Pipes O'Pan At Zekesbury Part 18

The lips are chilly And will not speak; The ghost of a lily In either cheek.

Her hair--ah me!

Her hair--her hair!

How helplessly My hands go there!

But my caresses Meet not hers, O golden tresses That thread my tears!

I kiss the eyes On either lid, Where her love lies Forever hid.

I cease my weeping And smile and say: I will be sleeping Thus, some day!

WAIT FOR THE MORNING.

Wait for the morning:--It will come, indeed, As surely as the night hath given need.

The yearning eyes, at last, will strain their sight No more unanswered by the morning light; No longer will they vainly strive, through tears, To pierce the darkness of thy doubts and fears, But, bathed in balmy dews and rays of dawn, Will smile with rapture o'er the darkness drawn.

Wait for the morning, O thou smitten child, Scorned, scourged and persecuted and reviled-- Athirst and famis.h.i.+ng, none pitying thee, Crowned with the twisted thorns of agony-- No faintest gleam of sunlight through the dense Infinity of gloom to lead thee thence-- Wait for the morning:--It will come, indeed, As surely as the night hath given need.

WHEN JUNE IS HERE.

When June is here--what art have we to sing The whiteness of the lilies midst the green Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen Like redbirds' wings? Or earliest ripening Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling Round winey juices oozing down between The peckings of the robin, while we lean In under-gra.s.ses, lost in marveling.

Or the cool term of morning, and the stir Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks, The bobwhite's liquid yodel, and the whir Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer.

THE GILDED ROLL.

Nosing around in an old box--packed away, and lost to memory for years--an hour ago I found a musty package of gilt paper, or rather, a roll it was, with the green-tarnished gold of the old sheet for the outer wrapper. I picked it up mechanically to toss it into some obscure corner, when, carelessly lifting it by one end, a child's tin whistle dropped therefrom and fell tinkling on the attic floor. It lies before me on my writing table now--and so, too, does the roll entire, though now a roll no longer,--for my eager fingers have unrolled the gilded covering, and all its precious contents are spread out beneath my hungry eyes.

Here is a scroll of ink-written music. I don't read music, but I know the dash and swing of the pen that rained it on the page. Here is a letter, with the self-same impulse and abandon in every syllable; and its melody--however sweet the other--is far more sweet to me. And here are other letters like it--three--five--and seven, at least. Bob wrote them from the front, and Billy kept them for me when I went to join him. Dear boy! Dear boy!

Here are some cards of bristol-board. Ah! when Bob came to these there were no blotches then. What faces--what expressions! The droll, ridiculous, good-for-nothing genius, with his "sad mouth," as he called it, "upside down," laughing always--at everything, at big rallies, and ma.s.s-meetings and conventions, county fairs, and floral halls, booths, watermelon-wagons, dancing-tents, the swing, Daguerrean-car, the "lung-barometer," and the air-gun man. Oh! what a gifted, good-for-nothing boy Bob was in those old days! And here 's a picture of a girlish face--a very faded photograph--even fresh from "the gallery," five and twenty years ago it was a faded thing. But the living face--how bright and clear that was!--for "Doc," Bob's awful name for her, was a pretty girl, and brilliant, clever, lovable every way. No wonder Bob fancied her! And you could see some hint of her jaunty loveliness in every fairy face he drew, and you could find her happy ways and dainty tastes unconsciously a.s.sumed in all he did--the books he read--the poems he admired, and those he wrote; and, ringing clear and pure and jubilant, the vibrant beauty of her voice could clearly be defined and traced through all his music. Now, there's the happy pair of them--Bob and Doc. Make of them just whatever your good fancy may dictate, but keep in mind the stern, relentless ways of destiny.

You are not at the beginning of a novel, only at the threshold of one of a hundred experiences that lie buried in the past, and this particular one most happily resurrected by these odds and ends found in the gilded roll.

You see, dating away back, the contents of this package, mainly, were hastily gathered together after a week's visit out at the old Mills farm; the gilt paper, and the whistle, and the pictures, they were Billy's; the music pages, Bob's, or Doc's; the letters and some other ma.n.u.scripts were mine.

The Mills girls were great friends of Doc's, and often came to visit her in town; and so Doc often visited the Mills's. This is the way that Bob first got out there, and won them all, and "shaped the thing"

for me, as he would put it; and lastly, we had lugged in Billy,--such a handy boy, you know, to hold the horses on picnic excursions, and to watch the carriage and the luncheon, and all that.--"Yes, and," Bob would say, "such a serviceable boy in getting all the fis.h.i.+ng tackle in proper order, and digging bait, and promenading in our wake up and down the creek all day, with the minnow-bucket hanging on his arm, don't you know!"

But jolly as the days were, I think jollier were the long evenings at the farm. After the supper in the grove, where, when the weather permitted, always stood the table, ankle-deep in the cool green plush of the sward; and after the lounge upon the gra.s.s, and the cigars, and the new fish stories, and the general invoice of the old ones, it was delectable to get back to the girls again, and in the old "best room"

hear once more the lilt of the old songs and the stacattoed laughter of the piano mingling with the alto and falsetto voices of the Mills girls, and the gallant soprano of the dear girl Doc.

