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A ^/^'^ 
 
 TRIBUTE TO JAMES 
 WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 AND 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 By 
 THOMAS HOWARD HUDSON, M. D. 
 
 KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI 
 
 BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 Publishers and Booksellers 
 

 COPYRIGHTBD I917 
 BY 
 
 BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 Kansas City, Missouri 
 
 .lyi -3 i9l3 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To all who 
 In fancy, would pursue 
 The peoples' Poet Laureate 
 Beyond the Pearly Gate, 
 May see him meet 
 Upon the Golden street, 
 The friends of Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 Already, you have guessed 
 The first— 
 
 His mother — and the best, 
 
 God ever gave. 
 
 Or mortal man could have. 
 The next her love almost divine 
 On Earth — "That old sweetheart of mine.' 
 Then "Old Aunt Mary" — friend of youth. 
 His friend "Doc Scifers" — soul of truth. 
 
 The raggedy man. 
 
 Little Orphant Ann — 
 
 le, dear little waif 
 Safe. 
 Ten thousand more who loved him here, 
 Rejoice to meet him there. 
 
To all in native land 
 
 Who understand 
 
 The song he sings 
 
 Of common things 
 
 How common ground 
 
 Is changed to golden sand 
 
 Where fairest flowers upspring 
 
 Beneath his magic wand. 
 
 To all an earth 
 
 Who meditate 
 
 Upon his worth 
 
 And celebrate 
 
 The day that gave him birth 
 
 Whose fancies still pursue 
 
 Him through 
 The golden streets 
 Well met by all he meets. 
 
 To all friends here 
 
 And everywhere. 
 Who still his memory revere, 
 This tribute slight, but true 
 
 We dedicate 
 
 To you. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 A Tribute To James Whitcomb Riley 9 
 
 Our Boys 14 
 
 Sue 16 
 
 Dick Lovingood 17 
 
 Our Boys At The Game Of Punch 22 
 
 Woman 23 
 
 Kentucky 25 
 
 The Dentist 28 
 
 "Doc Shootem" 31 
 
 Sant Brooks 41 
 
 The Man From Nantucket 44 
 
 Camping Out 45 
 
 Dick Riggs 49 
 
 My Darting 53 
 
 Helen Dare 54 
 
A TRIBITE TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 Of one for whom friends mourned as dead, 
 
 Our friend, our poet Riley said: 
 
 I cannot say, and I will not say. 
 
 That he is dead; he is just away. 
 
 With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, 
 
 He has wandered into an unknown land. 
 
 And left us dreaming how very fair 
 
 It needs must be, since he lingers there. 
 
 So now, say we, his friends of him. 
 Our modest poet Hoosier Jim. 
 He is not dead, nor far away; 
 He's only past the brim. 
 
 The narrow rim 
 Of night 
 
 Into the light 
 Of day. 
 He so enjoyed the fair, the bright, 
 The beautiful; so loved sunlight; 
 That as 'twas often cloudy here. 
 
 This friend of yours and mine. 
 
 Just simply moved up there 
 
 Into the bright sunshine. 
 9 
 
Ten 
 
 'Twas dark enough for us the night 
 He left, but, bless his heart, starlight, 
 Was light enough to guide him straight 
 Through Heaven's blue, to Heaven's gate. 
 
 The gate was locked; 
 
 But from inside. 
 
 When Riley knocked, 
 
 A sentry cried: 
 
 "Who's here?" 
 
 (When Jim's old Hoosier land was new. 
 
 With bands of "Injuns" roving through 
 
 It, settlers, if disturbed at night. 
 
 Bolted the door, put out the light. 
 
 And quick as scat, aye, quick as winks! 
 
 Thrust rifle muzzles through a chink 
 
 Before a thoughtless man could think, 
 
 And shouted loud: 'Speak up, who's here?" 
 
 If foe the foe had best beware 
 
 If friend, the answer was "Hoosier!" 
 
 So this is how that word became 
 
 The Hoosier's password, and his name.) 
 
 Jim thought he caught the dear old word — 
 The old password, and thanked the Lord; 
 So when the sentry asked who's here, Jim promptly 
 answered : 
 
 "I, Hoosier!" 
 
 Then said the guard: 
 
 "You have the word, 
 
 But what's your name?" 
 
 "It's just the same," 
 
 Drawled Jim, "Up here 
 
 It was down there." 
 
Eleven 
 
 The sentinel somewhat perplexed, 
 Somewhat surprised, and slightly vexed, 
 
 Said: "See here now, 
 
 I want to know 
 
 Just what and how 
 
 You did below?" 
 
 Jim, thus adjured, 
 
 The guard assured. 
 
 That he sometimes 
 
 Wrote Hoosier rhymes. 
 
 "Are you the man," the guard inquired, 
 "The Hoosier man who was inspired, 
 To bid the angels come and board 
 With him, and said he could afford 
 To have them hang around all fall, 
 And make no charge for grub at all? 
 Just keep them for their company, 
 And feed them fine and feed them free? 
 And did you hint of pumpkin pies. 
 And turkey browned and basted nice. 
 The time you wrote of turkey cocks. 
 And pumpkins and the fodder shocks? 
 Are you the chap who used to say: 
 It's got to be, and gwine to be. 
 So 'taint no use to throw a fit. 
 Just better make the best of it? 
 And, did, you on one rainy day. 
 When skies were sullen, dull and gray, 
 Look past the clouds and smile and say: 
 It's cloudy now; yes, to be sure. 
 But morning skies will be the bluer. 
 Suppose the thunder clouds do lower, 
 'Twill only be a summer shower. 
 
Twelve 
 
 And then besides, these summer showers 
 Make greener grass and brighter flowers. 
 Suppose it rains and rains all day, 
 I guess it won't but, then, it may, 
 But 'spose it does — well, let it rain! 
 Tomorrow's sun will shine again." 
 
 Then Riley modestly confessed, 
 That, well, perhaps, he rather guessed 
 He was the chap. He meant no harm — 
 Was raised, he said, upon the farm, 
 And country things was all he knew 
 About; and so, therefore, his view 
 Was limited to common things. 
 And common folks, and, so I ging 
 He says: "I guess I'll step aside."' 
 Just then the pearly gates swung wide. 
 The guarding sentry stepped outside. 
 And said: "In records kept up here. 
 Your record shows up fairly clear; 
 Hazy and dim, at times in spots. 
 But legible in spite of blots. 
 Done things you might have left undone, 
 Neglected some you might have done. 
 But all the time you've kept in view 
 The other fellow; so to you 
 We've this to say, an(i glad to say; 
 You've brightened child^ood's holiday 
 With 'Childhood Rhymes,' your facile pen 
 Has brought delight to grown up men; 
 You claim no creed; and to be sure 
 No human creed can long endure; 
 And. anyway, no mortal creed 
 Can ever meet immortal need. 
 
Thirteen 
 
 You are not faultless, Hoosier Jim, 
 But you can rest your case with Him 
 Who said: 'A cup of water given 
 Shall find a recompence in Heaven. 
 Not perfect. No, none are. But then. 
 What you have done, what you have been, 
 And what you've meant to other men, 
 Are things that count and things that win. 
 Come on!" And Hoosier Jim walked in. 
 
