The Project Gutenberg EBook of Riley Songs of Home, by James Whitcomb Riley

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

Title: Riley Songs of Home

Author: James Whitcomb Riley

Release Date: July 12, 2005 [EBook #16265]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RILEY SONGS OF HOME ***

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Scott G. Sims and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

RILEY

SONGS OF HOME

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

WITH PICTURES BY

WILL VAWTER

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

1910

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

TO

GEORGE A. CARR

CONTENTS

AS CREATED56

AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY 126

AT SEA 160

BACKWARD LOOK, A 155

BEST IS GOOD ENOUGH, THE 123

BOYS, THE 104

"BRAVE REFRAIN, A" 113

DREAMER, SAY 61

FEEL IN THE CHRIS'MAS AIR 52

FOR YOU 50

GOOD MAN, A 132

HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS 189

HIS ROOM 38

HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB 125

"HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?" 94

IN THE EVENING 115

IT'S GOT TO BE 107

JACK-IN-THE-BOX 100

JIM 117

JOHN MCKEEN 165

JUST TO BE GOOD 26

KNEELING WITH HERRICK 138

LAUGHTER HOLDING BOTH HIS SIDES 81

MULBERRY TREE, THE 46

MY DANCIN' DAYS IS OVER 184

MY FRIEND 29

NATURAL PERVERSITIES 70

NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE 36

OLD DAYS, THE 135

OLD GUITAR, THE 161

OLD TRUNDLE-BED, THE 64

OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS 182

OUR KIND OF A MAN 92

OUR OWN 63

"OUT OF REACH?" 112

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 98

PLAINT HUMAN, THE 43

QUEST, THE 44

RAINY MORNING, THE 141

REACH YOUR HAND TO ME 143

SCRAWL, A 75

SONG OF PARTING 90

SONG OF YESTERDAY, THE 82

SPRING SONG AND A LATER, A 137

"THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS" 172

THINKIN' BACK 31

THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 170

TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 145

TO THE JUDGE 177

WE MUST BELIEVE 130

WE MUST GET HOME 19

WHERE-AWAY 57

WHO BIDES HIS TIME 68

WRITIN' BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 76

RILEY SONGS OF HOME

WE MUST GET HOME

We must get home! How could we stray like this?—

So far from home, we know not where it is,—

Only in some fair, apple-blossomy place

Of children's faces—and the mother's face—

We dimly dream it, till the vision clears

Even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears.

We must get home—for we have been away

So long, it seems forever and a day!

And O so very homesick we have grown,

The laughter of the world is like a moan

In our tired hearing, and its song as vain,—

We must get home—we must get home again!

We must get home! With heart and soul we yearn

To find the long-lost pathway, and return!...

The child's shout lifted from the questing band

Of old folk, faring weary, hand in hand,

But faces brightening, as if clouds at last

Were showering sunshine on us as we passed.

We must get home: It hurts so staying here,

Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear,

And where to wear wet lashes means, at best,

When most our lack, the least our hope of rest—

When most our need of joy, the more our pain—

We must get home—we must get home again!

We must get home—home to the simple things—

The morning-glories twirling up the strings

And bugling color, as they blared in blue-

And-white o'er garden-gates we scampered through;

The long grape-arbor, with its under-shade

Blue as the green and purple overlaid.

We must get home: All is so quiet there:

The touch of loving hands on brow and hair—

Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild—

The lost love of the mother and the child

Restored in restful lullabies of rain,—

We must get home—we must get home again!

The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans

Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans

The giant sunflower in barbaric pride

Guarding the barn-door and the lane outside;

The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks,

That clamber almost to the martin-box.

We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse,

Time humors us and tiptoes through the house,

And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise,

With dreams—not tear-drops—brimming our clenched eyes,—

Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain—

We must get home—we must get home again!

We must get home! The willow-whistle's call

Trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall—

Mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees

And making discord of such rhymes as these,

That know nor lilt nor cadence but the birds

First warbled—then all poets afterwards.

We must get home; and, unremembering there

All gain of all ambition otherwhere,

Rest—from the feverish victory, and the crown

Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.—

Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain—

We must get home—we must get home again!

We must get home again—we must—we must!—

(Our rainy faces pelted in the dust)

Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife

To find not anywhere in all of life

A happier happiness than blest us then ...

We must get home—we must get home again!

JUST TO BE GOOD

Just to be good—

This is enough—enough!

O we who find sin's billows wild and rough,

Do we not feel how more than any gold

Would be the blameless life we led of old

While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss?

Ah! though we miss

All else but this,

To be good is enough!

It is enough—

Enough—just to be good!

To lift our hearts where they are understood;

To let the thirst for worldly power and place

Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face

With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss.

Ah! though we miss

All else but this,

To be good is enough!

MY FRIEND

"He is my friend," I said,—

"Be patient!" Overhead

The skies were drear and dim;

And lo! the thought of him

Smiled on my heart—and then

The sun shone out again!

"He is my friend!" The words

Brought summer and the birds;

And all my winter-time

Thawed into running rhyme

And rippled into song,

Warm, tender, brave and strong.

And so it sings to-day.—

So may it sing alway!

Though waving grasses grow

Between, and lilies blow

Their trills of perfume clear

As laughter to the ear,

Let each mute measure end

With "Still he is thy friend."

THINKIN' BACK

I've ben thinkin' back, of late,

S'prisin'!—And I'm here to state

I'm suspicious it's a sign

Of age, maybe, or decline

Of my faculties,—and yit

I'm not feelin' old a bit—

Any more than sixty-four

Ain't no young man any more!

Thinkin' back's a thing 'at grows

On a feller, I suppose—

Older 'at he gits, i jack,

More he keeps a-thinkin' back!

Old as old men git to be,

Er as middle-aged as me,

Folks'll find us, eye and mind

Fixed on what we've left behind—

Rehabilitatin'-like

Them old times we used to hike

Out barefooted fer the crick,

'Long 'bout Aprile first—to pick

Out some "warmest" place to go

In a-swimmin'—Ooh! my-oh!

Wonder now we hadn't died!

Grate horseradish on my hide

Jes' a-thinkin' how cold then

That-'ere worter must 'a' ben!

Thinkin' back—W'y, goodness me!

I kin call their names and see

Every little tad I played

With, er fought, er was afraid

Of, and so made him the best

Friend I had of all the rest!

Thinkin' back, I even hear

Them a-callin', high and clear,

Up the crick-banks, where they seem

Still hid in there—like a dream—

And me still a-pantin' on

The green pathway they have gone!

Still they hide, by bend er ford—

Still they hide—but, thank the Lord,

(Thinkin' back, as I have said),

I hear laughin' on ahead!

NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE

We are not always glad when we smile:

Though we wear a fair face and are gay,

And the world we deceive

May not ever believe

We could laugh in a happier way.—

Yet, down in the deeps of the soul,

Ofttimes, with our faces aglow,

There's an ache and a moan

That we know of alone,

And as only the hopeless may know.

