town with
so little on, I guess!
Yet pa says, "Never you mind, my dear—blame
it on me or the man;
But mother will like it, you see if she don't—she
wanted you, 'Lizabeth Ann."
THE SMALL BOY EXPLAINS [87]
SOME people say the sky is blue
Acause it's warshed by rains up there;
I dunno if 'at's so, do you?
And I don't care—and I don't care!
I ain't no sky, an' I don't like
To have my face warshed, anyhow;
My nurse says I'm a "naughty tike
To run away" or raise a row.
But ef she daubed mud on like this
A-purpose, so's the boys would play
With her—and not call her a "sis,"
She'd hate to warsh it all away!
That's why the blue sky'll never mean
A in-spi-ra-tion er a "joy";
A-course it can be nice an' clean—
It won't be called a "sissy-boy."
THE BOLD LOVER [88]
HE held her hand, and joy shone in his eyes;
The world and all therein to him was
fair;
What mattered now the gloomy, lowering skies?
For what the future held he did not care!
He only knew he loved her and that she
Was everything a real sweetheart should be.
He held her hand. . . . The car was crowded,
too;
The passengers could not suppress their
smiles.
The love he felt, perhaps, obscured his view,
So wrapt was he in all her pretty wiles.
And when he kissed her rosy lips, a hush
Fell on them as they saw her slowly blush!
He held her hand and gazed about with pride,
As though to challenge those who'd say him
nay;
He held her hand—and nestling to her side,
The interested audience heard him say;
"Oh, Momie, dear, you're sweet as any rose—
I love you more dan anybody knows."
IMAGINATION [89]
ONCET, when I was a gret big man, I got
mad at the way
Ol' nurses bossed the childruns an' so I wouldn't
stay;
I jest got up and PUSHED MY HOUSE right
over—yes, I did;
An' then I turned the streets all round, and
runned away and hid!
When I come back, my childruns was cryin'
awful loud,
Fer nobody knowed wher they lived, an' there
was such a crowd.
I says, "Now, folks must shet their eyes—don't
open them a crack!"—
An' then I straightened out the streets, an' put
the houses back.
'N oncet I was a NELUPHANT, as big as all out-
doors,
'N every time I turned around it shook the
roofs and floors;
I walked down to the river, and I drunk it up—
ALL up,
Jest like it was some cambric tea in my ol' silver
cup.
An' when the people come fer me, I jest set
down, kerplunk!
An' squashed 'em flat—an' picked them up—an'
packed' em in my trunk!
'N then I TWIST MY TRUNK OFF, an' throwed
it all away—
You better let me go, Louise—I MIGHT do that
to-day!
You won't? All right—you'd BETTER DID, for
one time long ago,
Before I gotter be a boy, I was a BEAR—oh,
no—
I was a SNAKE—a yaller snake, an' I was TEN
MILES long,
'N all I et was nurse girls—yes, I DID, although
'twas wrong.
That was a million years ago, but something—
inside me—
Tells me I'm goin' to be a snake AGAIN—jest
watch and see!
You don't believe a word I say? Well, I don't
care—I DO—
How could I 'MEMBER all these things, unlessen
they was true?
WILLING TO TRADE [91]
THE doctor brung a baby up to our house
last week—
A little bit of thing it is—but my! it's gotta
squeak!
It makes a noise that's twice as big as you ex-
pect to hear,
And then ma says, "Go right away—you
mustn't tease him, dear!"
She seems to like it more than me—
But I ain't jealous, no, siree!
I told the boys, and Billy Black, he says, "Well,
that is nice,
But I would rather have my dog—they're
worth more at the price,
For pa says babies cost a lot to feed and dress
and train,
And Rover, he is smart, he is, and gotter splen—
did brain!"
I kinder feel that very way—
But ma says baby's come to stay.
Frank Brown has got a billygoat that pulls him
on his sled,
And Kenneth's got a ponycart; but pa looked
cross and said
I mustn't talk so foolish when I asked him if
I might
Go trade our baby for a pony or a goat, last
night.
I s'pose he knew nobody'd trade
A goat for any baby made!
I wouldn't mind it, I believe, if any boy I knew
Would envy me for what we've got, but that's
what they won't do!