Fourteen 
 
 OUR BOYS. 
 
 Our boys have gone over, 
 
 Friend, brother, fond lover, 
 ^ oung husband, and father, whose faith never 
 faUers 
 
 Trusting God and the right 
 
 They're gone into the fight 
 To defend and protect their homes and their ahars. 
 
 The lesson Old Glory 
 
 Has taught is the story 
 Of peace to be won through war's wild commotion, 
 
 Not the menace to life 
 
 Not the tears of a wife, 
 Can quench the hot flame of a patriot's devotion. 
 
 Uncle Sam my seem slow. 
 
 Just seem so you know, 
 But wait 'till he gets his brave boys into battle, 
 
 The Germans will muster 
 
 And bullj'^ and bluster, 
 Then stampede like herds of wild Texas cattle. 
 
 Uncle Sam jolly well 
 
 Knows what he should tell 
 And what it is safest to keep under cover. 
 
 Let us never deceive him, 
 
 Forever believe him, 
 Nor harken at all to the voice of another. 
 
Fifte 
 
 Our boys have gone over, 
 
 They are not in clover, 
 But they're willing to tackle their share of hard tack 
 
 They knew they were sent for. 
 
 They know what they went for, 
 And they'll get it, you bet you, before they come 
 back. 
 
Sixteen 
 
 SUE. 
 
 Far too lovely to last 
 
 Were the days of the past, 
 When the gallant school boy found pleasure, 
 
 In writing in rhyme, 
 
 In tune and in time, 
 A song to his heart's dearest treasure. 
 
 My girl's name was Sue, 
 
 And her eyes were as bli 
 Deep blue as the depths of the ocean. 
 
 Her hair was spim gold, 
 
 And she loved me and told 
 .Me, and gave me her heart's devotion. 
 
 How I loved that fair child, 
 God but knows — I was wild; 
 
 My love beyond human expression; 
 Her radiant smile, 
 Would bewitch and beguile 
 
 A saint on his knees at confession. 
 
 They told me my passion 
 
 Would cool and its fashion 
 Would change, and my girl cease to love me; 
 
 But her eyes are as blue. 
 
 To me still and as true 
 As the stars to the blue above me. 
 
Seventeen 
 
 DICK LOVINGOOD. 
 
 A feller in our naborhood 
 Name of Dick Lovingood, 
 Had come there with his pa, 
 And later on his ma 
 Come; she bein' delicate 
 Had stayed behind to wait 
 Till Dick an' the ole man 
 Had got things spic an' span. 
 
 An' they done it, too. 
 
 You bet you; 
 Rented Bill Sherwood's ole shack, 
 An ole tumbled down rack 
 I V a place, an' made it shine 
 Inside and out; it looked fine. 
 New boards on roof, white washed outside, 
 Rat holes all stopped inside. 
 Walls scrubbed and patched, 
 Doors fixed so they latched, 
 Yard gate hung so she'd swing 
 And just above everything; 
 Done to make the place look like home 
 To mother when she'd come. 
 An' mind you, Dick had done it all. 
 
 His pa had got a job till fall 
 (An' this was spring), at Lye Morr's mill, 
 That kept him humpin all the time till 
 Way in the night, sometimes midnight, 
 An' startin' in afore daylight. 
 So Dick had the bag to hold at 
 The house, an' held it, too, at that. 
 Planted just every kind of flower 
 
Eighteen 
 
 Till people called it the bower. 
 
 Bill Sherwood drivin' by one day, 
 
 Called Dick and said, "Young feller, say, 
 
 You'll not have much rent to pay 
 
 This year, anyway." 
 
 Purlv soon Dick's mother come home. 
 
 An' then we all knowd how Dick come 
 
 By all his nolege and good sense. 
 
 The parson said, "Whenever men's 
 
 Mothers are like her, 
 
 You needn't fear. 
 
 They'll make men of boys every time, 
 
 In every land and every clime. 
 
 If you boys want a good example 
 
 You'll find Dick a tip top sample." 
 
 A thousand times I've thanked the Lord 
 For sendin' us Dick Lovingood. 
 How could he help bein' what he 
 Wus, with such a mother as she 
 Wus. She didn't seem above us neither. 
 An' neither did Dick, either. 
 
 At first we was sorter shy 
 
 An' give the place the go-by. 
 
 But Lordy — inside a week 
 
 We'd go out uv our way to speak 
 
 To her. Bet you we'd go a mile 
 
 To here her voice and see her smile. 
 
Ninete 
 
 Winter an' summer, spring an' fall. 
 
 Twice a week at least, the year all 
 
 Round, boys and girls (an' ole folks, too. 
 
 Sometimes) met at their house to do 
 
 Some stunt or other, recitin, 
 
 Ur props readin' our own writin', 
 
 Essays, they called them. I never 
 
 Could make much headway, an' ever 
 
 Time I'd beg to be excused 
 
 I never out and out refused 
 
 Because that was aganst the rool 
 
 Of our school. 
 
 Always, whenever I could, 
 
 I'd git some boy, if he would, 
 
 To read my essay fer me. 
 
 The drated thing would scare me 
 
 So. But they said they couldn't spell 
 
 Ner pernounce my words, ner tell 
 
 What I ment. I'd a quit purty quick 
 
 Ef it hadnt been fer Dick. 
 
 He stood by me threw thick an' thin, 
 
 An' said "Stick to it an' you'll win." 
 
 Course I didn't try fer stronomy, 
 
 Ner hanker fer triggeronomy. 
 
 Mrs. Lovingood could teach em, 
 
 Shore; but I couldn't reach em. 
 
 Some of the boys did, an' clum 
 
 High up the ladder, an' some, 
 
 They say, plays billiards with the stars 
 
 And not one got behind the bars. 
 
Twenty 
 
 As fer me I didn't espire 
 
 To fly any hier, 
 
 £r strike a faster gate 
 
 Then I could keep up at, 
 
 But then 1 couldn't even writ this 
 
 Durnd easy as it is, 
 
 Ef it hadn't been fer the pick 
 
 Of all creation, I mean Dick, 
 
 And his dear beloved mother; 
 
 Think of one, you think of tother. 
 
 Well to make a long story short, 
 
 I'm writn' this becos I ort 
 
 To show respects to my best friends 
 
 An' also show how much depends 
 
 On how we play the game down heer, 
 
 Played well, we'll win the stakes up thar. 
 
 Dick Lovingood was about fifteen 
 
 When he came thar, maybe sixteen, 
 
 An' when he left thar just three years 
 
 After, the whole atmasfear 
 
 L V the place wus better breathin, 
 
 We was all upset at his leavin, 
 
 An' right away belt a meetin, 
 
 An' first off sent a greetin 
 
 To the foot-ball team uv the colege 
 
 Where he'd gone to git his noledge. 
 
 He gained it, too, an' more than that 
 
 Medals, prizes, at least a hat 
 
 Full and jist about the whole lot 
 
 They had to give he got. 
 