We are not always glad when we smile,—

For the heart, in a tempest of pain,

May live in the guise

Of a smile in the eyes

As a rainbow may live in the rain;

And the stormiest night of our woe

May hang out a radiant star

Whose light in the sky

Of despair is a lie

As black as the thunder-clouds are.

We are not always glad when we smile!—

But the conscience is quick to record,

All the sorrow and sin

We are hiding within

Is plain in the sight of the Lord:

And ever, O ever, till pride

And evasion shall cease to defile

The sacred recess

Of the soul, we confess

We are not always glad when we smile.

HIS ROOM

"I'm home again, my dear old Room,

I'm home again, and happy, too,

As, peering through the brightening gloom,

I find myself alone with you:

Though brief my stay, nor far away,

I missed you—missed you night and day—

As wildly yearned for you as now.—

Old Room, how are you, anyhow?

"My easy chair, with open arms,

Awaits me just within the door;

The littered carpet's woven charms

Have never seemed so bright before,—

The old rosettes and mignonettes

And ivy-leaves and violets,

Look up as pure and fresh of hue

As though baptized in morning dew.

"Old Room, to me your homely walls

Fold round me like the arms of love,

And over all my being falls

A blessing pure as from above—

Even as a nestling child caressed

And lulled upon a loving breast,

With folded eyes, too glad to weep

And yet too sad for dreams or sleep.

"You've been so kind to me, old Room—

So patient in your tender care,

My drooping heart in fullest bloom

Has blossomed for you unaware;

And who but you had cared to woo

A heart so dark, and heavy, too,

As in the past you lifted mine

From out the shadow to the shine?

"For I was but a wayward boy

When first you gladly welcomed me

And taught me work was truer joy

Than rioting incessantly:

And thus the din that stormed within

The old guitar and violin

Has fallen in a fainter tone

And sweeter, for your sake alone.

"Though in my absence I have stood

In festal halls a favored guest,

I missed, in this old quietude,

My worthy work and worthy rest—

By this I know that long ago

You loved me first, and told me so

In art's mute eloquence of speech

The voice of praise may never reach.

"For lips and eyes in truth's disguise

Confuse the faces of my friends,

Till old affection's fondest ties

I find unraveling at the ends;

But as I turn to you, and learn

To meet my griefs with less concern,

Your love seems all I have to keep

Me smiling lest I needs must weep.

"Yet I am happy, and would fain

Forget the world and all its woes;

So set me to my tasks again,

Old Room, and lull me to repose:

And as we glide adown the tide

Of dreams, forever side by side,

I'll hold your hands as lovers do

Their sweethearts' and talk love to you."

THE PLAINT HUMAN

Season of snows, and season of flowers,

Seasons of loss and gain!—

Since grief and joy must alike be ours,

Why do we still complain?

Ever our failing, from sun to sun,

O my intolerant brother—

We want just a little too little of one,

And much too much of the other.

THE QUEST

I am looking for Love. Has he passed this way,

With eyes as blue as the skies of May,

And a face as fair as the summer dawn?—

You answer back, but I wander on,—

For you say: "Oh, yes; but his eyes were gray,

And his face as dim as a rainy day."

Good friends, I query, I search for Love;

His eyes are as blue as the skies above,

And his smile as bright as the midst of May

When the truce-bird pipes: Has he passed this way?

And one says: "Ay; but his face, alack!

Frowned as he passed, and his eyes were black."

O who will tell me of Love? I cry!

His eyes are as blue as the mid-May sky,

And his face as bright as the morning sun;

And you answer and mock me, every one,

That his eyes were dark, and his face was wan,

And he passed you frowning and wandered on.

But stout of heart will I onward fare,

Knowing my Love is beyond—somewhere,—

The Love I seek, with the eyes of blue,

And the bright, sweet smile unknown of you;

And on from the hour his trail is found

I shall sing sonnets the whole year round.

THE MULBERRY TREE

It's many's the scenes which is dear to my mind

As I think of my childhood so long left behind;

The home of my birth, with it's old puncheon-floor,

And the bright morning-glories that growed round the door;

The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off

Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft,

Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me,

And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.

And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake,

I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake,

And the long purple berries that rained on the ground

Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around.

And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade,

I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed

With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee

To foller them off to the mulberry tree.

Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail,

And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail,

And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands,

The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants.

But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore

As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more—

What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me,

With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!

Then it's who can fergit the old mulberry tree

That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free

As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out

Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about?

O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay,

Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day,

And, a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be,

They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.

FOR YOU

For you, I could forget the gay

Delirium of merriment,

And let my laughter die away

In endless silence of content.

I could forget, for your dear sake,

The utter emptiness and ache

Of every loss I ever knew.—

What could I not forget for you?

I could forget the just deserts

Of mine own sins, and so erase

The tear that burns, the smile that hurts,

And all that mars or masks my face.

For your fair sake I could forget

The bonds of life that chafe and fret,

Nor care if death were false or true.—

What could I not forget for you?

What could I not forget? Ah me!

One thing, I know, would still abide

Forever in my memory,

Though all of love were lost beside—

I yet would feel how first the wine

Of your sweet lips made fools of mine

Until they sung, all drunken through—

"What could I not forget for you?"

A FEEL IN THE CHRIS'MAS-AIR

They's a kind o' feel in the air, to me.

When the Chris'mas-times sets in.

That's about as much of a mystery

As ever I've run ag'in!—

Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight

And gineral health, I swear

They's a goneness somers I can't quite state—

A kind o' feel in the air.

They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right

To the spot where a man lives at!—

It gives a feller a' appetite—

They ain't no doubt about that!—

And yit they's somepin'—I don't know what—

That follers me, here and there,

And ha'nts and worries and spares me not—

A kind o' feel in the air!

They's a feel, as I say, in the air that's jest

As blame-don sad as sweet!—

In the same ra-sho as I feel the best

And am spryest on my feet,

They's allus a kind o' sort of a' ache

That I can't lo-cate no-where;—

But it comes with Chris'mas, and no mistake!—

A kind o' feel in the air.

Is it the racket the childern raise?—

W'y, no!—God bless 'em!—no!—

Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze—

Like my own wuz, long ago?—

Is it the bleat o' the whistle and beat

O' the little toy-drum and blare

O' the horn?—No! no!—it is jest the sweet—

The sad-sweet feel in the air.

AS CREATED

There's a space for good to bloom in

Every heart of man or woman,—

And however wild or human,

Or however brimmed with gall,

Never heart may beat without it;

And the darkest heart to doubt it

Has something good about it

After all.

WHERE-AWAY

O the Lands of Where-Away!

Tell us—tell us—where are they?

Through the darkness and the dawn

We have journeyed on and on—

From the cradle to the cross—

From possession unto loss.—

Seeking still, from day to day,

For the Lands of Where-Away.

When our baby-feet were first

Planted where the daisies burst,

And the greenest grasses grew

In the fields we wandered through,—

On, with childish discontent,

Ever on and on we went,

Hoping still to pass, some day,

O'er the verge of Where-Away.

