Kitabı oku: «Complete Poetical Works», sayfa 15

SONGS WITHOUT SENSE

FOR THE PARLOR AND PIANO

I.  THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL

 
     Affection's charm no longer gilds
       The idol of the shrine;
     But cold Oblivion seeks to fill
       Regret's ambrosial wine.
     Though Friendship's offering buried lies
       'Neath cold Aversion's snow,
     Regard and Faith will ever bloom
       Perpetually below.
 
 
     I see thee whirl in marble halls,
       In Pleasure's giddy train;
     Remorse is never on that brow,
       Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.
     Deceit has marked thee for her own;
       Inconstancy the same;
     And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam
       Athwart thy path of shame.
 

II.  THE HOMELY PATHETIC

 
     The dews are heavy on my brow;
       My breath comes hard and low;
     Yet, mother dear, grant one request,
       Before your boy must go.
     Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks,
       And ere my senses fail,
     Place me once more, O mother dear,
       Astride the old fence-rail.
 
 
     The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail!
       How oft these youthful legs,
     With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung
       Across those wooden pegs!
     'Twas there the nauseating smoke
       Of my first pipe arose:
     O mother dear, these agonies
       Are far less keen than those.
     I know where lies the hazel dell,
       Where simple Nellie sleeps;
 
 
     I know the cot of Nettie Moore,
       And where the willow weeps.
     I know the brookside and the mill,
       But all their pathos fails
     Beside the days when once I sat
       Astride the old fence-rails.
 

III.  SWISS AIR

 
     I'm a gay tra, la, la,
     With my fal, lal, la, la,
     And my bright—
     And my light—
         Tra, la, le.       [Repeat.]
 
 
     Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,
     And ring, ting, ling, ling,
     And sing fal, la, la,
         La, la, le.        [Repeat.]
 

VI.  LITTLE POSTERITY

MASTER JOHNNY'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR

 
     It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma
        moved in
     Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to begin;
     For the fence in our back yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped
        through the slat,
     There were "Johnny-jump-ups" all around her, and I knew it was
        spring just by that.
 
 
     I never knew whether she saw me, for she didn't say nothing to me,
     But "Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next
        door can see."
     But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says
        I've a right,
     And she calls out, "Well, peekin' is manners!" and I answered her,
        "Sass is perlite!"
 
 
     But I wasn't a bit mad, no, Papa, and to prove it, the very next day,
     When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to get in her
        way,—
     For you know I am "chunked" and clumsy, as she says are all boys of
        my size,—
     And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in
        her eyes.
 
 
     And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew that she told
        Kitty Sage,—
     And she wasn't a girl that would flatter—"that she thought I was
        tall for my age."
     And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my
        sled,
     And—  "What am I telling you this for?"  Why, Papa, my neighbor is
DEAD!
 
 
     You don't hear one half I am saying,—I really do think it's too bad!
     Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-day
        I've been sad.
     And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have
        dressed her in white,
     And I've never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died—at
        eleven last night.
 
 
     And Ma says it's decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend,
     That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that YOU ought
        to attend;
     But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way,
     And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn't know just what
        to say.
 
 
     So I think I will get up quite early,—I know I sleep late, but I know
     I'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I'll tie
        to my toe;
     And I'll crawl through the fence, and I'll gather the "Johnny-jump-ups"
        as they grew
     Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll give
        them to you.
 
 
     For you're a big man, and, you know, Pa, can come and go just where
        you choose,
     And you'll take the flowers in to her, and surely they'll never
        refuse;
     But, Papa, don't SAY they're from Johnny; THEY won't understand,
        don't you see?
     But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, SHE'LL know they're
        from Me.
 

MISS EDITH'S MODEST REQUEST

 
     My Papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes reading for
        books;
     But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa,—I know by his
        looks.
     So I guess you're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I talk all
        the day,
     And they only say, "Do stop that child!" or, "Nurse, take Miss Edith
        away."
 
 
     But Papa said if I was good I could ask you—alone by myself—
     If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.
     I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make THEM you've got to
        be smart
     But the reading that runs all around them, you know,—just the
        easiest part.
 