This is the scene I want you to look in upon, as, in fancy, I do now--and here are the materials for it all, husked from the gilded roll:

Bob, the master, leans at the piano now, and Doc is at the keys, her glad face often thrown up sidewise toward his own. His face is boyish--for there is yet but the ghost of a mustache upon his lip. His eyes are dark and clear, of over-size when looking at you, but now their lids are drooped above his violin, whose melody has, for the time, almost smoothed away the upward kinkings of the corners of his mouth. And wonderfully quiet now is every one, and the chords of the piano, too, are low and faltering; and so, at last, the tune itself swoons into the universal hush, and--Bob is rasping, in its stead, the ridiculous, but marvelously perfect imitation of the "priming" of a pump, while Billy's hands forget the "chiggers" on the bare backs of his feet, as, with clapping palms, he dances round the room in ungovernable spasms of delight. And then we all laugh; and Billy, taking advantage of the general tumult, pulls Bob's head down and whispers, "Git 'em to stay up 'way late to-night!" And Bob, perhaps remembering that we go back home to-morrow, winks at the little fellow and whispers, "You let me manage 'em! Stay up till broad daylight if we take a notion--eh?" And Billy dances off again in newer glee, while the inspired musician is plunking a banjo imitation on his enchanted instrument, which is unceremoniously drowned out by a circus-tune from Doc that is absolutely inspiring to everyone but the barefooted brother, who drops back listlessly to his old position on the floor and sullenly renews operations on his "chigger" claims.

"Thought you was goin' to have pop-corn to-night all so fast!" he says, doggedly, in the midst of a momentary lull that has fallen on a game of whist. And then the oldest Mills girl, who thinks cards stupid anyhow, says: "That's so, Billy; and we're going to have it, too; and right away, for this game's just ending, and I shan't submit to being bored with another. I say 'pop-corn' with Billy! And after that," she continues, rising and addressing the party in general, "we must have another literary and artistic tournament, and that's been in contemplation and preparation long enough; so you gentlemen can be pulling your wits together for the exercises, while us girls see to the refreshments."

"Have you done anything toward it!" queries Bob, when the girls are gone, with the alert Billy in their wake.

"Just an outline," I reply. "How with you?"

"Clean forgot it--that is, the preparation; but I've got a little old second-hand idea, if you'll all help me out with it, that'll amuse us some, and tickle Billy I'm certain."

So that's agreed upon; and while Bob produces his portfolio, drawing paper, pencils and so on, I turn to my note-book in a dazed way and begin counting my fingers in a depth of profound abstraction, from which I am barely aroused by the reappearance of the girls and Billy.

"Goody, goody, goody! Bob's goin' to make pictures!" cries Billy, in additional transport to that the cake pop-corn has produced.

"Now, you girls," says Bob, gently detaching the affectionate Billy from one leg and moving a chair to the table, with a backward glance of intelligence toward the boy,--"you girls are to help us all you can, and we can all work; but, as I'll have all the ill.u.s.trations to do, I want you to do as many of the verses as you can--that'll be easy, you know,--because the work entire is just to consist of a series of fool-epigrams, such as, for instance.--Listen, Billy:

Here lies a young man Who in childhood began To swear, and to smoke, and to drink,-- In his twentieth year He quit swearing and beer, And yet is still smoking, I think."

And the rest of his instructions are delivered in lower tones, that the boy may not hear; and then, all matters seemingly arranged, he turns to the boy with--"And now, Billy, no lookin' over shoulders, you know, or swinging on my chair-back while I'm at work. When the pictures are all finished, then you can take a squint at 'em, and not before. Is that all hunky, now?"

"Oh! who's a-goin' to look over your shoulder--only _Doc_." And as the radiant Doc hastily quits that very post, and dives for the offending brother, he scrambles under the piano and laughs derisively.

And then a silence falls upon the group--a gracious quiet, only intruded upon by the very juicy and exuberant munching of an apple from a remote fastness of the room, and the occasional thumping of a bare heel against the floor.

At last I close my note-book with a half slam.

"That means," says Bob, laying down his pencil, and addressing the girls,--"That means he's concluded his poem, and that he's not pleased with it in any manner, and that he intends declining to read it, for that self-acknowledged reason, and that he expects us to believe every affected word of his entire speech--"

"Oh, don't!" I exclaim.

"Then give us the wretched production, in all its hideous deformity!"

And the girls all laugh so sympathetically, and Bob joins them so gently, and yet with a tone, I know, that can be changed so quickly to my further discomfiture, that I arise at once and read, without apology or excuse, this primitive and very callow poem recovered here to-day from the gilded roll:

A BACKWARD LOOK.

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, And lazily leaning back in my chair, Enjoying myself in a general way-- Allowing my thoughts a holiday From weariness, toil and care,-- My fancies--doubtless, for ventilation-- Left ajar the gates of my mind,-- And Memory, seeing the situation, Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne."