A line-o'-verse or two Part 12

II

_This is something that befell_ _When my pipe was drawing well--_ _Something, rather, that I heard_ _As the fluting of a bird._

Daphne, come and live with me In a Pagan greenery.

Life will then be naught but play, One long Pagan holiday.

We will play at hide and seek In the alders by the creek; Sport amid the cascade's smother.

Splas.h.i.+ng water at each other;-- Every moment pleasure wooing, Every moment something doing.

If we talk, we'll talk of Love: All its arguments we'll prove.

Such a mental rest you'll find.

Leave your intellect behind.

Night will come, (for come it will, 'Spite the fluting on the hill,) And we'll pitch a cozy camp Where it isn't quite so damp.

While you dry your hair and laze By the campfire's violet blaze, I will rob a balsam tree To construct a house for thee.

What so dear as to be wooed In a sylvan solitude?

What so sweet as Pagan vows Whispered in a house of boughs?

Pagan love's without alloy.

Pagan kisses never cloy.

Arms that cling in Pagan fas.h.i.+on Never tire. A Pagan pa.s.sion Is the only kind I know That outlives a winter's snow.

Daphne, Daphne, let us fly!

You're a Pagan--so am I.

_So the fluting on the hill_ _Pa.s.sed and died, and all was still._ _So the Pagan Pickings died,_ _And I laid the pipe aside._

THE LAUNDRY OF LIFE

(_An Adventure in Sentiment._)

Life is a laundry in which we Are ironed out, or soon or late.

Who has not known the irony Of fate?

We enter it when we are born, Our colors bright. Full soon they fade.

We leave it "done up," old and worn, And frayed;

Frayed round the edges, worn and thin-- Life is a rough old linen slinger.

Who has not lost a b.u.t.ton in Life's wringer?

With other linen we are tubbed, With other linen often tangled; In open court we then are scrubbed, And mangled.

Some take a gloss of happiness The hardest wear can not diminish; Others, alas! get a "domes- Tic finish."

WISDOM IN A CAPSULE

"_If she be not so to me._ _What care I how fair she be?_"

--THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.

Here we have in this truism Mr. James's pragmatism.

Test your troubles day by day With it, and they fly away.

Is the weather boiling hot, Hot enough to boil a pot-- If it be not so to me, What care I how hot it be?

Take a pudding made of bread; Much against it has been said; But it does not lack defense-- Many say it is immense.

Be it d.a.m.ned or be it blessed, Let us make the acid test-- If it be not so to me, What care I how good it be?

So with every blooming thing That has power to soothe or sting; s.h.i.+ps or shoes or sealing wax, Carrots, comets, carpet tacks.

Every philosophic need Covered by this capsule creed: If it be not so to me, {good} What care I how {bad} it be?

THE LAND OF RAINBOW'S-END

Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank, Full prey to doubts and fears, When he did espy come trudging by A Pilgrim bent with years.

His back was bowed and his step was slow, But his faith no years could bend, As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west And the Land of Rainbow's-End.

"_It's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ _And it's over the hills and far away_ _To the Land of Rainbow's-End!_"

"Thou'rt old," young Faintheart cried, "thou'rt old, And there's many a league to go; And still thou seekest the pot of gold At the farther end of the bow."

"I am old, I am old," said the Pilgrim gray, "But ever my way I'll wend To the rose-lit hills of the dying day And the Land of Rainbow's-End."

"Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side; Give o'er thy doomsday quest."

"Have done, have done!" the Pilgrim cried: "The light wanes in the west.

The road is long, but I shall not tire; I will lay my bones, G.o.d send, By the beautiful City of Heart's Desire, In the Land of Rainbow's-End."

"_Then it's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ _And it's over the hills and far away_ _To the Land of Rainbow's-End._"

A BALLADE OF A BORE

When the weather is warm and the gla.s.s running high And the odors of Araby tincture the air; When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky, And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;-- In spring or in summer I'm free to declare, And the same I am equally free to maintain, One person has power my peace to impair: The man who tells limericks gives me a pain.

When the foliage flushes and summer is by, And russet and red are the popular wear; When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;-- In the season of autumn I'm free to declare, And my language is lucid and simple and plain, One person's acquaintance I freely forswear: The man with the limerick gives me a pain.

When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly, When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare, And the prospect which nature presents to the eye Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;-- In the season of winter I'm free to declare That the limerick person is flat and inane.

This person, I think, we could easily spare: The man who tells limericks gives me a pain.