 
     You needn't mind what it's about, for no one will see it but me,
     And Jane,—that's my nurse,—and John,—he's the coachman,—just
        only us three.
     You're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold and
        all that;
     And then you're to write, if you please, something good—very good—
        of a cat!
 
 
     This cat, she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents, and
        mild,
     And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was such a bad
        child;
     And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress—that's me—
        was so bad,
     And blink, just as if she would say, "Oh, Edith! you make my heart
        sad."
 
 
     And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, angelic cat
     Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said, she'd
        get at.
     And when John drank my milk,—don't you tell me!  I know just the
        way it was done,—
     They said 'twas the cat,—and she sitting and washing her face in
        the sun!
 
 
     And then there was Dick, my canary.  When I left its cage open one
        day,
     They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that the bird
        flew away.
     And why?  Just because she was playing with a feather she found on
        the floor.
     As if cats couldn't play with a feather without people thinking
        'twas more!
 
 
     Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down a vase from
        the shelf,
     That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it herself;
     And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came out until
        tea,—
     So they say, for they sent ME to bed, and she never came even to me.
 
 
     No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of that cat.
     Why, once when I tore my apron,—she was wrapped in it, and I called
        "Rat!"—
     Why, they blamed that on HER.  I shall never—no, not to my dying
        day—
     Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped ME and
        took me away.
 
 
     Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is as lovely
        as that:
     She wasted quite slowly away; it was goodness was killing that cat.
     I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly nice;
     But they said she stole Bobby's ice cream, and caught a bad cold
        from the ice.
 
 
     And you'll promise to make me a book like that little one up on the
        shelf,
     And you'll call her "Naomi," because it's a name that she just gave
        herself;
     For she'd scratch at my door in the morning, and whenever I'd call
        out, "Who's there?"
     She would answer, "Naomi! Naomi!" like a Christian, I vow and declare.
 
 
     And you'll put me and her in a book.  And mind, you're to say I was
        bad;
     And I might have been badder than that but for the example I had.
     And you'll say that she was a Maltese, and—what's that you asked?
        "Is she dead?"
     Why, please, sir, THERE AIN'T ANY CAT!  You're to make one up out of
        your head!
 

MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR BROTHER JACK

 
     "Crying!"  Of course I am crying, and I guess you would be crying,
        too,
     If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, about YOU.
     Oh yes, you can laugh if you want to, and smoke as you didn't care
        how,
     And get your brains softened like uncle's.  Dr. Jones says you're
        gettin' it now.
 
 
     Why don't you say "Stop!" to Miss Ilsey?  She cries twice as much as
        I do,
     And she's older and cries just from meanness,—for a ribbon or
        anything new.
     Ma says it's her "sensitive nature."  Oh my!  No, I sha'n't stop my
        talk!
     And I don't want no apples nor candy, and I don't want to go take a
        walk!
 
 
     I know why you're mad!  Yes, I do, now!  You think that Miss Ilsey
        likes YOU,
     And I've heard her REPEATEDLY call you the bold-facest boy that she
        knew;
     And she'd "like to know where you learnt manners."  Oh yes!  Kick
        the table,—that's right!
     Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round telling Ma that I look
        like a fright!
 
 
     What stories?  Pretend you don't know that they're saying I broke
        off the match
     Twixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called him
        "Crosspatch,"
     When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was, she
     Cared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, Jack, you
        said that to me.
 
 
     And it's true!  But it's ME, and I'm scolded, and Pa says if I keep
        on I might
     By and by get my name in the papers!  Who cares?  Why, 'twas only
        last night
     I was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some lots, and
        it's plain
     If it's awful to be in the papers, why, Papa would go and complain.
 
 
     You think it ain't true about Ilsey?  Well, I guess I know girls,
        and I say
     There's nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you, anyway!
     I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat after one
        boy
     Goes and changes its name to another's.  And she's done it—and I
        wish you joy!
 

MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND

 
     Oh, you're the girl lives on the corner?  Come in—if you want to—
        come quick!
     There's no one but me in the house, and the cook—but she's only a
        stick.
     Don't try the front way, but come over the fence—through the
        window—that's how.
     Don't mind the big dog—he won't bite you—just see him obey me!
        there, now!
 