Roses laid their velvet lips

On our own, with fragrant sips;

But their kisses held us not,

All their sweetness we forgot;—

Though the brambles in our track

Plucked at us to hold us back—

"Just ahead," we used to say,

"Lie the Lands of Where-Away."

Children at the pasture-bars,

Through the dusk, like glimmering stars,

Waved their hands that we should bide

With them over eventide;

Down the dark their voices failed

Falteringly, as they hailed,

And died into yesterday—

Night ahead and—Where-Away?

Twining arms about us thrown—

Warm caresses, all our own,

Can but stay us for a spell—

Love hath little new to tell

To the soul in need supreme,

Aching ever with the dream

Of the endless bliss it may

Find in Lands of Where-Away!

DREAMER, SAY

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me

A wild sweet dream of a foreign land,

Whose border sips of a foaming sea

With lips of coral and silver sand;

Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,

Or lave themselves in the tearful mist

The great wild wave of the breaker weeps

O'er crags of opal and amethyst?

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream

Of tropic shades in the lands of shine,

Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream

That flows like a rill of wasted wine,—

Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,

Parry the shafts of the Indian sun

Whose splintering vengeance falls between

The reeds below where the waters run?

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love

That lives in a land of sweet perfume,

Where the stars drip down from the skies above

In molten spatters of bud and bloom?

Where never the weary eyes are wet,

And never a sob in the balmy air,

And only the laugh of the paroquette

Breaks the sleep of the silence there?

OUR OWN

They walk here with us, hand-in-hand;

We gossip, knee-by-knee;

They tell us all that they have planned—

Of all their joys to be,—

And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day,

All desolate we cry

Across wide waves of voiceless graves—

Good-by! Good-by! Good-by!

THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED

O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!

What canopied king might not covet the joy?

The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,

Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:

The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,

But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.

O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,

Was the queer little, clear little, old trundle-bed!

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw

The stars through the window, and listened with awe

To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept

Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:

Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,

And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,

Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led

Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.

O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!

With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread;

Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above,

Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;

The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep

With the old fairy-stories my memories keep

Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head

Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle-bed.

WHO BIDES HIS TIME

Who bides his time, and day by day

Faces defeat full patiently,

And lifts a mirthful roundelay,

However poor his fortunes be,—

He will not fail in any qualm

Of poverty—the paltry clime

It will grow golden in his palm,

Who bides his time.

Who bides his time—he tastes the sweet

Of honey in the saltest tear;

And though he fares with slowest feet,

Joy runs to meet him, drawing near;

The birds are heralds of his cause;

And, like a never-ending rhyme,

The roadsides bloom in his applause,

Who bides his time.

Who bides his time, and fevers not

In the hot race that none achieves,

Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought

With crimson berries in the leaves;

And he shall reign a goodly king,

And sway his hand o'er every clime,

With peace writ on his signet-ring,

Who bides his time.

NATURAL PERVERSITIES

I am not prone to moralize

In scientific doubt

On certain facts that Nature tries

To puzzle us about,—

For I am no philosopher

Of wise elucidation,

But speak of things as they occur,

From simple observation.

I notice little things—to wit:—

I never missed a train

Because I didn't run for it;

I never knew it rain

That my umbrella wasn't lent,—

Or, when in my possession,

The sun but wore, to all intent,

A jocular expression.

I never knew a creditor

To dun me for a debt

But I was "cramped" or "busted;" or

I never knew one yet,

When I had plenty in my purse,

To make the least invasion,—

As I, accordingly perverse,

Have courted no occasion.

Nor do I claim to comprehend

What Nature has in view

In giving us the very friend

To trust we oughtn't to.—

But so it is: The trusty gun

Disastrously exploded

Is always sure to be the one

We didn't think was loaded.

Our moaning is another's mirth,—

And what is worse by half,

We say the funniest thing on earth

And never raise a laugh:

Mid friends that love us overwell,

And sparkling jests and liquor,

Our hearts somehow are liable

To melt in tears the quicker.

We reach the wrong when most we seek

The right; in like effect,

We stay the strong and not the weak—

Do most when we neglect.—

Neglected genius—truth be said—

As wild and quick as tinder,

The more we seek to help ahead

The more we seem to hinder.

I've known the least the greatest, too—

And, on the selfsame plan,

The biggest fool I ever knew

Was quite a little man:

We find we ought, and then we won't—

We prove a thing, then doubt it,—

Know everything but when we don't

Know anything about it.

A SCRAWL

I want to sing something—but this is all—

I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull

As though they were damp, and the echoes fall

Limp and unlovable.

Words will not say what I yearn to say—

They will not walk as I want them to,

But they stumble and fall in the path of the way

Of my telling my love for you.

Simply take what the scrawl is worth—

Knowing I love you as sun the sod

On the ripening side of the great round earth

That swings in the smile of God.

WRITIN' BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS

My dear old friends—It jes beats all,

The way you write a letter

So's ever' last line beats the first,

And ever' next-un's better!—

W'y, ever' fool-thing you putt down

You make so interestin',

A feller, readin' of 'em all,

Can't tell which is the best-un.

It's all so comfortin' and good,

'Pears-like I almost hear ye

And git more sociabler, you know,

And hitch my cheer up near ye

And jes smile on ye like the sun

Acrosst the whole per-rairies

In Aprile when the thaw's begun

And country couples marries.

It's all so good-old-fashioned like

To talk jes like we're thinkin',

Without no hidin' back o' fans

And giggle-un and winkin',

Ner sizin' how each-other's dressed—

Like some is allus doin',—

"Is Marthy Ellen's basque ben turned

Er shore-enough a new-un!"—

Er "ef Steve's city-friend haint jes

'A leetle kindo'-sorto'"—

Er "wears them-air blame eye-glasses

Jes 'cause he hadn't ort to?"

And so straight on, dad-libitum,

Tel all of us feels, someway,

Jes like our "comp'ny" wuz the best

When we git up to come 'way!

That's why I like old friends like you,—

Jes 'cause you're so abidin'.—

Ef I was built to live "fer keeps,"

My principul residin'

Would be amongst the folks 'at kep'

Me allus thinkin' of 'em,

And sorto' eechin' all the time

To tell 'em how I love 'em.—

Sich folks, you know, I jes love so

I wouldn't live without 'em,

Er couldn't even drap asleep

But what I dreamp' about 'em,—

And ef we minded God, I guess

We'd all love one-another

Jes like one fam'bly,—me and Pap

And Madaline and Mother.

LAUGHTER HOLDING BOTH HIS SIDES

Ay, thou varlet!—Laugh away!

All the world's a holiday!

Laugh away, and roar and shout

Till thy hoarse tongue lolleth out!

Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyes

Unto bursting; pelt thy thighs

With thy swollen palms, and roar

As thou never hast before!

Lustier! wilt thou! peal on peal!

Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel—

Wrestle with thy loins, and then

Wheeze thee whiles, and whoop again!

THE SONG OF YESTERDAY

I

But yesterday

I looked away

O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay

In golden blots

Inlaid with spots

Of shade and wild forget-me-nots.