THE LONELY CHILD [93]
IT takes so long to grow up big and get to
to be a man,
I wisht sometimes that I'd been born as old as
Mary Ann;
(She is the cook, and she's so old her teeth come
out at night),
'Cause then I wouldn't want a boy to play with
or to fight.
But now I go upstairs and down
And get in people's way,
Because there ain't no children here
To play with every day.
The house next door is big and fine, but nobody
lives there;
And all the winders, like big eyes, just stare at
me, and stare,
Until I run back in our house and 'tend like I
can't see,
And feel my way around the rooms till ma,
she says to me:
"My goodness, Rob, what is this game?
Pretending you are blind?
Dear me! The child has surely got
A most peculiar mind."
I've ast my pa to go and buy a brother for me,
too;
But he jest shakes his head and says that it
would never do;
And then he takes a book up quick and reads
to me and .tries
To make me laugh and talk to him; but some-
times ma, she cries.
But even then I seem to see
The empty house next door
And all those big, dark window-eyes
That stared at me before.
Some time I'm going to run away and find a
father-man
Who has whole lots of boys and girls—for I
am sure I can—
And when I do, I'm going to ast him please to
come and take
The house next door and live in it—and—do
it for my sake!
And if he does, oh, won't it be
A happy day for me?
I'll get a lot of brothers, then,
Without no bother—see?
THE LITTLE FELLER'S GONE [95]
TH' little feller's gone! Since he was so big,
him an' I
Have been like good old cronies, agreein' on
the sly
To skip the years between.
He was jest goin' on five years—an' I am
"Grandpa Brown,"
Although he named me "Santa Claus" when
fust he come to town—
An' my white beard he seen.
But now it seems to me a'most
As soon as he was born,
Th' little feller's gone.
He won't be standin' by the gate to holler to
me, "Hi!
Wait fer me, Santy!" like he done when I went
stumpin' by
T' fetch the cows back home.
We'll never sit agin an' argue which way we
should go;
Or figger if that bird was jest a blackwing er
a crow,
Nor through the meadows roam.
Fer he has found a place up there
Where it is always dawn—
Th' little feller's gone.
He was so full of fun I uster feel my heavy
years
Drop from me when I went with him. Some-
times he'd pull my ears
And say, "Hear dat Bob White?
Dat is a quail a-whistlin' in de woods, some-
where—le's go
An' ketch him—we can sprinkle salt upon his
tail, you know!"
And then he'd laugh outright;
But now, I don't take int'rust in
A thing that's goin' on—
Th' little feller's gone.
It must be right, but somehow I can't look at
it that way—
Why should he go, so young and good, and
me—so worn out—stay?
But mebbe up in heaven he will think of me
and wait
And holler "Hi!" when he seems me a-limpin'
to the Gate,
And mebbe (where is my old han'kerchief
a-got to now?)
He'll say to Peter, "Let him in—I like him,
anyhow!"
THE FISHERMAN'S SON [97]
WHEN pa comes back home from his trip,
All brown and freckle-faced,
He's fatter than he's been for months—
There ain't no cloth to waste
When he puts on his old fall suit
And sits out on the lawn,
And tells about the fish he caught—
But my! how ma does yawn!
Pa smokes a puff or two, and then
He says, "You ought to see
The one I caught on Thursday—long
As 'tis from you to me.
I had him on the bank; yes, sir,
As sure as you are born,
And then he jumped right back again—"
But ma—how she does yawn!
I got a hook and line that ain't
Like pa' s, but still it's fun
To go down to the creek and fish
And keep out of the sun.
Ma gives me sandwiches to eat,
And when the last bite's gone
I guess I go to sleep, sometimes—
At least I know I yawn.
But one day I did ketch a fish;
Ma took it, and it weighed
A pound, she said; but pa looked cross
And said, "It must have strayed."
We had it cooked for supper, too,
And ma and I ate some
But pa, he wouldn't, and ma laughed;
But all she said was "hu-u-m!"
THE DOG CONFESSES [99]
I AM a lucky dog, I know, and all my friends
agree
The people that I live with now are good as
gold to me
Because three times I saved a life—and that is
why they give
Me everything a dog could want—and will,
while I shall live.