 
     What's your name?  Mary Ellen?  How funny!  Mine's Edith—it's
        nicer, you see;
     But yours does for you, for you're plainer, though maybe you're
        gooder than me;
     For Jack says I'm sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all folks, needn't
        talk,
     For I don't call the seamstress an angel till Ma says the poor thing
        must "walk."
 
 
     Come in!  It's quite dark in the parlor, for sister will keep the
        blinds down,
     For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she isn't as
        brown;
     Though Jack says that isn't the reason she likes to sit here with
        Jim Moore.
     Do you think that he meant that she kissed him?  Would you—if your
        lips wasn't sore?
 
 
     If you like, you can try our piano.  'Tain't ours.  A man left it
        here
     To rent by the month, although Ma says he hasn't been paid for a
        year.
     Sister plays—oh, such fine variations!—why, I once heard a
        gentleman say
     That she didn't mind THAT for the music—in fact, it was just in her
        way!
 
 
     Ain't I funny?  And yet it's the queerest of all that, whatever I
        say,
     One half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest, they all look
        t'other way.
     And some say, "That child!"  Do they ever say that to such people as
        you?
     Though maybe you're naturally silly, and that makes your eyes so
        askew.
 
 
     Now stop—don't you dare to be crying!  Just as sure as you live, if
        you do,
     I'll call in my big dog to bite you, and I'll make my Papa kill you,
        too!
     And then where'll you be?  So play pretty.  There's my doll, and a
        nice piece of cake.
     You don't want it—you think it is poison!  Then I'LL eat it, dear,
        just for your sake!
 

WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FROM HER WINDOW

 
     Our window's not much, though it fronts on the street;
         There's a fly in the pane that gets nothin' to eat;
         But it's curious how people think it's a treat
             For ME to look out of the window!
 
 
     Why, when company comes, and they're all speaking low,
         With their chairs drawn together, then some one says, "Oh!
         Edith dear!—that's a good child—now run, love, and go
             And amuse yourself there at the window!"
 
 
     Or Bob—that's my brother—comes in with his chum,
         And they whisper and chuckle, the same words will come.
         And it's "Edith, look here!  Oh, I say! what a rum
             Lot of things you can see from that window!"
 
 
     And yet, as I told you, there's only that fly
         Buzzing round in the pane, and a bit of blue sky,
         And the girl in the opposite window, that I
             Look at when SHE looks from HER window.
 
 
     And yet, I've been thinking I'd so like to see
         If what goes on behind HER, goes on behind ME!
         And then, goodness gracious! what fun it would be
             For us BOTH as we sit by our window!
 
 
     How we'd know when the parcels were hid in a drawer,
         Or things taken out that one never sees more;
         What people come in and go out of the door,
             That we never see from the window!
 
 
     And that night when the stranger came home with our Jane
         I might SEE what I HEARD then, that sounded so plain—
         Like when my wet fingers I rub on the pane
             (Which they won't let ME do on my window).
 
 
     And I'd know why papa shut the door with a slam,
         And said something funny that sounded like "jam,"
         And then "Edith—where are you?"  I said, "Here I am."
             "Ah, that's right, dear, look out of the window!"
 
 
     They say when I'm grown up these things will appear
         More plain than they do when I look at them here,
         But I think I see some things uncommonly clear,
             As I sit and look down from the window.
 
 
     What things?  Oh, the things that I make up, you know,
         Out of stories I've read—and they all pass below.
         Ali Baba, the Forty Thieves, all in a row,
             Go by, as I look from my window.
 
 
     That's only at church time; other days there's no crowd.
         Don't laugh!  See that big man who looked up and bowed?
         That's our butcher—I call him the Sultan Mahoud
             When he nods to me here at the window!
 
 
     And THAT man—he's our neighbor—just gone for a ride
         Has three wives in the churchyard that lie side by side.
         So I call him "Bluebeard" in search of his bride,
             While I'm Sister Anne at the window.
 
 
     And what do I call you?  Well, here's what I DO:
         When my sister expects you, she puts me here, too;
         But I wait till you enter, to see if it's you,
             And then—I just OPEN the window!
 