My head was fair

With flaxen hair,

And fragrant breezes, faint and rare,

And warm with drouth

From out the south,

Blew all my curls across my mouth.

And, cool and sweet,

My naked feet

Found dewy pathways through the wheat;

And out again

Where, down the lane,

The dust was dimpled with the rain.

II

But yesterday:—

Adream, astray,

From morning's red to evening's gray,

O'er dales and hills

Of daffodils

And lorn sweet-fluting whippoorwills.

I knew nor cares

Nor tears nor prayers—

A mortal god, crowned unawares

With sunset—and

A scepter-wand

Of apple-blossoms in my hand!

The dewy blue

Of twilight grew

To purple, with a star or two

Whose lisping rays

Failed in the blaze

Of sudden fireflies through the haze.

III

But yesterday

I heard the lay

Of summer birds, when I, as they

With breast and wing,

All quivering

With life and love, could only sing.

My head was lent

Where, with it, blent

A maiden's o'er her instrument;

While all the night,

From vale to height,

Was filled with echoes of delight.

And all our dreams

Were lit with gleams

Of that lost land of reedy streams.

Along whose brim

Forever swim

Pan's lilies, laughing up at him.

IV

But yesterday!...

O blooms of May,

And summer roses—where-away?

O stars above;

And lips of love,

And all the honeyed sweets thereof!—

O lad and lass,

And orchard pass,

And briered lane, and daisied grass!

O gleam and gloom,

And woodland bloom,

And breezy breaths of all perfume!—

No more for me

Or mine shall be

Thy raptures—save in memory,—

No more—no more—

Till through the Door

Of Glory gleam the days of yore.

SONG OF PARTING

Say farewell, and let me go;

Shatter every vow!

All the future can bestow

Will be welcome now!

And if this fair hand I touch

I have worshipped overmuch,

It was my mistake—and so,

Say farewell, and let me go.

Say farewell, and let me go:

Murmur no regret,

Stay your tear-drops ere they flow—

Do not waste them yet!

They might pour as pours the rain,

And not wash away the pain:

I have tried them and I know.—

Say farewell, and let me go.

Say farewell, and let me go:

Think me not untrue—

True as truth is, even so

I am true to you!

If the ghost of love may stay

Where my fond heart dies to-day,

I am with you alway—so,

Say farewell, and let me go.

OUR KIND OF A MAN

I

The kind of a man for you and me!

He faces the world unflinchingly,

And smites, as long as the wrong resists,

With a knuckled faith and force like fists:

He lives the life he is preaching of,

And loves where most is the need of love;

His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears,

And his face sublime through the blind man's tears;

The light shines out where the clouds were dim,

And the widow's prayer goes up for him;

The latch is clicked at the hovel door

And the sick man sees the sun once more,

And out o'er the barren fields he sees

Springing blossoms and waving trees,

Feeling as only the dying may,

That God's own servant has come that way,

Smoothing the path as it still winds on

Through the Golden Gate where his loved have gone.

II

The kind of a man for me and you!

However little of worth we do

He credits full, and abides in trust

That time will teach us how more is just.

He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds

Of querulous and uneasy minds,

And, sympathizing, he shares the pain

Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain;

And, knowing this, as we grasp his hand,

We are surely coming to understand!

He looks on sin with pitying eyes—

E'en as the Lord, since Paradise,—

Else, should we read, "Though our sins should glow

As scarlet, they shall be white as snow"?—

And, feeling still, with a grief half glad,

That the bad are as good as the good are bad,

He strikes straight out for the Right—and he

Is the kind of a man for you and me!

"HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?"

"How did you rest, last night?"—

I've heard my gran'pap say

Them words a thousand times—that's right—

Jes them words thataway!

As punctchul-like as morning dast

To ever heave in sight

Gran'pap 'ud allus haf to ast—

"How did you rest, last night?"

Us young-uns used to grin,

At breakfast, on the sly,

And mock the wobble of his chin

And eyebrows belt so high

And kind: "How did you rest, last night?"

We'd mumble and let on

Our voices trimbled, and our sight

Was dim, and hearin' gone.

Bad as I used to be,

All I'm a-wantin' is

As puore and ca'm a sleep fer me

And sweet a sleep as his!

And so I pray, on Jedgment Day

To wake, and with its light

See his face dawn, and hear him say—

"How did you rest, last night?"

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon—

The land that the Lord's love rests upon;

Where one may rely on the friends he meets,

And the smiles that greet him along the streets:

Where the mother that left you years ago

Will lift the hands that were folded so,

And put them about you, with all the love

And tenderness you are dreaming of.

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon—

Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,—

Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you,

Will laugh again as he used to do,

Running to meet you, with such a face

As lights like a moon the wondrous place

Where God is living, and glad to live,

Since He is the Master and may forgive.

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon!—

Stay the hopes we are leaning on—

You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes

Looking down from the far-away skies,—

Smile upon us, and reach and take

Our worn souls Home for the old home's sake.—

And so Amen,—for our all seems gone

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon.

JACK-IN-THE-BOX

(Grandfather, musing.)

In childish days! O memory,

You bring such curious things to me!—

Laughs to the lip—tears to the eye,

In looking on the gifts that lie

Like broken playthings scattered o'er

Imagination's nursery floor!

Did these old hands once click the key

That let "Jack's" box-lid upward fly,

And that blear-eyed, fur-whiskered elf

Leap, as though frightened at himself,

And quiveringly lean and stare

At me, his jailer, laughing there?

A child then! Now—I only know

They call me very old; and so

They will not let me have my way,—

But uselessly I sit all day

Here by the chimney-jamb, and poke

The lazy fire, and smoke and smoke,

And watch the wreaths swoop up the flue,

And chuckle—ay, I often do—

Seeing again, all vividly,

Jack-in-the-box leap, as in glee

To see how much he looks like me!

... They talk. I can't hear what they say—

But I am glad, clean through and through

Sometimes, in fancying that they

Are saying, "Sweet, that fancy strays

In age back to our childish days!"

THE BOYS

Where are they?—the friends of my childhood enchanted—

The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,

And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,

As when we raced over

Pink pastures of clover,

And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?

Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces

Forever adrift down the years that are flown?

Am I never to see them romp back to their places,

Where over the meadow,

In sunshine and shadow,

The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone?

Where are they? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover;

The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone,

And the dove's—I have wept at it over and over;—

I want the glad luster

Of youth, and the cluster

Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone!

IT'S GOT TO BE

"When it's got to be,"—like! always say,

As I notice the years whiz past,

And know each day is a yesterday,

When we size it up, at last,—

Same as I said when my boyhood went

And I knowed we had to quit,—

"It's got to be, and it's goin' to be!"—

So I said "Good-by" to it.

It's got to be, and it's goin' to be!

So at least I always try

To kind o' say in a hearty way,—

"Well, it's got to be. Good-by!"

The time jes melts like a late, last snow,—

When it's got to be, it melts!