But I've a conscience, and I must
Confess the truth—or else I'll bust!
One day the cart that Bobbie drives ran up on
pony's heels,
And off he bolted! I went, too, and mixed up
with the wheels,
Until the cart came to a stop, and Bobbie-boy
was saved—
Then folks wept o'er the noble way that I, a
dog, behaved.
(The truth is, I got in that mix
Avoiding pony's vicious kicks!)
Another time, when Bobbie went to play out
on the dock
He fell into the water there, (he'd stumbled on
a block);
I sprang in after him, of course, and dragged
him back to land—
Then everybody said the way I acted was "just
grand."
(The rat that I was chasing when
I plunged, I never saw again!)
You see this stubby tail of mine? I got that
when a car
Came near to crushing Bobbie-boy—it gave us
all a jar;
I knocked him off the track in time, but one
wheel caught my tail
And cut it short; it hurt, of course, and I let
out a wail—
(The cur that I had hoped to fight
Across the street, was out of sight!)
So, though I haven't meant to be a noble brute
at all,
I have to take the praise they give, and hear
them patiently;
But there is comfort in this thought—although
it may seem small—
There are some human heroes who are "pos-
ing"—just like me!
BR 'ER RABBIT IN DE BRESH PILE [101]
BR'ER RABBIT sorter snoozin' in de Big
Bresh Pile,
Years laid back an' pink eyes shet up tight,
Snow a-layin' deep an' gittin' deeper all de
while—
Br'er Rabbit glad dat he is outer sight.
Pretty soon he hear a noise—dat's Br'er Fox,
he know,
Gropin' th' ough de quiet woods, out in de cold
an' snow;
"Is dat you, Br'er Rab?" he say—but Br'er
Rab lay low
An' never let on dat he heerd him right.
"Come out an' take a little stroll," seys Br'er
Fox, seys he,
Sniffin' at de bresh pile an' walkin' all aroun';
"Much obleeged," seys Br'er Rab; "but dis
will do fer me—
Hate ter walk when snow is on de groun'."
"Woods is lookin' pretty," says B'rer Fox; "de
sun
Is shinin' jest like diamon's—come on, and
have some fun!"
"Hafter thank you kindly, but my diamon' days
is done,"
Seys Br'er Rab, "dey huhts my eyes, I foun'."
Br'er Fox, he lick he chops, an' set down where
he at
(Gotter git some plan to bring him out);
Den he say, "Dere's lettuce here—make you
nice an' fat!"
But Br'er Rab lay back he haid an' shout:
"Oh, Br'er Fox, you surely is a liar—dat you is;
De lettuce days is done gone by—an' all de
leaves is friz;
You'll hafter try anudder way—mah name is
Leery Liz I"
(Ol' Br'er Rabbit slangy, widdout doubt!)
"Dar comes a man!" seys Br'er Fox; "he gotter
dog an' gun!
Br'er Rab, you better come wid me!"
"Ef dat is true," seys Br'er Rab, "you orter
jump an' run—
He gwine t' shoot when youah red haid he
see!"
"I got a better house dan dis," seys Br'er Fox;
"come on
And live wid me—I treat you well—de man
and dog is gone!"
"An' s'ply you wid fresh meat? Oh, no, I
hasn't jest bin bawn,"
Seys Br'er Rab; "you make me laff," seys he.
Den Br'er Fox, he slink away, and bahk like
he was sad,
An' Br'er Rab, he shake he sides wid laffin'—
ain't he bad?
He small, but still, he gotter mind—an' jest fer
dat he glad—
Ol' Br'er Rabbit, in de Big Bresh Pile!
WHEN [104]
WHEN to the tired heart and soul and
brain
There comes, at last, the Unrepeated Call,
Where Silence and Eternal Rest are all
Ahead of me, without one touch of pain—
Pause at the edge of this desired Dawn,
Turn down a glass, and then—Be glad I'm
gone!
For what the Future holds who knows, or
cares?
The Past is done, the Now is here alway—
So, lighten it for those who needs must stay,
Breathe no regrets for him who onward fares.
Back to the Night, face to the coming Dawn,
Bid him God-speed, and then—Be glad he's
gone!
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