 Father an' mother mov'd up thar 
 
Twenty-one 
 
 Whar Dick wus. His second year 
 He was lected to the cheer 
 Of English langidge at a Lump- 
 In good salry enuff to bump 
 Up agin a big copper mine, 
 At least got big an' turned out fine. 
 But he stuck to school work all the same 
 An' he come out with honor and fame, 
 An' enough earthly treasure 
 To devote his time to pleasure. 
 
 But no! if he can 
 He'll work out a plan 
 To so change the laws 
 As to help out the cause 
 Of best education 
 Throughout the whole nation. 
 
 My story is done 
 
 Excep that Dick run 
 
 For Congress and won. 
 
 An' say, don't you know 
 
 It was glory to go 
 
 An' vote fer a feller you know is just so, 
 
 An put up a fight 
 
 Fer a man that's allright. 
 
 He envited me down 
 
 To Washington town, 
 
 An' says I shall have the time of my life, 
 
 'Cept when they shivareed me an' my wife; 
 
 I'm too full of delight 
 
 To write poetry to night 
 
 But I'm goin 
 
Twenty-two 
 
 On throwin 
 
 Dull care to the wind, 
 
 I>eavin all uv my troubles an' sorrows behind, 
 
 An' I'll bet you he'll be 
 
 Just as glad to see 
 
 As I will to see him at the top of the tree. 
 
 OUR BOYS AT THE GAME OF PUNCH 
 
 The Britons are as brave as they make 'em, 
 So are Freeh men any way you take 'em. 
 Put this in your pipe to smoke after lunch. 
 Our boys beat the world at the game of punch. 
 
 They don't seek for fights, 
 
 They may sleep on their rights. 
 But they're Devils from Hell when you wake 'em. 
 
 The kaiser thinks we are too lazy. 
 Too fat and too slow and too easy; 
 He will get a tremendous big hunch 
 When he finds our bovs there in a bunch. 
 
 When he sees our hard push, 
 
 When he feels our strong rush, 
 
 He'll somewhat change his mind 
 
 For he'll certainly find 
 His infernal old empire knocked crazy. 
 
 The world must be won for democracy, 
 Or lost 'neath the heel of autocracy. 
 The world can be free if 'twill only be brave. 
 There's room for the free man, no room for the 
 slave. 
 
 It is up to our land 
 
 To reach out the hand, 
 The strong hand to friends across the dark sea. 
 
Tiventy-three 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 The sweetest and fairest, 
 The dearest and rarest. 
 Of all the world's flowers, 
 Bloomed first in fair Eden, 
 God's beautiful garden. 
 And since then in ours. 
 
 Although the last planted 
 Its beauty enchanted 
 The Lord of creation. 
 And ever since then 
 Has possessed for all men 
 The same fascination. 
 
 In lands occidental 
 
 This bud oriental. 
 
 Is found at its best. 
 
 And our own dear Westland 
 
 Aye! Aye! and the best land, 
 
 In blessing is blest. 
 
 Lands wild and chaotic 
 This lovely exotic 
 Made to blossom and bloom. 
 It has hallowed the hearth 
 And the home and filled earth 
 With rarest perfume. 
 
Tuenty-fouT 
 
 Mankind in all ages, 
 Conditions and stages; 
 Savages, sages, 
 Princes and yeoman 
 Have sipped the sweet wine 
 From love's clinging vine. 
 And have knelt at the shrine 
 Of beauty divine. 
 Incarnate in woman. 
 
 If here she has lightened 
 The load, and brightened 
 The road as we've striven. 
 How radiantly white 
 Will she be in the light, 
 The white light of heaven. 
 
 If down 'neath the blight 
 Of earth stain and night, 
 Transcendently fair. 
 What must she be then 
 When she blossoms again 
 In the good world up there. 
 
Twenty-five 
 
 KENTUCKY. 
 
 Your pictur' of the open fire 
 Keepes a-drawin' of me higher 
 
 To the blue grass 
 
 An' gyardin' sass, 
 
 Jowl an' greens, 
 
 Wonder beans, 
 
 Wortermillion, 
 
 An' a billion 
 
 Other things — 
 
 By jings!— 
 
 That plum filled up 
 
 The cup 
 
 Of joy 
 
 An' run mine over when a boy. 
 
 Coal to burn? 
 Well, gol durn! 
 An' you say 
 That I may 
 Pile it higher 
 On the fire? 
 That suits me 
 To a tee! 
 
 Any chips wharwith to kindle, 
 When the blaze begins to dwindle? 
 An' you say there's sulphur worter? 
 Don't I recollect — I oughter — 
 That ole spring down by the river? 
 Aye! could I forget it ever? 
 Never, never! 
 
TuentYsix 
 
 I am tired of this cold city, 
 
 An' its fogs an' clouds. I pity 
 
 Folks what have to always live here; 
 
 Bet your boots I'm goin' to give her 
 
 A wide berth! I'm a comin' 
 
 Whar I'll hear the bess a-hummin'^ 
 
 An' the speckled pheasant drummin' 
 
 Even in the winter season; 
 
 Yes, indeed! an' that's the reason 
 
 I'm not grievin' 
 
 At the leavin.' 
 
 Then besides you say I'm wanted, 
 An' that you'll be disappointed 
 An' kinder glum ef I don't come 
 Up to your house; so you say. 
 You have music night an' day; 
 Hooray! Music instrumental, 
 Vocal too an' incidental — 
 Ly a baby! How old is he? 
 
 Bet he keeps the grown-ups busy 
 
 Lookin' after him; but maybe 
 
 He's a girl — a sweet girl baby. 
 
 Bully if he is— far you know, 
 
 1 love baby girls the best; I do 
 
 Love 'em lots when they're little, though 
 
 I love 'em better as they grow, 
 
 Plum 'til they're grown; an' then, My! U! 
 
 Love 'em Uh m-m Uh! I love 'em so. 
 
 Well! I guess I'm purty lucky, 
 Gittin' back to ole Kentucky; 
 Winters there are warm an' shorter; 
 
Twenty-seven 
 
 People there can even sorter, 
 
 Live out doors. Christmas comin', 
 
 Don't prevent the bees from hummin' 
 
 Nor interfere with pheasants drummin'. 
 
 Evenings there you'll hear the trill, 
 
 Uv the tuneful whippoorwill, 
 
 An' any time of day the shrill 
 
 Whistle of the cheerful quail; 
 
 Yes, an' you'll see squirrels playin' 
 
 Rainy days, any days, day in 
 
 An' day out, an' fish a bitin', day or night; 
 
 Game fish, hoopee! 
 
 Black bass fightin'! such a fight. 
 
 Plucky as a mountain trout; 
 
 An' keeps it up it'll plum played out. 
 
 Yes, I guess I'm sorter lucky, 
 Gittin' back to Ole Kentucky. 
 Where the grasses bluish hue 
 Blends with skies of deeper blue; 
 Where thoroughbreds are still as fast. 
 As in the races of the past; 
 Where native men are still as fine. 
 As in the days of auld lang syne; 
 Where women are as fair as when, 
 All the men were gentlemen. 
 My friends — the friends I knew of old, 
 "True as steel and good as gold," 
 Are there; I'm comin' back to them, 
 Yes, I am! indeed, I am, 
 I'm comin' to the dear old sod, 
 Comin' home agin. 
 