But I aim to keep a cheerful mind,

Ef I can't keep nothin' else!

I knowed, when I come to twenty-one,

That I'd soon be twenty-two,—

So I waved one hand at the soft young man,

And I said, "Good-by to you!"

It's got to be, and it's goin' to be!

So at least I always try

To kind o' say, in a cheerful way,—

"Well, it's got to be.—Good-by!"

They kep' a-goin', the years and years,

Yet still I smiled and smiled,—

For I'd said "Good-by" to my single life,

And I now had a wife and child:

Mother and son and the father—one,—

Till, last, on her bed of pain,

She jes' smiled up, like she always done,—

And I said "Good-by" again.

It's got to be, and it's goin' to be!

So at least I always try

To kind o' say, in a humble way,—

"Well, it's got to be. Good-by!"

And then my boy—as he growed to be

Almost a man in size,—

Was more than a pride and joy to me,

With his mother's smilin' eyes.—

He gimme the slip, when the War broke out,

And followed me. And I

Never knowed till the first right's end ...

I found him, and then, ... "Good-by."

It's got to be, and it's goin' to be!

So at least I always try

To kind o' say, in a patient way,

"Well, it's got to be. Good-by!"

I have said, "Good-by!—Good-by!—Good-by!"

With my very best good will,

All through life from the first,—and I

Am a cheerful old man still:

But it's got to end, and it's goin' to end!

And this is the thing I'll do,—

With my last breath I will laugh, O Death,

And say "Good-by" to you!...

It's got to be! And again I say,—

When his old scythe circles high,

I'll laugh—of course, in the kindest way,—

As I say "Good-by!—Good-by!"

"OUT OF REACH?"

You think them "out of reach," your dead?

Nay, by my own dead, I deny

Your "out of reach."—Be comforted:

'Tis not so far to die.

O by their dear remembered smiles

And outheld hands and welcoming speech,

They wait for us, thousands of miles

This side of "out-of-reach."

"A BRAVE REFRAIN"

When snow is here, and the trees look weird,

And the knuckled twigs are gloved with frost;

When the breath congeals in the drover's beard,

And the old pathway to the barn is lost;

When the rooster's crow is sad to hear,

And the stamp of the stabled horse is vain,

And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear—

O then is the time for a brave refrain!

When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg,

And the tallow gleams in frozen streaks;

And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg,

And the pump sounds hoarse and the handle squeaks;

When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap,

And the frost is scratched from the window-pane

And anxious eyes from the inside peep—

O then is the time for a brave refrain!

When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb,

And hob-nailed shoes on the hearth below,

And the house-cat curls in a slumber calm,

And the eight-day clock ticks loud and slow;

When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil

'Neath the kitchen-loft, and the drowsy brain

Sniffs the breath of the morning meal—

O then is the time for a brave refrain!

ENVOI

When the skillet seethes, and a blubbering hot

Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot,

And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain—

O then is the time for a brave refrain!

IN THE EVENING

I

In the evening of our days,

When the first far stars above

Glimmer dimmer, through the haze,

Than the dewy eyes of love,

Shall we mournfully revert

To the vanished morns and Mays

Of our youth, with hearts that hurt,—

In the evening of our days?

II

Shall the hand that holds your own

Till the twain are thrilled as now,

Be withheld, or colder grown?

Shall my kiss upon your brow

Falter from its high estate?

And, in all forgetful ways,

Shall we sit apart and wait—

In the evening of our days?

III

Nay, my wife—my life!—the gloom

Shall enfold us velvetwise,

And my smile shall be the groom

Of the gladness of your eyes:

Gently, gently as the dew

Mingles with the darkening maze,

I shall fall asleep with you—

In the evening of our days.

JIM

He was jes a plain, ever'-day, all-round kind of a

jour.,

Consumpted-lookin'—but la!

The jokiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin',

laughin'est, jolliest

Feller you ever saw!

Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine

enough in his talk,

And his feelin's, too!

Lordy! ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day,

a-carryin' on

Like he ust to do!

Any shop-mate'll tell you there never was, on top o'

dirt,

A better feller'n Jim!

You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else—

You could git it o' him!

Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I

guess!

Give up ever' nickel he's worth—

And, ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it

was his,

He'd a-give you the earth!

Allus a-reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some

Pore feller onto his feet—

He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f,

So's the feller got somepin' to eat!

Didn't make no differ'nee at all to him how he was

dressed,

He ust to say to me,—

"You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in

winter-time, a-huntin' a job,

And he'll git along!" says he.

Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly

much

O' this world's goods at a time.—

'Fore now I've saw him, more'n one't, lend a dollar,

and haf to, more'n like,

Turn round and borry a dime!

Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer a while—

then jerk his coat.

And kindo' square his chin,

Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old

shoe-bench,

And go to peggin' ag'in!

Patientest feller, too, I reckon, 'at ever jes

natchurly

Coughed hisse'f to death!

Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a

whisper and say

He could git ever'thing but his breath—

"You fellers," he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say,

"Is a-pilin' onto me

A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested

ghost o' mine to pack

Through all Eternity!"

Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me,

'At ortn't a-never a-died!

"But death hain't a-showin' no favors," the old boss

said—

"On'y to Jim!" and cried:

And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the

shop—

Er the whole blame neighborhood,—

He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do

anything else that day

But jes set around and feel good!"

THE BEST IS GOOD ENOUGH

I quarrel not with Destiny,

But make the best of everything—

The best is good enough for me.

Leave Discontent alone, and she

Will shut her month and let you sing.

I quarrel not with Destiny.

I take some things, or let 'em be—

Good gold has always got the ring;

The best is good enough for me.

Since Fate insists on secrecy,

I have no arguments to bring—

quarrel not with Destiny.

The fellow that goes "haw" for "gee"

Will find he hasn't got full swing.

The best is good enough for me.

One only knows our needs, and He

Does all of the distributing.

I quarrel not with Destiny;

The best is good enough for me.

HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB

How slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting

Upon the dead sea of the Past!—A view—

Sometimes an odor—or a rooster lifting

A far-off "Ooh! ooh-ooh!"

And suddenly we find ourselves astray

In some wood's-pasture of the Long Ago—

Or idly dream again upon a day

Of rest we used to know.

I bit an apple but a moment since—

A wilted apple that the worm had spurned.—

Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints

Of good old days returned.—

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute,

Tinkles a tune so tender and complete,

God's blessing must be resting on the fruit—

So bitter, yet so sweet!

AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY

I've thought a power on men and things,

As my uncle ust to say,—

And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings!

W'y, they ain't no use to pray!

Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set

A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet,

And tears won't bring it, w'y, you try sweat,

As my uncle ust to say.

They's some don't know their A, B, C's,

As my uncle ust to say,

And yit don't waste no candle-grease,

Ner whistle their lives away!

But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme

No singin' song fer to last all time,

They can blaze the way fer the march sublime,

As my uncle ust to say.

Whoever's Foreman of all things here,

As my uncle ust to say,

He knows each job 'at we're best fit fer,

And our round-up, night and day:

And a-sizin' His work, east and west,

And north and south, and worst and best.

