Rhymes Of A Rolling Stone Part 7

Jack would laugh an' joke all day; Never saw a lad so gay; Singin' like a medder lark, Loaded to the Plimsoll mark With G.o.d's suns.h.i.+ne was that boy; Had a strangle-holt on Joy.

Held his head 'way up in air, Left no callin' cards on Care; Breezy, buoyant, brave and true; Sent his suns.h.i.+ne out to you; Cheerfulest when clouds was black -- Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

Sittin' in my shack alone I could hear him in his own, Singin' far into the night, Till it didn't seem just right One man should corral the fun, Live his life so in the sun; Didn't seem quite natural Not to have a grouch at all; Not a trouble, not a lack -- Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

He was plumbful of good cheer Till he struck that low-down year; Got so thin, so little to him, You could most see day-light through him.

Never was his eye so bright, Never was his cheek so white.

Seemed as if somethin' was wrong, Sort o' quaver in his song.

Same old smile, same hearty voice: "Bless you, boys! let's all rejoice!"

But old Doctor shook his head: "Half a lung," was all he said.

Yet that half was surely right, For I heard him every night, Singin', singin' in his shack -- Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

Then one day a letter came Endin' with a female name; Seemed to get him in the neck, Sort o' pile-driver effect; Paled his lip and plucked his breath, Left him starin' still as death.

Somethin' had gone awful wrong, Yet that night he sang his song.

Oh, but it was good to hear!

For there clutched my heart a fear, So that I quaked listenin'

Every night to hear him sing.

But each day he laughed with me, An' his smile was full of glee.

Nothin' seemed to set him back -- Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

Then one night the singin' stopped . . .

Seemed as if my heart just flopped; For I'd learned to love the boy With his gilt-edged line of joy, With his glorious gift of bluff, With his splendid fightin' stuff.

Sing on, lad, and play the game!

O dear G.o.d! . . . no singin' came, But there surged to me instead -- Silence, silence, deep and dread; Till I shuddered, tried to pray, Said: "He's maybe gone away."

Oh, yes, he had gone away, Gone forever and a day.

But he'd left behind him there, In his cabin, pinched and bare, His poor body, skin and bone, His sharp face, cold as a stone.

An' his stiffened fingers pressed Somethin' bright upon his breast: Locket with a silken curl, Poor, sweet portrait of a girl.

Yet I reckon at the last How defiant-like he pa.s.sed; For there sat upon his lips Smile that death could not eclipse; An' within his eyes lived still Joy that dyin' could not kill.

An' now when the nights are long, How I miss his cheery song!

How I sigh an' wish him back!

Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

The Mountain and the Lake

I know a mountain thrilling to the stars, Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow; Glimpsing the golden dawn o'er coral bars, Flaunting the vanisht sunset's garnet glow; Proudly patrician, pa.s.sionless, serene; Soaring in silvered steeps where cloud-surfs break; Virgin and vestal -- Oh, a very Queen!

And at her feet there dreams a quiet lake.

My lake adores my mountain -- well I know, For I have watched it from its dawn-dream start, Stilling its mirror to her splendid snow, Framing her image in its trembling heart; Gla.s.sing her graciousness of greening wood, Kissing her throne, melodiously mad, Thrilling responsive to her every mood, Gloomed with her sadness, gay when she is glad.

My lake has dreamed and loved since time was born; Will love and dream till time shall cease to be; Gazing to Her in wors.h.i.+p half forlorn, Who looks towards the stars and will not see -- My peerless mountain, splendid in her scorn. . . .

Alas! poor little lake! Alas! poor me!

The Headliner and the Breadliner

Moko, the Educated Ape is here, The pet of vaudeville, so the posters say, And every night the gaping people pay To see him in his panoply appear; To see him pad his paunch with dainty cheer, Puff his perfecto, swill champagne, and sway Just like a gentleman, yet all in play, Then bow himself off stage with brutish leer.

And as to-night, with n.o.ble knowledge crammed, I 'mid this human compost take my place, I, once a poet, now so dead and d.a.m.ned, The woeful tears half freezing on my face: "O G.o.d!" I cry, "let me but take his shape, Moko's, the Blest, the Educated Ape."

Death in the Arctic

I

I took the clock down from the shelf; "At eight," said I, "I shoot myself."

It lacked a _MINUTE_ of the hour, And as I waited all a-cower, A skinful of black, boding pain, Bits of my life came back again. . . .

_"Mother, there's nothing more to eat -- Why don't you go out on the street?

Always you sit and cry and cry; Here at my play I wonder why.

Mother, when you dress up at night, Red are your cheeks, your eyes are bright; Twining a ribband in your hair, Kissing good-bye you go down-stair.

Then I'm as lonely as can be.

Oh, how I wish you were with me!

Yet when you go out on the street, Mother, there's always lots to eat. . . ."_

II

For days the igloo has been dark; But now the rag wick sends a spark That glitters in the icy air, And wakes frost sapphires everywhere; Bright, bitter flames, that adder-like Dart here and there, yet fear to strike The gruesome gloom wherein _THEY_ lie, My comrades, oh, so keen to die!

And I, the last -- well, here I wait The clock to strike the hour of eight. . . .

_"Boy, it is bitter to be hurled Nameless and naked on the world; Frozen by night and starved by day, Curses and kicks and clouts your pay.

But you must fight! Boy, look on me!

Anarch of all earth-misery; Beggar and tramp and shameless sot; Emblem of ill, in rags that rot.

Would you be foul and base as I?

Oh, it is better far to die!

Swear to me now you'll fight and fight, Boy, or I'll kill you here to-night. . . ."_

III

Curse this silence soft and black!

Sting, little light, the shadows back!

Dance, little flame, with freakish glee!

Twinkle with brilliant mockery!

Glitter on ice-robed roof and floor!