 Thank God! 
 
 Thank God! 
 
Twenty-eight 
 
 THE DENTIST. 
 
 Dear Denial Friend, how sweet (sometimes) I 
 
 think 
 To meet with thee, and oh. how hard to part! 
 How strong the tie, how like to steel the link 
 That tugs and strains — not at the heart! 
 Ah! No! 'twere there the links might snap and 
 
 hreak — 
 The heart remain in situ; but, forsooth, 
 The heartache's nothing! Nothing to the ache 
 That severs friendship welded to a tooth. 
 Toothache prevails in age, heartache in youth. 
 
 I've had them both; I've felt the pain — the pang 
 
 Of broken ties, and unrequited love, 
 
 But I declare, the roar, the rattle and the twang 
 
 Of parting tooth and jaw is pain above 
 
 The punishment reserved for you below. 
 
 I scarce believe that Hell's capacious maw 
 
 Holds fiend more merciless than one we know 
 
 As dentist — twisting, wringing, tooth or jaw — 
 
 Old Nick's hard hand were velvet to that paw. 
 
 Scarce twenty years have passed since I the pang 
 Of parting with a double molar felt; 
 And now the dentists don't extract a fang, 
 But crown the tooth they once would have ex- 
 pelled! 
 And other things they do unique and strange! 
 Build bridges, tunnel, drill and excavate 
 Like miners underground, and so arrange 
 That teeth like king's, may eat from golden plate, 
 Regardless how their predecessors ate. 
 
Twenty-nine 
 
 Some twenty years perhaps, or more ago 
 When silver coinage free was all the go, 
 An Irish orator said that nayther 
 A goldbug, nor any dintist ayther 
 Will see Hiv'nl Sure an' Oi'v a wurrd to shpake 
 To thim Goldbugs, an' it's thim thot don't care 
 If a poor divil shtarves, nor phwat he'll take 
 To kape up his shpirits nor wash down his fare; 
 Loikwise the dintist! Begorry, he'll make 
 A jew'lry shop of yer mouth loike enough, 
 But Oi'll bet you saxteen to one he'll take 
 More gould from yer purse than he laves in yer 
 mouth. 
 
 I can't keep up with dental lore — too late, 
 
 Too early or too tired was born, and so 
 
 T practice physic; when by chance or fate 
 
 I blunder (as my creed permits) I go 
 
 And cover my mistake from sight! But you 
 
 My dental friend, can't bury your disgrace; 
 
 It will not die, nor down, nor hide from view. 
 
 But haunts, pursues, o'ertakes, at time and place, 
 
 You'd sooner meet the Devil face to face. 
 
 Ah well! In spite of all your faults, I love 
 
 You. Love you! Aye, indeed, with all my heart! 
 
 I hope that when we (if we) meet above! 
 
 You'll have left your forceps. And we shall part 
 
 No more; abruptly as we've parted here. 
 
 And sometimes I have thought your plan to face 
 
 The music here, was best, for when up there 
 
 We're called upon, it may be I more grace. 
 
 More mercy, and more pity, then may need 
 
 That Heav'n can show to me, and my poor creed. 
 
Thirty 
 
 When you gel through and done down here be^- 
 
 neath 
 The sun, and try if Heaven will let you in, 
 (You who have lived by other peoples teeth), 
 I hope you'll make it. if but by the skin 
 Of yours; for God is merciful and kind. 
 And Oh! if you get through, the chance for me 
 Will be increased a thousand fold, my mind 
 Will be at rest, for I shall know that I'll be 
 Saved ! Saved for time and all eternity. 
 
Thirty- 
 
 "DOC SHOOTEM." 
 
 I was a young doctor of old school persuasion 
 — a new doctor in an old community — a young, 
 new, old school doctor in a Godforsken old di 
 lapidated village in southern Indiana. The vil- 
 lage was located in a swamp known as the Mus- 
 catitac Valley, where malaria was so thick that 
 a man sleeping under it had to have help to turn 
 over. The denizens of this unhappy valley had 
 ague all the year round. They went into winter 
 quarters yellow as pumpkins, poor as Job's turkeys, 
 thin as razor backs, and came out in the spring 
 looking like ghosts of their departed fathers. 
 
 Shortly after I had hung my shingle to the 
 breeze in this invigorating atmosphere one of the 
 rotund citizens called on me for a prescription. 
 He had had chills for years and no doctor had 
 been able to break them. 
 
 He detailed his symptoms, chill in the back 
 preceded and attended by thirst for cold water, 
 which made him shiver and shake; cold places 
 between his shoulders, which felt better when he 
 got it "het up" and all the rest of it, which meant 
 nothing to me. His symptoms were of no con- 
 sequence. He was a patient with ague, I was 
 a doctor with Quinine, and I thought all that was 
 necessary was to give enough of it. It cost five 
 dollars an ounce, and those poor wretches never 
 had money enough at one time to buy a drachm. 
 The doctors had to furnish it, and I supposed 
 that my coajutors or competitors, as you please, 
 
Thirty-two 
 
 had been illiberal in its exhibition; so to make 
 amends for their parsimony, or, rather to score 
 a triumph by my own liberality, I gave it with- 
 out measure or weight, bountifully and repeatedly 
 unstintedly and continually. Gave it until the 
 roaring artillery and the rushing cataract in his 
 head would have made a picnic of Waterloo and 
 a babbling brooklet of Niagara. 
 
 I had added a symptom but that was all, for 
 he came back saying: "Doc, I'm deef'r'n a post, 
 but you haint shuck them chills." 
 
 Then I gave him Arsenic — Fowler's solution — 
 until the tumefaction of his eyelids obscured the 
 light of day; and additional symptom but the 
 shakes still "unshuck." Being now both deaf and 
 blind he concluded it was about time to call a 
 halt. So did I. I was as willing to quit as he 
 was. Subsequently some old "granny woman" 
 induced him to drink a cup of strong red pepper 
 tea which knocked his chills, as he said, higher'n 
 Gilderroy's kite, and so far as I know they never 
 came down. I never heard of their return. I did 
 not tarry long in that vicinity, but sought a more 
 salubrious clime. Failure to shake the shakes 
 had shaken my faith in the shake shakers. My 
 sheet anchors Quinine and Arsenic had failed, and 
 I was all at sea not only without an anchor but 
 with neither chart nor compass. I hoped to make 
 a port where a diversity of diseases would suggest 
 a variety of drugs. 
 
 My failure to interrupt the periodical parox- 
 ysms of ague left such an impression that sub- 
 sequently I got to ruminating over it and rhym- 
 ing about it with the result I hereby offer, sub- 
 ject to your own appraisement. 
 
Thirty-three 
 
 Doc Shootem, who lived in the hills, 
 
 Believed he could cure human ills 
 
 Of every degree and kind; 
 
 All ills of body or mind, 
 
 From brain storm to fever and chills. 
 
 With Arsenic, Strychnine, 
 
 Opium, Quinine, 
 
 And compound cathartic pills. 
 