I ain't got nothin' to suggest,

As my uncle ust to say.

WE MUST BELIEVE

"Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief."

We must believe—

Being from birth endowed with love and trust—

Born unto loving;—and how simply just

That love—that faith!—even in the blossom-face

The babe drops dreamward in its resting-place,

Intuitively conscious of the sure

Awakening to rapture ever pure

And sweet and saintly as the mother's own,

Or the awed father's, as his arms are thrown

O'er wife and child, to round about them weave

And wind and bind them as one harvest-sheaf

Of love—to cleave to, and forever cleave....

Lord, I believe:

Help Thou mine unbelief.

We must believe—

Impelled since infancy to seek some clear

Fulfillment, still withheld all seekers here;—

For never have we seen perfection nor

The glory we are ever seeking for:

But we have seen—all mortal souls as one—

Have seen its promise, in the morning sun—

Its blest assurance, in the stars of night;—

The ever-dawning of the dark to light;—

The tears down-falling from all eyes that grieve—

The eyes uplifting from all deeps of grief,

Yearning for what at last we shall receive....

Lord, I believe:

Help Thou mine unbelief.

We must believe—

For still all unappeased our hunger goes,

From life's first waking, to its last repose:

The briefest life of any babe, or man

Outwearing even the allotted span,

Is each a life unfinished—incomplete:

For these, then, of th' outworn, or unworn feet

Denied one toddling step—O there must be

Some fair, green, flowery pathway endlessly

Winding through lands Elysian! Lord, receive

And lead each as Thine Own Child—even the Chief

Of us who didst Immortal life achieve....

Lord, I believe:

Help Thou mine unbelief.

A GOOD MAN

I

A good man never dies—

In worthy deed and prayer

And helpful hands, and honest eyes,

If smiles or tears be there:

Who lives for you and me—

Lives for the world he tries

To help—he lives eternally.

A good man never dies.

II

Who lives to bravely take

His share of toil and stress,

And, for his weaker fellows' sake,

Makes every burden less,—

He may, at last, seem worn—

Lie fallen—hands and eyes

Folded—yet, though we mourn and mourn,

A good man never dies.

THE OLD DAYS

The old days—the far days—

The overdear and fair!—

The old days—the lost days—

How lovely they were!

The old days of Morning,

With the dew-drench on the flowers

And apple-buds and blossoms

Of those old days of ours.

Then was the real gold

Spendthrift Summer flung;

Then was the real song

Bird or Poet sung!

There was never censure then,—

Only honest praise—

And all things were worthy of it

In the old days.

There bide the true friends—

The first and the best;

There clings the green grass

Close where they rest:

Would they were here? No;—

Would we were there!...

The old days—the lost days—

How lovely they were!

A SPRING SONG AND A LATER

She sang a song of May for me,

Wherein once more I heard

The mirth of my glad infancy—

The orchard's earliest bird—

The joyous breeze among the trees

New-clad in leaf and bloom,

And there the happy honey-bees

In dewy gleam and gloom.

So purely, sweetly on the sense

Of heart and spirit fell

Her song of Spring, its influence—

Still irresistible,—

Commands me here—with eyes ablur—

To mate her bright refrain.

Though I but shed a rhyme for her

As dim as Autumn rain.

KNEELING WITH HERRICK

Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent--

Give me content—

Full-pleasured with what comes to me,

Whate'er it be:

An humble roof—a frugal board,

And simple hoard;

The wintry fagot piled beside

The chimney wide,

While the enwreathing flames up-sprout

And twine about

The brazen dogs that guard my hearth

And household worth:

Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow

The rafters low;

And let the sparks snap with delight,

As fingers might

That mark deft measures of some tune

The children croon:

Then, with good friends, the rarest few

Thou boldest true,

Ranged round about the blaze, to share

My comfort there,—

Give me to claim the service meet

That makes each seat

A place of honor, and each guest

Loved as the rest.

THE RAINY MORNING

The dawn of the day was dreary,

And the lowering clouds o'erhead

Wept in a silent sorrow

Where the sweet sunshine lay dead;

And a wind came out of the eastward

Like an endless sigh of pain,

And the leaves fell down in the pathway

And writhed in the falling rain.

I had tried in a brave endeavor

To chord my harp with the sun,

But the strings would slacken ever,

And the task was a weary one:

And so, like a child impatient

And sick of a discontent,

I bowed in a shower of teardrops

And mourned with the instrument.

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor

Of the sun bent over me,

With a touch as warm and tender

As a father's hand might be:

And even as I felt its presence,

My clouded soul grew bright,

And the tears, like the rain of morning,

Melted in mists of light.

REACH YOUR HAND TO ME

Reach your hand to me, my friend,

With its heartiest caress—

Sometime there will come an end

To its present faithfulness—

Sometime I may ask in vain

For the touch of it again,

When between us land or sea

Holds it ever back from me.

Sometime I may need it so,

Groping somewhere in the night,

It will seem to me as though

Just a touch, however light,

Would make all the darkness day,

And along some sunny way

Lead me through an April-shower

Of my tears to this fair hour.

O the present is too sweet

To go on forever thus!

Round the corner of the street

Who can say what waits for us?—

Meeting—greeting, night and day,

Faring each the selfsame way—

Still somewhere the path must end.—

Reach your hand to me, my friend!

TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAM

Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me,

Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity,

You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart,

Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.

When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you

Had the only consolation that I could listen to—

Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow,

And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know.

But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare—

Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air—

And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare,

And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare.

I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away;

I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray;

And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two—

And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you!

We set thare by the smoke-house—me and you out thare alone—

Me a-thinkin'—you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone—

You a-talkin'—me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago,

And a-writin' "Marthy—Marthy" with my finger in the snow!

William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then;

And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again,

And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say:

"Be rickonciled and bear it—we but linger fer a day!"

At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me—

Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be;

And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here,

In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.

It was better than the meetin', too, that nine-mile talk we had

Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad;

When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare,"

And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare.

And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike,

In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like—

Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind,

A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of mind!

And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight:—

Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fight

With the old stag-deer that pronged him—how he battled fer his life,

And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.

Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we

Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three—

When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way,

And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.

Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest,"

And thare, beyent the covered bridge, "The Counter-fitters' Nest"—

Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted—that a man was murdered thare,

And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.

And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two—

You know we talked about the times when that old road was new:

How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State

Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't dim-onstrate?

Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past;

But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last;

And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end,

I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.

With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane,

And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane,

I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name,

Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same!

A BACKWARD LOOK

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,

And lazily leaning back in my chair,

Enjoying myself in a general way—

Allowing my thoughts a holiday

From weariness, toil and care,—

My fancies—doubtless, for ventilation—

Left ajar the gates of my mind,—

And Memory, seeing the situation,

Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne."

Wandering ever with tireless feet

Through scenes of silence, and jubilee

Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet

Were thronging the shadowy side of the street

As far as the eye could see;

Dreaming again, in anticipation,

The same old dreams of our boyhood's days

That never come true, from the vague sensation

Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born!

