The Old Soldiers Story Part 18

TO A POET ON HIS MARRIAGE

MADISON CAWEIN

Ever and ever, on and on, From winter dusk to April dawn, This old enchanted world we range From night to light--from change to change-- Or path of burs or lily-bells, We walk a world of miracles.

The morning evermore must be A newer, purer mystery-- The dewy gra.s.ses, or the bloom Of orchards, or the wood's perfume Of wild sweet-williams, or the wet Blent scent of loam and violet.

How wondrous all the ways we fare-- What marvels wait us, unaware!...

But yesterday, with eyes ablur And heart that held no hope of Her, You paced the lone path, but the true That led to where she waited you.

ART AND POETRY

TO HOMER C. DAVENPORT

"Wess," he says, and sort o' grins, "Art and Poetry is twins.

'F I could draw as you have drew, Like to jes' swap pens with you."

HER SMILE OF CHEER AND VOICE OF SONG

ANNA HARRIS RANDALL

Spring fails, in all its bravery of brilliant gold and green,-- The sun, the gra.s.s, the leafing tree, and all the dazzling scene Of dewy morning--orchard blooms, And woodland blossoms and perfumes With bird-songs sown between.

Yea, since _she_ smiles not any more, so every flowery thing Fades, and the birds seem brooding o'er her silence as they sing-- Her smile of cheer and voice of song Seemed so divinely to belong To ever-joyous Spring!

Nay, still she smiles.--Our eyes are blurred and see not through our tears: And still her rapturous voice is heard, though not of mortal ears:-- Now ever doth she smile and sing Where Heaven's unending clime of Spring Reclaims those gifts of hers.

OLD INDIANY

FRAGMENT

INTENDED FOR A DINNER OF THE INDIANA SOCIETY OF CHICAGO

Old Indiany, 'course we know Is first, and best, and _most_, also, Of _all_ the States' whole forty-four:-- She's first in ever'thing, that's sh.o.r.e!-- And _best_ in ever'way as yet Made known to man; and you kin bet She's _most_, because she won't confess She ever was, or will be, _less_!

And yet, fer all her proud array Of sons, how many gits away!-- No doubt about her bein' _great_ But, fellers, she's a leaky State!

And them that boasts the most about Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out.

Law! jes' to think of all you boys 'Way over here in Illinoise A-celebratin', like ye air, Old Indiany, 'way back there In the dark ages, so to speak, A-prayin' for ye once a week And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you From comin', like you ort to do.

You're all a-lookin' well, and like You wasn't "sidin' up the pike,"

As the tramp-shoemaker said When "he sacked the boss and shed The blame town, to hunt fer one Where they didn't work fer fun!"

Lookin' _extry_ well, I'd say, Your old home so fur away.-- Maybe, though, like the old jour., Fun hain't all yer workin' fer.

So you've found a job that pays Better than in them old days You was on _The Weekly Press_, Heppin' run things, more er less; Er a-learnin' telegraph Operatin', with a half Notion of the tinner's trade, Er the dusty man's that laid Out designs on marble and Hacked out little lambs by hand, And chewed fine-cut as he wrought, "Shapin' from his bitter thought"

Some squshed mutterings to say,-- "Yes, hard work, and porer pay!"

Er you'd kind o' thought the far- Gazin' kuss that owned a car And took pictures in it, had Jes' the snap you wanted--bad!

And you even wondered why He kep' foolin' with his sky- Light the same on s.h.i.+ny days As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.) Wondered what strange things was hid In there when he shet the door And smelt like a burnt drug store Next some orchard-trees, i swan!

With whole roasted apples on!

That's why Ade is, here of late, Buyin' in the dear old State,-- So's to cut it up in plots Of both town and country lots.

ABE MARTIN

Abe Martin!--dad-burn his old picture!

P'tends he's a Brown County fixture-- A kind of a comical mixture Of hoss-sense and no sense at all!

His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin', And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin', And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'-- From Genesis clean to baseball!

The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless He draws Abe most eyeless and earless, But he's never yet pictured him cheerless Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal,-- Whuther onto the fence er clean over A-rootin' up ragweed er clover, Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover"

Er newfangled automo_beel_!

It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in; And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled That it was a pleasure to die.

But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at Both me and you lays back and shakes at His comic, miraculous cracks Which makes him--clean back of the power Of genius itse'f in its flower-- This Notable Man of the Hour, Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.

O. HENRY

WRITTEN IN THE CHARACTER OF "SHERRARD PLUMMER"

O. Henry, Afrite-chef of all delight!-- Of all delectables conglomerate That stay the starved brain and rejuvenate The mental man. Th' esthetic appet.i.te-- So long anhungered that its "in'ards" fight And growl gutwise,--its pangs thou dost abate And all so amiably alleviate, Joy pats its belly as a hobo might Who haply hath attained a cherry pie With no burnt bottom in it, ner no seeds-- Nothin' but crispest crust, and thickness fit, And squs.h.i.+n'-juicy, and jes' mighty nigh Too dratted drippin'-sweet fer human needs, But fer the sosh of milk that goes with it.

"MONA MACHREE"

"_Mona Machree, I'm the wanderin' cr'ature now, Over the sea; Slave of no la.s.s, but a lover of Nature now Careless and free._"

--T. A. Daly.

Mona Machree! och, the sootherin' flow of it, Soft as the sea, Yet, in-under the mild, moves the wild undertow of it Tuggin' at me, Until both the head and the heart o' me's fightin'

For breath, nigh a death all so grandly invitin'