The Old Soldiers Story Part 8

Don't you strike nary lick With that pick till I'm through; This-here feller talked slick And as peart-like as you!

And he says: "I'll abide here As long as I please!"

But he didn't.... He died here-- And I'm his disease!

HER LIGHT GUITAR

She tw.a.n.kled a tune on her light guitar-- A low, sweet jangle of tangled sounds, As blurred as the voices of the fairies are, Dancing in moondawn dales and downs; And the tinkling drip of the strange refrain Ran over the rim of my soul like rain.

The great blond moon in the midnight skies Paused and poised o'er the trellis eaves, And the stars, in the light of her upturned eyes, Sifted their love through the rifted leaves, Glittered and splintered in crystal mist Down the glittering strings that her fingers kissed.

O the melody mad! O the tinkle and thrill Of the ecstasy of the exquisite thing!

The red rose dropped from the window-sill And lay in a long swoon quivering; While the dying notes of the strain divine Rippled in glee up my spellbound spine.

WHILE CIGARETTES TO ASHES TURN

I

"He smokes--and that's enough," says Ma-- "And cigarettes, at that!" says Pa.

"He must not call again," says she-- "He _shall_ not call again!" says he.

They both glare at me as before-- Then quit the room and bang the door.--

While I, their wilful daughter, say, "I guess I'll love him, anyway!"

II

At twilight, in his room, alone, His careless feet inertly thrown

Across a chair, my fancy can But wors.h.i.+p this most worthless man!

I dream what joy it is to set His slow lips round a cigarette,

With idle-humored whiff and puff-- Ah! this is innocent enough!

To mark the slender fingers raise The waxen match's dainty blaze,

Whose chastened light an instant glows On drooping lids and arching nose,

Then, in the sudden gloom, instead, A tiny ember, dim and red,

Blooms languidly to ripeness, then Fades slowly, and grows ripe again.

III

I lean back, in my own boudoir-- The door is fast, the sash ajar;

And in the dark, I smiling stare At one wide window over there,

Where some one, smoking, pinks the gloom, The darling darkness of his room!

I push my shutters wider yet, And lo! I light a cigarette;

And gleam for gleam, and glow for glow, Each pulse of light a word we know,

We talk of love that still will burn While cigarettes to ashes turn.

TWO SONNETS TO THE JUNE-BUG

I

You make me jes' a little nervouser Than any dog-gone bug I ever see!

And you know night's the time to pester me-- When any tetch at all 'll rub the fur Of all my patience back'ards! You're the myrrh And ruburb of my life! A b.u.mblebee Cain't hold a candle to you; and a he Bald hornet, with a laminated spur In his hip pocket, daresent even cheep When you're around! And, dern ye! you have made Me lose whole ricks and stacks and piles of sleep,-- And many of a livelong night I've laid And never shut an eye, hearin' you keep Up that eternal buzzin' serenade!

II

And I've got up and lit the lamp, and clum On cheers and trunks and wash-stands and bureaus, And all such dangerous articles as those, And biffed at you with brooms, and never come 'In two feet of you,--maybe skeered you some,-- But what does that amount to when it throws A feller out o' balance, and his nose Gits barked ag'inst the mantel, while you hum Fer joy around the room, and churn your head Ag'inst the ceilin', and draw back and b.u.t.t The plasterin' loose, and drop--behind the bed, Where never human-bein' ever putt Harm's hand on you, er ever truthful said He'd choked yer dern infernal wizzen shut!

AUTOGRAPHIC

_For an Alb.u.m_

I feel, if aught I ought to rhyme, I ought 'a' thought a longer time, And ought 'a' caught a higher sense, Of autocratic eloquence.

I ought 'a' sought each haughty Muse That taught a thought I ought to use, And fought and fraught, and so devised A poem _unmonotonized_.-- But since all this was vain, I thought I ought to simply say,--I ought To thank you, as I ought to do, And ought to bow my best to you; And ought to trust not to intrude A rudely wrought-up grat.i.tude, But ought to smile, and ought to laugh, And ought to write--an autograph.

AN IMPROMPTU ON ROLLER SKATES