And there was the selfsame clock that ticked

From the close of dusk to the burst of morn,

When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn

And helped when the apples were picked.

And the "chany-dog" on the mantel-shelf,

With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,

Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself

Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

And down to the swing in the locust tree,

Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground

And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three

Or four such other boys used to be

Doin' "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round:"

And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest,

And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed

Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed,

The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

And again I gazed from the old school-room

With a wistful look of a long June day,

When on my cheek was the hectic bloom

Caught of Mischief, as I presume—

He had such a "partial" way,

It seemed, toward me.—And again I thought

Of a probable likelihood to be

Kept in after school—for a girl was caught

Catching a note from me.

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole—

Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,—

And we never cared when the water was cold.

And always "clucked" the boy that told

On the fellow that tied the clothes.—

When life went so like a dreamy rhyme

That it seems to me now that then

The world was having a jollier time

Than it ever will have again.

AT SEA

O we go down to sea in ships—

But Hope remains behind,

And Love, with laughter on his lips,

And Peace, of passive mind;

While out across the deeps of night,

With lifted sails of prayer,

We voyage off in quest of light,

Nor find it anywhere.

O Thou who wroughtest earth and sea,

Yet keepest from our eyes

The shores of an eternity

In calms of Paradise,

Blow back upon our foolish quest

With all the driving rain

Of blinding tears and wild unrest,

And waft us home again.

THE OLD GUITAR

Neglected now is the old guitar

And moldering into decay;

Fretted with many a rift and scar

That the dull dust hides away,

While the spider spins a silver star

In its silent lips to-day.

The keys hold only nerveless strings—

The sinews of brave old airs

Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings

So closely here declares

A sad regret in its ravelings

And the faded hue it wears.

But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,

Has cherished a smile for me;

And its features hint of a fairer face

That comes with a memory

Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place

And a moonlit balcony.

Music sweeter than words confess

Or the minstrel's powers invent,

Thrilled here once at the light caress

Of the fairy hands that lent

This excuse for the kiss I press

On the dear old instrument.

The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem

Still blooms; and the tiny sets

In the circle all are here; the gem

In the keys, and the silver frets;

But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them—

Alas for the heart's regrets!—

Alas for the loosened strings to-day,

And the wounds of rift and scar

On a worn old heart, with its roundelay

Enthralled with a stronger bar

That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay

Like that of the old guitar!

JOHN McKEEN

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,

His loosened collar, and swarthy throat;

His face unshaven, and none the less,

His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,

And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more,

And tilt him back in his Windsor chair

By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er

And the light of the hearth is across the floor,

And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent

With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,

And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,

And neighborly gossip and merriment,

And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound,

And fill the hearing with childish glee

Of rhyming riddle, or story found

In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound

Old book of the Used-to-be!

John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John,

To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!—

To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don

A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone

Out on election days!

John, ah, John! did it prove your worth

To yield you the office you still maintain?

To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth

Of all the happier things on earth

To the hunger of heart and brain?

Under the dusk of your villa trees,

Edging the drives where your blooded span

Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,—

Where are the children about your knees,

And the mirth, and the happy man?

The blinds of your mansion are battened to;

Your faded wife is a close recluse;

And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do

Dutifully all that is willed of you,

And marry as you shall choose!—

But O for the old-home voices, blent

With the watery jingle of pans and spoons,

And the motherly chirrup of glad content,

And neighborly gossip and merriment,

And the old-time fiddle-tunes!

THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND

Where do you go when you go to sleep,

Little Boy! Little Boy! where?

'Way—'way in where's Little Bo-Peep,

And Little Boy Blue, and the Cows and Sheep

A-wandering 'way in there;—in there—

A-wandering 'way in there!

And what do you see when lost in dreams,

Little Boy, 'way in there?

Firefly-glimmers and glowworm-gleams,

And silvery, low, slow-sliding streams,

And mermaids, smiling out—'way in where

They're a-hiding—'way in there!

Where do you go when the Fairies call,

Little Boy! Little Boy! where?

Wade through the clews of the grasses tall,

Hearing the weir and the waterfall

And the Wee Folk—'way in there—in there—

And the Kelpies—'way in there!

And what do you do when you wake at dawn,

Little Boy! Little Boy! what?

Hug my Mommy and kiss her on

Her smiling eyelids, sweet and wan,

And tell her everything I've forgot

About, a-wandering 'way in there—

Through the blind-world 'way in there!

"THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS"

Pap he allus ust to say,

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Liked to hear him that-a-way,

In his old split-bottomed cheer

By the fireplace here at night—

Wood all in,—and room all bright,

Warm and snug, and folks all here:

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Me and 'Lize, and Warr'n and Jess

And Eldory home fer two

Weeks' vacation; and, I guess,

Old folks tickled through and through,

Same as we was,—"Home onc't more

Fer another Chris'mus—shore!"

Pap 'u'd say, and tilt his cheer,—

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Mostly Pap was ap' to be

Ser'ous in his "daily walk,"

As he called it; giner'ly

Was no hand to joke er talk.

Fac's is, Pap had never be'n

Rugged-like at all—and then

Three years in the army had

Hepped to break him purty bad.

Never flinched! but frost and snow

Hurt his wownd in winter. But

You bet Mother knowed it, though!—

Watched his feet, and made him putt

On his flannen; and his knee,

Where it never healed up, he

Claimed was "well now—mighty near—

Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Pap 'u'd say, and snap his eyes ...

Row o' apples sputter'n' here

Round the hearth, and me and 'Lize

Crackin' hicker'-nuts; and Warr'n

And Eldory parchin' corn;

And whole raft o' young folks here.

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Mother tuk most comfort in

Jest a-heppin' Pap: She'd fill

His pipe fer him, er his tin

O' hard cider; er set still

And read fer him out the pile

O' newspapers putt on file

Whilse he was with Sherman—(She

Knowed the whole war-history!)

Sometimes he'd git het up some.—

"Boys," he'd say, "and you girls, too,

Chris'mus is about to come;

So, as you've a right to do,

Celebrate it! Lots has died,

Same as Him they crucified,

That you might be happy here.

Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Missed his voice last Chris'mus—missed

Them old cheery words, you know.

Mother belt up tel she kissed

All of us—then had to go

And break down! And I laughs: "Here!

'Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

"Them's his very words," sobbed she,

"When he asked to marry me."

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Over, over, still I hear,

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

Yit, like him, I'm goin' to smile

And keep cheerful all the while:

Allus Chris'mus There—And here

"Chris'mus comes but onc't a year!"

TO THE JUDGE

A Voice From the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole Township

Friend of my earliest youth,

Can't you arrange to come down

And visit a fellow out here in the woods—

Out of the dust of the town?

Can't you forget you're a Judge

And put by your dolorous frown

And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend—

Can't you arrange to come down?

Can't you forget for a while

The arguments prosy and drear,—

To lean at full-length in indefinite rest

In the lap of the greenery here?