 
     "Dear child!"  Yes, that's me!  "Oh, you ask what that's for?
         Well, Papa says you're 'Poverty's self,' and what's more,
         I open the window, when YOU'RE at the door,
             To see Love fly out of the window!"
 

ON THE LANDING

(AN IDYL OF THE BALUSTERS)

 
     BOBBY, aetat. 3 1/2.  JOHNNY, aetat. 4 1/2.
 

BOBBY

 
     Do you know why they've put us in that back room,
     Up in the attic, close against the sky,
     And made believe our nursery's a cloak-room?
         Do you know why?
 

JOHNNY

 
     No more I don't, nor why that Sammy's mother,
     What Ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye,
     Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other!
         No more don't I!
 

BOBBY

 
     Do you know why Nurse says it isn't manners
     For you and me to ask folks twice for pie,
     And no one hits that man with two bananas?
         Do you know why?
 

JOHNNY

 
     No more I don't, nor why that girl, whose dress is
     Off of her shoulders, don't catch cold and die,
     When you and me gets croup when WE undresses!
         No more don't I!
 

BOBBY

 
     Perhaps she ain't as good as you and I is,
     And God don't want her up there in the sky,
     And lets her live—to come in just when pie is—
         Perhaps that's why!
 

JOHNNY

 
     Do you know why that man that's got a cropped head
     Rubbed it just now as if he felt a fly?
     Could it be, Bobby, something that I dropped?
         And is that why?
 

BOBBY

 
     Good boys behaves, and so they don't get scolded,
     Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by.
     JOHNNY (piously)
     Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones' bald head—
         But I sha'n't try!
 

BOBBY

 
     Do you know why Aunt Jane is always snarling
     At you and me because we tells a lie,
     And she don't slap that man that called her darling?
         Do you know why?
 

JOHNNY

 
     No more I don't, nor why that man with Mamma
     Just kissed her hand.
 

BOBBY

 
                            She hurt it—and that's why;
     He made it well, the very way that Mamma
         Does do to I.
 

JOHNNY

 
     I feel so sleepy.... Was that Papa kissed us?
     What made him sigh, and look up to the sky?
 

BOBBY

 
     We weren't downstairs, and he and God had missed us,
     And that was why!
 

NOTES

THE LOST GALLEON. As the custom on which the central incident of this legend is based may not be familiar to all readers, I will repeat here that it is the habit of navigators to drop a day from their calendar in crossing westerly the 180th degree of longitude of Greenwich, adding a day in coming east; and that the idea of the lost galleon had an origin as prosaic as the log of the first China Mail Steamer from San Francisco. The explanation of the custom and its astronomical relations belongs rather to the usual text-books than to poetical narration. If any reader thinks I have overdrawn the credulous superstitions of the ancient navigators, I refer him to the veracious statements of Maldonado, De Fonte, the later voyages of La Perouse and Anson, and the charts of 1640. In the charts of that day Spanish navigators reckoned longitude E. 360 degrees from the meridian of the Isle of Ferro. For the sake of perspicuity before a modern audience, the more recent meridian of Madrid was substituted. The custom of dropping a day at some arbitrary point in crossing the Pacific westerly, I need not say, remains unaffected by any change of meridian. I know not if any galleon was ever really missing. For two hundred and fifty years an annual trip was made between Acapulco and Manila. It may be some satisfaction to the more severely practical of my readers to know that, according to the best statistics of insurance, the loss during that period would be exactly three vessels and six hundredths of a vessel, which would certainly justify me in this summary disposition of ONE.

THE PLIOCENE SKULL. This extraordinary fossil is in the possession of Prof. Josiah D. Whitney, of the State Geological Survey of California. The poem was based on the following paragraph from the daily press of 1868: "A human skull has been found in California, in the pliocene formation. This skull is the remnant not only of the earliest pioneer of this State, but the oldest known human being.... The skull was found in a shaft 150 feet deep, two miles from Angels in Calaveras County, by a miner named James Watson, who gave it to Mr. Scribner, a merchant, who gave it to Dr. Jones, who sent it to the State Geological Survey.... The published volume of the State Survey of the Geology of California states that man existed here contemporaneously with the mastodon, but this fossil proves that he was here before the mastodon was known to exist."