 He was Regular, and he was young, 
 Had no brains to spare, but his tongue 
 His own praises could sing, and it sung! 
 The surplus of brass in his cheek 
 Far exceeded the gold in his purse. 
 
 The best we can say when we speak 
 Of him is that he might have been worse. 
 The swamp, half a mile from his door. 
 Was teeming with sickness galore — 
 
 Especially chills, 
 
 Aesculapius fils — 
 Said, "I'd like to see one I can't cure." 
 
 Jack Hardman lived down in the bottom, 
 A good place to get chills, and gotem. 
 He said: "The folks down thar had had 'em 
 Every since God A'mighty made Adam." 
 
 Unlike Jack of fabled renown, 
 
 Who with Jill climbed the hill and fell down 
 
 Head foremost and fractured his crown, 
 
 This Jack ascended the hills. 
 
 Not seeking for water, but pills 
 
 To break up his fever and chills. 
 
Thirty-four 
 
 When enthused or excited Jack stuttered 
 
 Over most of the words that he uttered. 
 
 Accosting the medical man 
 
 He said: "I will t-t-tell if I c-c-can 
 
 How I f-f-feel when f-f-feelin' the w-w-wust. 
 
 My back's w-w-whar they t-t-tackles me fust, 
 
 An' my haid f-f-feels lak it would b-b-bust. 
 
 An' then I gits d-d-dryer'n d-d-dust; 
 
 B-b-b-but w-water d-don't hep m-me a b-b-bit, 
 
 Hit b-brings on a s-s-s-s-shivern' f-f-fit 
 
 An' ruther in-c-c-creases my thust." 
 
 You don't need to tell me, my dear sir. 
 
 How you feel, quoth Doc, never fear, sir, 
 
 I shall make you some pills 
 
 That will break up your chills 
 
 And cure you as sure as you're here, sir. 
 
 So he rolled his quinine dough 
 
 Into pills, and I don't know 
 
 How much each pill contained; but oh! 
 
 They were big and they were bitter; 
 
 Grains and grains in every pill ! ! 
 
 Four big pills in every litter! 
 
 Litter five times every day! 
 
 Ought to cure him! You would say: 
 
 I should think so, "cure or kill." 
 
 A week passed away 
 And the patient returned. 
 Says he: "Doc, I'll be durned 
 If I ain't c-chilled every day. 
 I'm d-d-deefn a p-p-post. 
 Throat's d-d-dry'r'n t-t-toast. 
 
Thirty-five 
 
 C-c-cold waiter w-v\ -won't w-weter, 
 
 An' I h-haint no uetter. 
 
 L-l-look here, you damned cuss, 
 
 If I 1-lose m-my h-hearin' 
 
 Thar'll be somethin' doin' 
 
 Round here'll spell r-ruin; 
 
 Thar'll be somethin' w-wuss 
 
 An' hotter fer you 
 
 That all of the s-swearin' 
 
 I'm able t-t-to d-do, 
 
 An' yit I c-can m-make 
 
 The atmosf-fear b-blue 
 
 As the I-injun 0-o-ocean 
 
 Whenever I take 
 
 Nuff d-drinks and t-the n-notion, 
 
 I'm s-sober now. Well's I s-say. 
 
 You s-see me d-d-drunk an' hell's t-t-to p-pay.' 
 
 Appreciating this appeal 
 
 So strongly put by doughty Jack, 
 
 Thus reasoned Doc: "I'll break that chill. 
 
 Or, by the gods, I'll break his neck. 
 
 I'll fix him so they won't come back. 
 
 The idiot thinks that I'm a quack." 
 
 Profoundly Doc soloquized : 
 
 "I guess his liver's hepatized, 
 
 His system must be tranquilized, 
 
 His circulation equalized. 
 
 Some Calomel to stir his liver, 
 
 Soine Opium to cool the fever, 
 
 Sonto Strychnine then to tide him over; 
 
 Then Fowler's arsenic, that'll suit him 
 
 And fetch mm round as well as ever. 
 
 Sure as shot, and my name Shootem." 
 
7 hirty-six 
 
 So unto the liver iiiov*t added he the anodyne, 
 Then to this the tide hiro over. These thought he 
 
 are right in line. 
 The mass then into pills he mixetl. and said, aside, 
 
 I'll have him fixt. 
 
 "Now," said Doc, "my friend and brother 
 
 Take these pills, then here's another 
 
 Remedy; if this don't bust 'em 
 
 You're about the toughest custom 
 
 Er I've struck yet. 
 
 So don't forget, 
 
 Take this bottle full, and when 
 
 It's empty call again; 
 
 But you will be all right by then." 
 
 "B-b-but D-d-doc"— ^ 
 
 "You'll be all right; go long, go long." 
 
 "A-all r-right then, D-d-doc. so long, so long."' 
 
 A layman if wise, needs none to advise 
 
 Great caution with P'owIer"s solution, 
 
 By no means a rare substitution. 
 
 For Quinine in chills; 
 
 It oft tumefies the lids of the eyes. 
 
 And full often kills. 
 
 Those who dynamize 
 And thus minimize 
 A danger, are wise. 
 For death in disguise, 
 Is safest in high dilution. 
 Soon the deaf man's eyes got puffy. 
 Puffed until they closed together. 
 Closed until they had to lead him. 
 Lead or stake him to a tether. 
 Got so blind they had to feed him. 
 
Thirty-seven 
 
 Some one then proposed to bleed him; 
 Then the deaf and blind got huffy. 
 Hell! said he, I've b-b-been a b-b-bleedin' ; 
 Deef, s-s-so d-d-deef c-c-can't hear it thunder; 
 That cussed q-q-quack has made a b-blunder. 
 B-b-blind; can't s-s-s-stir th-th-thout some one 
 
 Meadin'. 
 I s-s-swear he'd b-b-better s-stan' from under. 
 Hain't no, no c-casion fer your f-f-frettin,' 
 I agree th-thars b-b-blood wants lettin', 
 An' it's s-s-safe t-to d-do your bettin' 
 On the chance t-that I s-s-s-shall let 'er 
 Flow, as soon as I gits better. 
 
 Of doctors who doped and bled 
 
 Their patient to death, 
 
 A cynical Irishman said: 
 
 Sure as long as there's breath 
 
 In a body they're bleedin' 'im, 
 
 Whin, begorra, they'd better be feedin' 
 
 Thin whin anny poor divil goes lame 
 
 They load all the guns they have got, 
 
 Sit up a name for a shpot, 
 
 Blaze away at the name, 
 
 But missing thot same. 
 
 They bag bigger game, 
 
 For they fill the poor divil with shot. 
 
 The Irishman's metre is doleful and long, 
 
 For he sings a rather lugubrious song; 
 
 But it surely is true 
 
 That one of the two 
 
 Great systems of healing is wrong. 
 
Thirty-eight 
 
 Two schools of medicine prevail, 
 The one with labor and travail 
 Brings forth a name; 
 The other seeks to find the causes 
 Of illness, then through Nature's laws 
 Removes the same, 
 Believing that the symptoms proved 
 Will guide to what should be removed. 
 To shorten a tale 
 Already too long, 
 We give you the sequel, 
 And so end the song. 
 
