Second Book of Verse Part 4

An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 'twill be About the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea,-- A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel; He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him squeal; Good to the helpless and the weak; a brave an' manly heart A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along, But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song.

TELLING THE BEES.

OUT of the house where the slumberer lay Grandfather came one summer day, And under the pleasant orchard trees He spake this wise to the murmuring bees: "The clover-bloom that kissed her feet And the posie-bed where she used to play Have honey store, but none so sweet As ere our little one went away.

O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low; For she is gone who loved you so."

A wonder fell on the listening bees Under those pleasant orchard trees, And in their toil that summer day Ever their murmuring seemed to say: "Child, O child, the gra.s.s is cool, And the posies are waking to hear the song Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool, Waiting for one that tarrieth long."

'Twas so they called to the little one then, As if to call her back again.

O gentle bees, I have come to say That grandfather fell asleep to-day, And we know by the smile on grandfather's face He has found his dear one's biding-place.

So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low, As over the honey-fields you sweep,-- To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow Sing of grandfather fast asleep; And ever beneath these orchard trees Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees.

THE TEA-GOWN.

MY lady has a tea-gown That is wondrous fair to see,-- It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, As a tea-gown ought to be; And I thought she must be jesting Last night at supper when She remarked, by chance, that it came from France, And had cost but two pounds ten.

Had she told me fifty s.h.i.+llings, I might (and wouldn't you?) Have referred to that dress in a way folks express By an eloquent dash or two; But the guileful little creature Knew well her tactics when She casually said that that dream in red Had cost but two pounds ten.

Yet our home is all the brighter For that dainty, sensient thing, That floats away where it properly may, And clings where it ought to cling; And I count myself the luckiest Of all us married men That I have a wife whose joy in life Is a gown at two pounds ten.

It isn't the gown compels me Condone this venial sin; It's the pretty face above the lace, And the gentle heart within.

And with her arms about me I say, and say again, "'Twas wondrous cheap,"--and I think a heap Of that gown at two pounds ten!

DOCTORS.

'Tis quite the thing to say and sing Gross libels on the doctor,-- To picture him an ogre grim Or humbug-pill concocter; Yet it's in quite another light My friendly pen would show him, Glad that it may with verse repay Some part of what I owe him.

When one's all right, he's p.r.o.ne to spite The doctor's peaceful mission; But when he's sick, it's loud and quick He bawls for a physician.

With other things, the doctor brings Sweet babes, our hearts to soften: Though I have four, I pine for more,-- Good doctor, pray come often!

What though he sees death and disease Run riot all around him?

Patient and true, and valorous too, Such have I always found him.

Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes; And when skill's unavailing, And death is near, his words of cheer Support our courage failing.

In ancient days they used to praise The G.o.dlike art of healing,-- An art that then engaged all men Possessed of sense and feeling.

Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be Famed for a quack elixir; And Digby sold, as we are told, A charm for folk lovesick, sir.

Napoleon knew a thing or two, And clearly _he_ was partial To doctors, for in time of war He chose one for a marshal.

In our great cause a doctor was The first to pa.s.s death's portal, And Warren's name at once became A beacon and immortal.

A heap, indeed, of what we read By doctors is provided; For to those groves Apollo loves Their leaning is decided.

Deny who may that Rabelais Is first in wit and learning, And yet all smile and marvel while His brilliant leaves they're turning.

How Lever's pen has charmed all men!

How touching Rab's short story!

And I will stake my all that Drake Is still the schoolboy's glory.

A doctor-man it was began Great Britain's great museum,-- The treasures there are all so rare It drives me wild to see 'em!

There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are Big monuments to learning.

To Mitch.e.l.l's prose (how smooth it flows!) We all are fondly turning.

Tomes might be writ of that keen wit Which Abernethy's famed for; With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills Most doctors now get blamed for.

In modern times the n.o.ble rhymes Of Holmes, a great physician, Have solace brought and wisdom taught To hearts of all condition.

The sailor, bound for Puget Sound, Finds pleasure still unfailing, If he but troll the barcarole Old Osborne wrote on Whaling.

If there were need, I could proceed _Ad naus._ with this prescription, But, _inter nos_, a larger dose Might give you fits conniption; Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend I'd hold before these others, For he and I in years gone by Have chummed around like brothers.

Together we have sung in glee The songs old Horace made for Our genial craft, together quaffed What bowls that doctor paid for!

I love the rest, but love him best; And, were not times so pressing, I'd buy and send--you smile, old friend?

Well, then, here goes my blessing.

BARBARA.

BLITHE was the youth that summer day, As he smote at the ribs of earth, And he plied his pick with a merry click, And he whistled anon in mirth; And the constant thought of his dear one's face Seemed to illumine that ghostly place.

The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy, And she moved, and closed on his head: With no one nigh and with never a cry The beautiful boy lay dead; And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fair Crumbled, and clung to his glorious hair.

Fifty years is a mighty s.p.a.ce In the human toil for bread; But to Love and to Death 'tis merely a breath, A dream that is quickly sped,-- Fifty years, and the fair lad lay Just as he fell that summer day.

At last came others in quest of gold, And hewed in that mountain place; And deep in the ground one time they found The boy with the smiling face: All uncorrupt by the pitiless air, He lay, with his crown of golden hair.

They bore him up to the sun again, And laid him beside the brook, And the folk came down from the busy town To wonder and prate and look; And so, to a world that knew him not, The boy came back to the old-time spot.

Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,-- Wrinkled and bowed was she,-- And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh, "At last he is come to me!"

And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there, And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair.

"Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one!

And better it is 'tis so, Else thou mightst see how harsh with me Dealt Life thou couldst not know: Kindlier Death has kept _thee_ fair; The sorrow of Life hath been _my_ share."

Barbara bowed her aged face, And fell on the breast of her dead; And the golden hair of her dear one there Caressed her snow-white head.

Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain; But sweeter the Death that joined those twain.