Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 38

That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think; But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame-- Such little drinks, to a b.u.m like me, are miserably tame; Five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too.

Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health, And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood, But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.

I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame.'

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name.

And then I met a woman--now comes the funny part-- With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me; But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.

"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give, With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live; With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?

If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May, Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way; And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise, Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone; And ere a year of misery had pa.s.sed above my head, The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,-- I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.

Why, what's the mattter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye, Come, laugh, like me; 'tis only babes and women that should cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score-- You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor."

Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.

Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, With a fearful shriek, he leaped, and fell across the picture dead.

_H. Antoine D'Arcy._

The Calf Path

One day through the primeval wood, A calf walked home, as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail, as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled, And, I infer, the calf is dead.

But still he left behind his trail, And thereby hangs a moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day By a lone dog that pa.s.sed that way, And then the wise bell-wether sheep Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him, too, As good bell-wethers always do.

And from that day, o'er hill and glade, Through those old woods a path was made.

And many men wound in and out, And turned and dodged and bent about, And uttered words of righteous wrath Because 'twas such a crooked path: But still they followed--do not laugh-- The first migrations of that calf, And through this winding woodway stalked Because he wabbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane, That bent and turned and turned again; This crooked path became a road.

Where many a poor horse, with his load, Toiled on beneath the burning sun, And traveled some three miles in one.

And thus a century and a half They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years pa.s.sed on in swiftness fleet, The road became a village street; And this, before men were aware, A city's crowded thoroughfare.

And soon the central street was this Of a renowned metropolis.

And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf!

Each day a hundred thousand rout Followed the zigzag calf about; And o'er his crooked journey went The traffic of a continent.

A hundred thousand men were led By a calf near three centuries dead.

They followed still his crooked way And lost one hundred years a day; For thus such reverence is lent To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach Were I ordained and called to preach; For men are p.r.o.ne to go it blind, Along the calf-paths of the mind, And work away from sun to sun To do what other men have done.

They follow in the beaten track, And out and in, and forth and back, And still their devious course pursue, To keep the path that others do.

But how the wise wood-G.o.ds must laugh, Who saw the first primeval calf; Ah, many things this tale might teach-- But I am not ordained to preach.

_Sam Walter Foss._

The Ride of Jennie M'Neal

Paul Revere was a rider bold-- Well has his valorous deed been told; Sheridan's ride was a glorious one-- Often it has been dwelt upon; But why should men do all the deeds On which the love of a patriot feeds?

Hearken to me, while I reveal The das.h.i.+ng ride of Jennie M'Neal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, In a cottage, cozy, and all their own, She and her mother lived alone.

Safe were the two, with their frugal store, From all of the many who pa.s.sed their door; For Jennie's mother was strange to fears, And Jennie was large for fifteen years; With vim her eyes were glistening, Her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing; And while the friends who knew her well The sweetness of her heart could tell, A gun that hung on the kitchen wall Looked solemnly quick to heed her call; And they who were evil-minded knew Her nerve was strong and her aim was true.

So all kind words and acts did deal To generous, black-eyed Jennie M'Neal.

One night, when the sun had crept to bed, And rain-clouds lingered overhead, And sent their surly drops for proof To drum a tune on the cottage roof, Close after a knock at the outer door There entered a dozen dragoons or more.

Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, That they were British soldiers showed; The captain his hostess bent to greet, Saying, "Madam, please give us a bit to eat; We will pay you well, and, if may be, This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; Then we must dash ten miles ahead, To catch a rebel colonel abed.

He is visiting home, as doth appear; We will make his pleasure cost him dear."

And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, Close-watched the while by Jennie M'Neal.

For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near Had been her true friend, kind and dear; And oft, in her younger days, had he Right proudly perched her upon his knee, And told her stories many a one Concerning the French war lately done.

And oft together the two friends were, And many the arts he had taught to her; She had hunted by his fatherly side, He had shown her how to fence and ride; And once had said, "The time may be, Your skill and courage may stand by me."

So sorrow for him she could but feel, Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

With never a thought or a moment more, Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door, Ran out where the horses were left to feed, Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed, And down the hilly and rock-strewn way She urged the fiery horse of gray.

Around her slender and cloakless form Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; Secure and tight a gloveless hand Grasped the reins with stern command; And full and black her long hair streamed, Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed.

And on she rushed for the colonel's weal, Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

Hark! from the hills, a moment mute, Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; And a cry from the foremost trooper said, "Halt! or your blood be on your head"; She heeded it not, and not in vain She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein.

So into the night the gray horse strode; His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; And the high-born courage that never dies Flashed from his rider's coal-black eyes.

The pebbles flew from the fearful race: The raindrops grasped at her glowing face.

"On, on, brave beast!" with loud appeal, Cried eager, resolute Jennie M'Neal.