 Old Grandmother Lee 
 Made some red pepper tea. 
 And gave Jack a drink. 
 And what do you think? 
 Strange story to tell, 
 At once he got well. 
 
 A fakir I thought old Grandma Lee, 
 
 A humbug her cup of pepper tea. 
 
 The cure I thought a coincidence. 
 
 Ascribed it to chance or Providence, 
 
 For I could not conceive 
 
 And I would not believe 
 
 That fakirs and pepper could get grip 
 
 On patients that doctors and drugs let slip. 
 
 Consider what follows and you will see 
 
 How chills may be cured by red pepper tea. 
 
Thirty-nine 
 
 The Capsicum chill 
 
 Begins with a thrill 
 
 High up in the back, 
 
 Attended by thirst, 
 
 And also a knack 
 
 Of being made worse 
 
 By every cold drink. 
 
 Now what do you think? 
 
 And what do you say? 
 
 Was Doc much to blame? 
 
 If taught the same way; 
 
 Perhaps you and I 
 
 Would have done much the same. 
 
 Could Doc have known that Quinine chills 
 Have thirst before appearing. 
 Are thirstless while the chill is on, 
 And thirstless 'till the fever's gone, 
 He might have saved his Quinine pills 
 And spared Jack Hardman's hearing. 
 Had Doc have known the bloating, the 
 Peculiar thirst and fever. 
 The weakness and the other things 
 Which Arsenic ague always brings, 
 Jack's eyelids had not swelled, and he 
 Had seen as well as ever. 
 
 But what is the use 
 
 Of heaping abuse 
 
 Upon Doc. Let's excuse 
 
 Him and show him fair play. 
 
 Regular and young. 
 
 With less brains than tongue. 
 
Furtv 
 
 And more cheek than either. 
 And then having neither 
 Experience nor law 
 To guide him, he saw 
 But the blackness of night 
 Compared with the light 
 
 Of to-day. 
 But what shall we say 
 Of the Regulars now; 
 The old and the wise. 
 Who will not use their eyes 
 !\or their ears? Then how 
 Shall we show them the way? 
 Could they see if they would? 
 Would they hear if they could? 
 Will it pay if we try 
 To show them? I say, 
 If we try will it pay? 
 You don't know, you reply, 
 And neither do I. 
 But the least we can do is to try. 
 
 Aye! Aye! 
 And the best we can do is to try; 
 And living or dying 
 Keep on trying. 
 
Forty-one 
 
 SANT BROOKS. 
 
 I knowed a feller once who had 
 An awful appitite. I vow 
 He could eat more than any lad 
 Or man, I ever saw. An' some 
 Said, "More than any beast, 
 Except, perhaps, the elephant. 
 Leavin' out hay and water least- 
 Ways," they said they'd bet on Sant. 
 
 Sant Brooks was the feller's full name; 
 As boys we used to hunt for coon, 
 Uv nights, and day time other game; 
 It might be cloudy, rainy, moon- 
 Lijght, starlight, or dark as pitch. 
 And freezin' cold, he'd git his horn, 
 And dogs, an' start — an' no odds, which 
 Course, he'd ketch coons shore as you're born. 
 
 I knowed him once clean up four coons 
 At lunch, half grown they was, an' fat. 
 He'd et no breakfast, slept till noon; 
 Out all night before; but then, at that 
 I thought it was an awful mess. 
 For just one half-grown boy to eat; 
 An' I said so to him — I says. 
 Some day you'll founder on coon meat. 
 
 But, no, sir! Sant never foundered. 
 On the contrary he floundered 
 Along until he was grown; 
 
Forty-two 
 
 Had a wife and child, of his own, 
 An' more dogs than anyone else. 
 Anywhere in the county, I guess. 
 Queer how he fed the pack, and him- 
 Self. Well, Sant was awfully slim. 
 
 On a little run-down farm 
 They lived: wife, child and dogs; no harm 
 In Sant. an" fun as known, no good. 
 He'd hunt and trap, but work he would 
 Not. No! his cabin roof might rot. 
 And did, but, bless you he would not 
 Mend it. "The barn roof's made of tar," 
 He said, "an' we'll jist move down thar." 
 
 Once he owned a first rate milk cow. 
 
 His wife had raised by hand and now 
 
 What does that idgit do but swap 
 
 Cow for a saddle. Horse, donkey, lop- 
 
 Eared mule, nothing on earth to ride. 
 
 Not even the cow. Argified 
 
 The saddle didn't eat, beside 
 
 The cow might uv laid down an' died. 
 
 One stormy windy night in March, 
 Sant struck out with an ax, a torch 
 And six picked dogs to tree a coon, 
 Away they went and purty soon 
 They treed him up a big tall oak. 
 Sant walked round the tree and spoke 
 Sharp to his favorite dog and said, 
 Vd like to bust your blasted head, 
 Fer treein up that great big tree. 
 Much sympathy you have for me. 
 
Forty-three 
 
 His tiresome task at last quite done, 
 He ran aside to see the fun. 
 "But best laid plans of mice and men, 
 Gang aft agla," and so did then; 
 The howling wind upset Sant's plan. 
 Confused him also as he ran. 
 The mighty tree broke cross the kerf 
 And pinned poor Sant tight to the earth. 
 
 A shattered knee, a broken thigh. 
 
 He thought his time had come to die; 
 
 The morning found him in despair, 
 
 A farmer also found him there. 
 
 And seizing Sant's resounding horn. 
 
 Awoke the echoes of the morn. 
 
 The neighbors heard, help soon arrived 
 
 And Sant was rescued and revived; 
 
 As soon as he could get his breath 
 
 He murmured, "Well, this feels like death' 
 
 "Did they catch that infernal coon?" 
 
 "Hurry up boys, I may dies soon, 
 
 But, live or die, I want to eat 
 
 My stummick full of fat coon meat." 
 
Forty-four 
 
 THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET. 
 
 "There was once a man from Nantucket, 
 Who kept all his cash in a bucket; 
 
 But his daughter named Nan, 
 Ran away with a man; 
 
 And as for the bucket, Nantuck it." 
 
 "Pa followed the pair to Pawtucket, 
 The man and the girl with the bucket 
 
 And he said to the man he was welcome to Nan, 
 But as for the bucket, pa tucket." 
 
 "The pair followed pa to Manhasset, 
 Where he kept all his cash at an assit,, 
 
 Then Nan and the man stole the bucket and ran, 
 And as for the bucket man has it." 
 
 "When pa got back to Nantucket, 
 He had neither daughter nor ducat; 
 
 And as for the man, he went back on Nan 
 As soon as he'd emptied the bucket. 
 
 Then Nan turned her hack on the bucket. 
 And on the bad man who had tuck it. 
 
 And said the next man who ran off with Nan 
 Might furnish and fill his own bucket. 
 
 But thinking she'd best bring the bucket. 
 She brought it to pa, and pa tuck it. 
 
 But looking within, 
 And finding no tin. 
 
 He licked Nan, and then kicked the bucket. 
 
Forty-five 
 
 CAMPING OUT. 
 
