Pipes O'Pan At Zekesbury Part 12

Fourth o' July's nothin' to it!--New-Year's ain't a smell: Easter-Sunday--Circus-day--jes' all dead in the sh.e.l.l!

Lordy, though! at night, you know, to set around and hear The old folks work the story off about the sledge and deer, And "Santy" skootin' round the roof, all wrapped in fur and fuzz-- Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

Ust to wait, and set up late, a week er two ahead: Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed: Kittle stewin' on the fire, and Mother settin' here Darnin' socks, and rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer; Pap gap', and wunder where it wuz the money went, And quar'l with his frosted heels, and spill his liniment: And me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir and buzz, Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

Size the fire-place up, and figger how "Old Santy" could Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would: Wisht that I could hide and see him--wundered what he 'd say Ef he ketched a feller layin' far him thataway!

But I _bet_ on him, and _liked_ him, same as ef he had Turned to pat me on the back and _say_, "Look here, my lad, Here's my pack,--jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!"

Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!

Wisht that yarn was _true_ about him, as it 'peared to be-- Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough far me!-- Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child Climbin' in my lap to-night, and beggin' me to tell 'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so well I'm half sorry far this little-girl-sweetheart of his-- Long afore She knows who "Santy-Claus" is!

DEAR HANDS.

The touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, The touches of her hands, and the delight-- The touches of her hands!

The touches of her hands are like the dew That falls so softly down no one e'er knew The touch thereof save lovers like to one Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands, As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands; Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs, Or--in between the midnight and the dawn, When long unrest and tears and fears are gone-- Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.

THIS MAN JONES.

This man Jones was what you'd call A feller 'at had no sand at all; Kind o' consumpted, and undersize, And sailor-complected, with big sad eyes, And a kind-of-a sort-of-a hang-dog style, And a sneakin' sort-of-a half-way smile 'At kind o' give him away to us As a preacher, maybe, er somepin' wuss.

Didn't take with the gang--well, no-- But still we managed to use him, though,-- Coddin' the gilly along the rout', And drivin' the stakes 'at he pulled out-- Far I was one of the bosses then, And of course stood in with the canvasmen; And the way we put up jobs, you know, On this man Jones jes' beat the show!

Ust to rattle him scandalous, And keep the feller a-dodgin' us, And a-shyin' round half skeered to death, And afeerd to whimper above his breath; Give him a cussin', and then a kick, And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick-- Jes' far the fun of seem' him climb Around with a head on most the time.

But what was the curioust thing to me, Was along o' the party--let me see,-- Who was our "Lion Queen" last year?-- Mamzelle Zanty, or De La Pierre?-- Well, no matter--a stunnin' mash, With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash, And a figger sich as the angels owns-- And one too many far this man Jones.

He'd allus wake in the afternoon, As the band waltzed in on the lion-tune, And there, from the time 'at she'd go in Till she'd back out of the cage agin, He'd stand, shaky and limber-kneed-- 'Specially when she come to "feed The beasts raw meat with her naked hand"-- And all that business, you understand.

And it _was_ resky in that den-- Far I think she juggled three cubs then, And a big "green" lion 'at used to smash Collar-bones far old Frank Nash; And I reckon now she hain't fergot The afternoon old "Nero" sot His paws on _her_!--but as far me, It's a sort-of-a mixed-up mystery:--

Kind o' remember an awful roar, And see her back far the bolted door-- See the cage rock--heerd her call "G.o.d have mercy!" and that was all-- Far they ain't no livin' man can tell _What_ it's like when a thousand yell In female tones, and a thousand more Howl in ba.s.s till their throats is sore!

But the keeper said 'at dragged her out, They heerd some feller laugh and shout-- "Save her! Quick! I've got the cuss!"

And yit she waked and smiled on _us!_ And we daren't flinch, far the doctor said, Seein' as this man Jones was dead, Better to jes' not let her know Nothin' o' that far a week er so.

TO MY GOOD MASTER.

In fancy, always, at thy desk, thrown wide, Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly-- The rarest rhymes of every land and sea And curious tongue--thine old face glorified,-- Thou haltest thy glib quill, and, laughing-eyed, Givest hale welcome even unto me, Profaning thus thine attic's sanct.i.ty, To briefly visit, yet to still abide Enthralled there of thy sorcery of wit, And thy songs' most exceeding dear conceits.

O lips, cleft to the ripe core of all sweets, With poems, like nectar, issuing therefrom, Thy gentle utterances do overcome My listening heart and all the love of it!

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES.

In spring, when the green gits back in the trees, And the sun comes out and stays, And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze, And you think of yer barefoot days; When you ort to work and you want to not, And you and yer wife agrees It's time to spade up the garden lot, When the green gits back in the trees-- Well! work is the least o' _my_ idees When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

When the green gits back in the trees, and bees Is a-buzzin' aroun' agin, In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please Old gait they b.u.m roun' in; When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood, And the crick 's riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, And the green gits back in the trees,-- I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, The time when the green gits back in the trees!

When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertime Is all pulled out and gone!

And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, And the sweat it starts out on A feller's forred, a-gittin' down At the old spring on his knees-- I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun'

When the green gits back in the trees-- Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please-- When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

AT BROAD RIPPLE.

Ah, Luxury! Beyond the heat And dust of town, with dangling feet, Astride the rock below the dam, In the cool shadows where the calm Rests on the stream again, and all Is silent save the waterfall,-- bait my hook and cast my line, And feel the best of life is mine.

No high ambition may I claim-- angle not for lordly game Of trout, or ba.s.s, or wary bream-- black perch reaches the extreme Of my desires; and "goggle-eyes"

Are not a thing that I despise; A sunfish, or a "chub," or "cat"-- A "silver-side"--yea, even that!

In eloquent tranquility The waters lisp and talk to me.

Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks, As some proud ba.s.s an instant shakes His glittering armor in the sun, And romping ripples, one by one, Come dallying across the s.p.a.ce Where undulates my smiling face.

The river's story flowing by, Forever sweet to ear and eye, Forever tenderly begun-- Forever new and never done.

Thus lulled and sheltered in a shade Where never feverish cares invade, I bait my hook and cast my line, And feel the best of life is mine.

WHEN OLD JACK DIED.

I.