Can't you kick over "the Bench,"

And "husk" yourself out of your gown

To dangle your legs where the fishing is good—

Can't you arrange to come down?

Bah! for your office of State!

And bah! for its technical lore!

What does our President, high in his chair,

But wish himself low as before!

Pick between peasant and king,—

Poke your bald head through a crown

Or shadow it here with the laurels of Spring!—

Can't you arrange to come down?

"Judge it" out here, if you will,—

The birds are in session by dawn;

You can draw, not complaints, but a sketch of the hill

And a breath that your betters have drawn;

You can open your heart, like a case,

To a jury of kine, white and brown,

And their verdict of "Moo" will just satisfy you!—

Can't you arrange to come down?

Can't you arrange it, old Pard?—

Pigeonhole Blackstone and Kent!—

Here we have "Breitmann," and Ward,

Twain, Burdette, Nye, and content!

Can't you forget you're a Judge

And put by your dolorous frown

And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend—

Can't you arrange to come down?

OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS

Ho! I'm going back to where

We were youngsters.—Meet me there,

Dear old barefoot chum, and we

Will be as we used to be,—

Lawless rangers up and down

The old creek beyond the town—

Little sunburnt gods at play,

Just as in that far-away:—

Water nymphs, all unafraid,

Shall smile at us from the brink

Of the old millrace and wade

Tow'rd us as we kneeling drink

At the spring our boyhood knew,

Pure and clear as morning-dew:

And, as we are rising there,

Doubly dow'rd to hear and see,

We shall thus be made aware

Of an eerie piping, heard

High above the happy bird

In the hazel: And then we,

Just across the creek, shall see

(Hah! the goaty rascal!) Pan

Hoof it o'er the sloping green,

Mad with his own melody,

Aye, and (bless the beasty man!)

Stamping from the grassy soil

Bruiséd scents of fleur-de-lis,

Boneset, mint and pennyroyal.

MY DANCIN'-DAYS IS OVER

What is it in old fiddle-chunes 'at makes me ketch my breath

And ripples up my backbone tel I'm tickled most to death?—

Kindo' like that sweet-sick feelin', in the long sweep of a swing,

The first you ever swung in, with yer first sweet-heart, i jing!—

Yer first picnic—yer first ice-cream—yer first o' ever'thing

'At happened 'fore yer dancin'-days wuz over!

I never understood it—and I s'pose I never can,—

But right in town here, yisterd'y, I heerd a pore blindman

A-fiddlin' old "Gray Eagle"—And-sir! I jes stopped my load

O' hay and listened at him—yes, and watched the way he "bow'd,"—

And back I went, plum forty year', with boys and girls I knowed

And loved, long 'fore my dancin'-days wuz over!—

At high noon in yer city,—with yer blame Magnetic-Cars

A-hummin' and a-screetchin' past—and bands and G.A.R.'s

A-marchin'—and fire-ingines.—All the noise, the whole street through,

Wuz lost on me!—I only heerd a whipperwill er two,

It 'peared-like, kindo' callin' 'crost the darkness and the dew,

Them nights afore my dancin'-days wuz over.

T'uz Chused'y-night at Wetherell's, er We'nsd'y-night at Strawn's,

Er Fourth-o'-July-night at uther Tomps's house er John's!—

With old Lew Church from Sugar Crick, with that old fiddle he

Had sawed clean through the Army, from Atlanty to the sea—

And yit he'd fetched, her home ag'in, so's he could play fer me

One't more afore my dancin'-days wuz over!

The woods 'at's all ben cut away wuz growin' same as then;

The youngsters all wuz boys ag'in 'at's now all oldish men;

And all the girls 'at then wuz girls—I saw 'em, one and all,

As plain as then—the middle-sized, the short-and-fat, and tall—

And, 'peared-like, I danced "Tucker" fer 'em up and down the wall

Jes like afore my dancin' days wuz over!

Yer po-leece they can holler "Say! you, Uncle! drive ahead!—

You can't use all the right-o'-way!"—fer that wuz what they said!—

But, jes the same,—in spite of all 'at you call "interprise

And prog-gress of you-folks Today," we're all of fambly-ties—

We're all got feelin's fittin' fer the tears 'at's in our eyes

Er the smiles afore our dancin'-days is over.

HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS

O your hands—they are strangely fair!

Fair—for the jewels that sparkle there,—

Fair—for the witchery of the spell

That ivory keys alone can tell;

But when their delicate touches rest

Here in my own do I love them best,

As I clasp with eager acquisitive spans

My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

Marvelous—wonderful—beautiful hands!

They can coax roses to bloom in the strands

Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine.

Under mysterious touches of thine,

Into such knots as entangle the soul,

And fetter the heart under such a control

As only the strength of my love understands—

My passionate love for your beautiful hands.

As I remember the first fair touch

Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,

I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled,

Kissing the glove that I found unfilled—

When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow,

As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!"

And dazed and alone in a dream I stand

Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved, in the long ago,

And held your hand as I told you so—

Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss,

And said "I could die for a hand like this!"

Little I dreamed love's fulness yet

Had to ripen when eyes were wet,

And prayers were vain in their wild demands

For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful Hands! O Beautiful Hands!

Could you reach out of the alien lands

Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night,

Only a touch—were it ever so light—

My heart were soothed, and my weary brain

Would lull itself into rest again;

For there is no solace the world commands

Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

End of Project Gutenberg's Riley Songs of Home, by James Whitcomb Riley

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RILEY SONGS OF HOME ***

***** This file should be named 16265-h.htm or 16265-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/2/6/16265/

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Scott G. Sims and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.

*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.net/license).

Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.net),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License.  You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.

Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations.  To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate

Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

http://www.gutenberg.net

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

AS CREATED

AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY

AT SEA

BACKWARD LOOK, A

BEST IS GOOD ENOUGH, THE

BOYS, THE

"BRAVE REFRAIN, A"

DREAMER, SAY

FEEL IN THE CHRIS'MAS AIR

FOR YOU

GOOD MAN, A

HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS

HIS ROOM

HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB

"HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?"

IN THE EVENING

IT'S GOT TO BE

JACK-IN-THE-BOX

JIM

JOHN MCKEEN

JUST TO BE GOOD

KNEELING WITH HERRICK

LAUGHTER HOLDING BOTH HIS SIDES

MULBERRY TREE, THE

MY DANCIN' DAYS IS OVER

MY FRIEND

NATURAL PERVERSITIES

NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE

OLD DAYS, THE

OLD GUITAR, THE

OLD TRUNDLE-BED, THE

OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS

OUR KIND OF A MAN

OUR OWN

"OUT OF REACH?"

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE

PLAINT HUMAN, THE

QUEST, THE

RAINY MORNING, THE

REACH YOUR HAND TO ME

SCRAWL, A

SONG OF PARTING

SONG OF YESTERDAY, THE

SPRING SONG AND A LATER, A

"THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS"

THINKIN' BACK

THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND

TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN

TO THE JUDGE

WE MUST BELIEVE