 I know'd a boy, could talk more, an' 
 
 Write more about eatin' than 
 
 Anybody else and eat less. 
 
 He could write things I confess 
 
 Would make me awful hungry, so 
 
 Hungry that altho' 
 
 I'd eat only an hour ago 
 
 I'd sneak off and fill up agin. 
 
 I eat so much it made me thin 
 
 To carry it around sometimes. 
 
 When I'd read his rhymes 
 
 I'd dream of eatin' 
 
 An' be a beatin' 
 
 My way to the kitchen 
 
 En pantry an' hitchin 
 
 Up a chair, 
 
 To reach things up there. 
 
 This feller sometimes 
 
 Jist talked in rhyme. 
 
 I remember one night 
 
 He got to writ- 
 
 In bout nuts an' fruit. 
 
 An' I saved his scraps uv paper 
 
 An' got 'em right here. 
 
 Dates, he said, were good an' oranges 
 
 When lowed to ripen on the trees. 
 
 But pull 'em green, 
 
 As I've seen. 
 An bring em more'n a thousand mile 
 An' I don't think they're much worth while. 
 Thare's other things that grow right here 
 An' ripen after frost. 
 
Forty-six 
 
 They may'nt suit you. but I don't care, 
 
 Jist count the cost 
 
 An' you'll agree 
 
 With me. 
 
 They beat imported nuts from anywhere 
 
 Jist try it this a-way: 
 
 Git out some fine October day. 
 
 Wear ole clothes an' strong shoes that ci 
 
 Through anything; don't take no lunch. 
 
 Strike for the hickory woods, 
 
 Don't think of work, just call it play; 
 
 Take a bushel bsaket, or good's 
 
 Anything a big meal bag. 
 
 To carry home your swag. 
 
 If thar's plenty of nuts on the ground, 
 
 All right; if not you'll have to throw 
 
 Clubs, rocks, anything that can be found 
 
 Throwable anywhere around. 
 
 Or else you'll have to go 
 
 An' clime the tree an shake 'em down. 
 
 Then find some sunny south hillside. 
 
 A sort of comfy place to hide. 
 
 Not that you care fer passerbys. 
 
 Nor care so much for pryin' eyes 
 
 As that you feel just in the mood 
 
 For somehow seeking solitude. 
 
 Now build a fire of any dead wood 
 
 And build it on the win'ard side. 
 
 You're warm enough and feelin' good 
 
 'Cept something to be gratified 
 
 Long about midways inside 
 
 But crackin' nuts and sittin' still, 
 
 While you, your empty stomicks fill, 
 
 You find October kinder chill 
 
 Before your hunger's satisfied. 
 
Forty-se 
 
 Some can talk eatin by the mile 
 
 An' yet eat nothin' much worth while. 
 
 An' I've know'd 'em write 
 
 Seem'd like for spite 
 
 Jist to whet yore appetite. 
 
 Jim Riley knew 
 
 A thing or two 
 
 Uv things to eat 
 
 That's hard to beat. 
 
 Fer example. 
 As a sample 
 IJv sweet meats 
 His receits 
 Fer homade 
 Marrmelade, 
 An' pumpkin pies 
 With allspice 
 An' cinimon 
 In 'em. 
 
 This, too, is true, 
 He saw what you 
 An' I 
 Pass by 
 Every day 
 By the way- 
 Side as we go 
 To and fro 
 An' pay no 
 Attention to. 
 
Forty-eight 
 
 He 
 
 Could see 
 
 Poetry 
 
 In common things 
 
 Like bubblin' springs 
 
 An' country roads, 
 
 Honey bees 
 
 An' hop toads, 
 
 Bloomin' trees, 
 
 A harvest moon 
 
 Er a Sunday noon 
 
 Knee deep in June. 
 
 And these would call to mind the shade 
 By oak an' breach an' maples made 
 Whar chums an' he together played 
 Long years before — forty, maybe, 
 Maybe more. 
 
 An' if you please. 
 
 Bout things like these 
 
 Jim's super-sense 
 
 Was just immense. 
 
 An' all in all 
 
 I think him tall- 
 
 Er than the rest. 
 
 An' better than the very best. 
 
Forty-nine 
 
 DICK RIGGS. 
 
 Ole Dick Riggs was as long an' lean 
 As they amke "em — more like a bean- 
 Pole than anything else. 
 He owned an ole gray hoss named Nelse, 
 An' forty acres of poor san- 
 
 Dy Ian,' 
 So poor it wouldn't sprout 
 Black-eyed peas without 
 Fertilizin', But no use 
 Figgerin' on any produce 
 Without it. So every spring 
 Dick would hitch Nelse to the ole thing 
 He called a waggin an' haul dirt 
 From the creek bank an' spread it on 
 A little patch uv his corn 
 Lan', as he called it, an' it cert- 
 Enly wus pore corn lan' at that, 
 An' not room on it to skin a cat. 
 
 But he'd scratch up the ground 
 An' plant, an' then go round 
 An' talk your arm off — never stop 
 Talkin' bout his corn crop. 
 One day up at Freemas store 
 He was blowin' a little more 
 Than usual. Had tanked up at sum 
 Other feller's expense 
 He'd met down at Bill Reppy's rum- 
 Shop. Yellin' himself hoarse 
 Bout the wuth uv his hoss. 
 He cum splittin' the air 
 Shoutin' an' swear — 
 
Fifty 
 
 ln\ ''Ole Nelse wus the best 
 Hoss on earth — east or west.'' 
 Got down, hitched to the fence 
 An' cum in, more pop-eyed 
 Than ever, an' less tung tied. 
 
 Right off he begun talkin' 
 
 Hoss — how to cuore balkin' 
 
 An' pullin' back when they's hitched 
 
 An' a whole lot of sich 
 
 Stuff. 
 Heap mor'n enough. 
 
 All at wunst outside thar wuz a fuss, 
 
 A awful terrible muss. 
 
 Nelse had pulled the fence down 
 
 An' wus a snortin' 
 
 An' cavortin' 
 
 Around, 
 Here an' there. 
 Everywhere, 
 1 p in the air 
 Down on the ground, 
 Lookin' round 
 At his heavin' side 
 Where Botes supposedly reside, 
 
 Inside. 
 
 Consultants speedily agreed 
 The thing to do was either bleed 
 Or drench the beast. 
 Drenchin' would at least 
 
Fifty-one 
 
 The cause determinate, 
 An' probly exterminate 
 
 The hot; 
 If givin' hot 
 
 The keeper of store agreed 
 To furnish amply all the need 
 Ev hot ingred- 
 ients — also a long neck'd bottle 
 To pour the stuff down Nelse's throttle. 
 
 Nearby a forked saplin' grew 
 
 The fork high up about the stretch 
 
 Of a tall, long armed man's utmost reach. 
 
 Dick pulled an' hauled an' drew 
 
 The bosses head and mouth up to 
 
 The fork, passed bridle reins through 
 
 It to his side; looped 'em round his wrist 
 
 Give 'em an' extry twist 
 
 An' shoved the bottle neck down Nelse's throat. 
 
 You never saw a billy goat 
 
 Jump forard quicer'n Nelse jumped back, 
 
 Quick es scat, 
 
 Er quicker'n that 
 Dick's pale blue poppin eyes eyes wus seen 
 Up in the fork, wedged in 
 Right where ole Nelse's mouth had been. 
 Dick cust, and swore, 
 An' swore some more. 
 Begged 'em to shoot the Hoss plum thru, 
 Or he'd be pulled right smack en two. 
 
Fifty-tu'o 
 
 The boys pushed up Dick's feet but that 
 Jist wedged him tighter where he's at. 
 At last ole Nelse declar'd a truce, 
 Walked up an' let his master loose. 
 
 Dick scrambled down, 
 
 Sprawled on the ground, 
 
 Rubbed his wrist, 
 
 Shook his fist 
 
 An' said: 
 
 "By Ned, 
 That ole fool boss knowed well enough 
 That ole Dick Riggs would call his bluff, 
 Knowed mighty well it wan't no use 
 To try to make me let him loose. 
 I guess you boys all see, doggone 
 That I am hell at holdin' on." 
 
Fifty -three 
 
 MY DARLING. 
 
 I want you at morn my darling, 
 At first grey glimpse of dawn, 
 
 When pearly tints 
 
 Give faintest hints 
 Of the awakening morn. 
 
 I want you at noon time darlin* 
 Morning is gone so soon, 
 
 0, let me clasp 
 
 With fervent grasp 
 Your hand in mine at noon. 
 
 I want you at evening darling, 
 When day's receeding light, 
 
 Reveals the stars — 
 
 And sunset bars 
 Are closed, and locked for night. 
 
 I want you at midnight darling 
 Be sure I want you then 
 
 To press your breast 
 
 To mine and rest 
 Till morning dawns again. 
 
 At morning and evening darling, 
 At noon, by night, by day. 
 
 My heart is thine 
 
 Let thine be mine. 
 Forever and for aye. 
 
Fifty-four 
 
 HELEN DARE. 
 
 I\o matter where we rove or roam, 
 On solid land, or sounding sea, 
 There is one place where we may be 
 In Paradise — that palce is home. 
 For home is where the heart's distress 
 Finds comfort and contentedness; 
 Aye! home is where the heart's desire 
 Is altogether gratified: 
 Where restless man is satisfied 
 To rest beside the altar fire 
 That glows for youthful groom and bride. 
 For mother, daughter, son and sire; 
 Where all things best on earth abide; 
 Where all is well with soul and sense. 
 And sorrow finds its recompense 
 In faith, hope, love and happiness. 
 You never can be happy far 
 Away, or long from One Bright Star 
 Come home, be happy "home is where 
 The heart is;" here with Helen Dare. 
 O, would the poet's muse imj)art 
 To lips the pow'r to voice the heart! 
 
 0, would the poet's muse unroll 
 The scroll unseen within the soul! 
 Come now, tuneful Muse inspire 
 My soul ! and touch my lips with fire ; 
 Come string my harp and tune my lyre 
 That I may daringly aspire 
 To sing of love as poets dare 
 Devoted love of Helen Dare. 
 
Fifty-five 
 
 If this petition be too bold, 
 
 If I the passion must repress 
 
 My ardent longings all suppress 
 
 If I must sing of love the less 
 
 I'll tune my harp like bards of old 
 
 And sing the more of loveliness 
 
 And more of woman's tenderness. 
 
 Dear Muse, Sweet Muse, my thanks receive 
 
 For inspiration; I perceive 
 
 That I may sing, my harp is strung, 
 
 The ancient bard again is young. 
 
 May not my song of Helen Dare 
 
 Be cold or cheerless, bleak or bare; 
 
 But like the rustling rip'ning grain 
 
 O'er rolling hill and waving plain. 
 
 Or like the singing, laughing rill 
 
 Through landscape's peaceful, tranquil still. 
 
 May no loud thunders shock the ear, 
 No crashing cymbals smite the air. 
 No bugle blasts, no trumpets blow ; 
 But rather be the gentle strain, 
 The music of the falling rain 
 On cottage roof and window pane, 
 Soothing the weary heart and brain, 
 Lulling to sleep all fear and care. 
 Breathing of rest and peace and prayer. 
 May heart and soul and lips and tongue 
 Join in the sweetest song unsung. 
 The song I dream of Helen Dare. 
 
FiitY-six 
 
 Her cheek would make the lily fair 
 
 Blush red as summer roses are, 
 
 Aye, red as blithest rose of June, 
 
 For whiter lillies there repose, 
 
 And blushes there a blither rose. 
 
 The wilding rose runs riot there 
 
 From dawn 'till dusk, and dusk 'till dawn. 
 
 And on the cheek of Helen Dare 
 
 Bestows full oft a fond caress, 
 
 Prints many a fond and fervent kiss. 
 
 0. what a privilege to be 
 A rose! What bliss! What ecstasy! 
 Although the anxious rose is near. 
 The modest lily feels no fear, 
 The rose and lily there recline, 
 The red and white together twine. 
 And love and purity combine. 
 
 Her eyes! Forget me nots would fade, 
 
 Turn pale, and seek another shade 
 
 Of blue within her deep, dark eyes. 
 
 Those eyes! Those eyes! Not Heaven's blue 
 
 Is deeper blue; nor Heaven's skies, 
 
 More bright or clear, more kind or true. 
 
 And yet, at times, those eyes are gray. 
 
 And soft as Indian summer days; 
 
 But while into their depths you gaze, — 
 
 Their depths so deep, and far away, 
 
 A golden, glim'ring, shim'ring sheen 
 
 Of burnished brown will intervene; 
 
 And brilliant scintilating rays 
 
 Will sparkle, flash, and beam between 
 
Fifty-seven 
 
 The blue and gray; and dance and play 
 With both, and stay awhile, and blaze 
 Like sunset fire. And then a haze — 
 A dreamy haze; not dark nor bright; 
 A tawny, misty, dusky light 
 Falls o'er the gray, and blue, and brown, 
 Like twilight when the sun goes down, 
 A gray light like a winter sea, 
 \et warm as Heaven's blue can be, 
 With glint of sunset gold shot through, 
 Like sunrise shaft through drops of dew, 
 All blended so and intertwined. 
 So intermingled and combined, 
 That all soft shades beneath the sun 
 Seem murged and melted into one. 
 
 Like midnight shadow on the snow, Her raven 
 
 waving, jetty hair 
 O'ershades a calm, unruffled brow, a brow 
 
 serene and calm and fair 
 As dawn of morning, bright and clear. 
 Her rosebud lips, when in repose, 
 Her pearly teeth awhile conceal, 
 'Till wreathed in smiles, those lips disclose 
 The pearls, just as the budding rose 
 In bloom, its beauty must reveal. 
 And when like cupid's slackened bow. 
 Those flexile lips are curved the while. 
 In witching, winning, wondrous smile, 
 The dearest, sweetest smile, I know. 
 No flashing, quiv'ring, lightning dart 
 Of cupid's, is more swift to go, 
 Or straighter, surer to the heart. 
 
I H 1 fc 
 
 
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