CglTotoarb asieeben Class ^_^l2:5Jl Book_iE^_^ COFlTOGHT DEPOSrr OLD VOICES OTHER BOOKS BY HOWARD WEEDEN BANDANNA BALLADS SONGS OF THE OLD SOUTH 'A BOHEMIAN" OLD VOICES For love of unforgotten times Howard Weeden New York Doubleday, Page & Company T904 Turn nnniAs Rfwrnved AUG 81 1904 CLAS^ «, XXO. No «n a !. i COPY B Copyright. 1904, by Doubleday, Page & Company PubIishe(i,,Sef(tsmber, 1504 Affectionately Dedicated To Joel Chandler Harris By His grateful friend The Author ERE is hope for nobler things If such the future brings : But O, here's love for everything That long ago took wing ! CONTENTS A Bohemian Memory's Feast Important News A Toilet Pantry and Pulpit Ole Mistis' Way The Old Biscuit Block The Palate Wrop Me and Mammy Mimosa Blooms An Old Garden A Rose Song Time Christmas Etchings The Rout A Voice of the Night CONTENTS— Co;;//««a/ The Angel of the Dark A Study A Mystic A Wait- Acer Spades The Problem A Veteran Vanitv Fair ^ (LOt *-ii A BOHEMIAN ii^' '1 O yes ! I always had a taste ^* ' J Fer takin' troubles lisfht ;,'! An' leavin' 'sponsibilities s!tj To shoulders dat is white. \j, All summer long, things grows so free, What need to Vv-ork or btn- ? i Dere's plenty lyin' loose aroun' • \ Fer sech a womi as I i An' when de winter comes along ' '- i Why Christmas 'vides fer dat; ^| I jes' looks up my ole white folks, : ,| An' passes 'round de hat ! i 'J In dis way I divides de }'ear ; , I You understan' in two — i -I j An' trusts de summer-time to God, " i '.! De winter-time to — you! ; j MEMORY'S FEAST I'm sittin' here in Northern ease A eatin' baker's bread, An" saj'in' grace on by-gone meals I ate when Southern fed — Dear gumbo, wid red pepper hot, Dear rice an' 'possum meat. Dear smokin' hominy, rich corn-bread, An' beaten biscuit sweet ! Why, Lord ! it's filhn' jes' to think 'Bout nourishment like dat, An' I can eat in dreams until I feels well-fed an' fat: An' all de thanks I tries to give For dis here saw-dust bread, Is jes' a grace to Memory — When I was Southern fed ! iiS'^ r?g7Ba?;s u<>M i . w 1 11 , . 'II ■n ' .ijw i . I . i ^si^-wiw- pgs^ll^.-: ;.# > id ¥ ':.^^^k^^^^'^^^^m ^^^ ^^- ' -^^ ^ IMPORTANT NEWS I heerd dat you was goin' back To ole Virginie agin, An' I would like to send some news To my ole friends an' kin : Jes' look up my ole Daddy please, An' my ole Mammy too; An' say to dem I said to you I sont my Howdy-do ! An' if you sees some fine white folks Wid blood dats navy-blue, Jes' say to dem I said to you, I sont my Howdy-do ! An' please find Brother Washington- He married me an' Lou — An' say to him I said to you I sont my Howdy-do ! An' if dat Lou herself should still Be knockin' round dere too, Why you can 'low I said to you I sont my Howdy-do ! "wmmmrnvm^- W^^ \ % X^^. H te> 't t ■A A TOILET f Sometimes you'd think dat Mammy was i De most tremendous mad, • De way she knocks an" cuffs me ' round ' An' calls me Satan-bad; An' all de time, betwixt de cufifs. I She's wroppin' of my hair, i An' greasin' of my ashy face \ An' studyin' what I'll wear; ' An' den she puts on my red dress- 5 De one she lately make, — I An' bof of us jes' switches off I Together to a wake ! r^^?®.«g»i®« 2^^^^P%^ ■^fiiSt^aiXStdSi PANTRY AND PULPIT How did I come to preach, you ask? Well, clis here way in part: "fwas bein' Master's butler, Sir, Dat gave me my first start. For after Freedom, when I turned For better jobs to search, IVIy table-manners was so good, I settled on de Cluirch. An' so I took to preachin', an' It's jes' about dis size: It's been my good ole butler-wits Dat's made me pulpit-wise ! «4l»«^^ii*iJJi<^^^S"-'-rf■^l*'-W«^'^'S-'•i»^t3^^aH^lV '^ OLE MISTIS' WAY You flighty young folks needn't come A-orderin' me no nio' ; I'm sot in ways my ole Mis" taught An' 'spects to stay jes' so. It's hurry wid you aU de time As if 'twas jedgment day, An' I am caUed of no account 'Case I ain't made dat way. But age an' slowness used to be Respected in de race, An' I wa'n't asked to be so swif When ole Mis' set de pace. An' dere wa'n't nothin' in dem days Of all dis haste an' noise. For 'twasn't manners to be fast When me an' Mis' was boys ! b- 1^ THE OLD BISCUIT BLOCK Gone are the splendid brave old days When cooking was a feat, When it stirred one's blood like victory Just to hear the biscuit beat ! Now the stately kitchens stand Forsaken and forlorn, And now life's but a cowardly affau- Since all the cooks are gone ! . '* ■^^^1^^^ ahltf-'ft'fft"-''iir-i1ftfifr' ■^.^■■^'^^ J THE PALATE WROP ^■f! Lord, ain't you never heerd before M; About a nigger's palate-wrop ? f' Why, here is one right on my head, :^i Jes' in de middle of de top. M}' palate got down bad one time. So Mammy said she'd put a stop To dat, an' tuk my head in han' An' found de right place for de wrop. An' den she twis' an' twis' an' twis', An' den she wrop an' wrop an' wrop. Till after while de palate flew Back to its right place wid a flop ! So, if your palate should git down, Do as I tell you, and I thinks — But what I talkin 'bout? — You's u'liiic An' got no Mammy, an' no kinks ! SI AND MAMMY Me and Mammy know a child, About my age and size, Who, Mammy says, won't go to Heaven 'Cause she's so grown and wise. She answers " Yes " and " No," just so — • When grown folks speak to her. And laughs_ at Mammy and at me. When I say "Ma'am" and "Sir." And Mammy says the reason why This child's in such a plight, Is 'cause she's had no Mammy dear, To raise her swqet and right, To stand between her and the world With all its old sad noise. And give her baby-heart a chance To keep its baby joys. Then Mammy draws me close to her And says, "the Lord be praised; Here's what I calls a decent chile, 'Case hit's been Mammy-raised ! " I; % .'■i J ■m^ b m The South-winds shake the mimosa awake With a shiver as soft as rain; The South-wind dies, the mimosa sighs And sinks to silence again. And oh, but the scent that is faintly lent. By the stirred mimosa bloom ! One's heart nearly breaks with the thought it awakes, Oh tender, oh cruel perfume : i M- k '■>%■■ -it. «<.. L AiN OLD GARDEN I wonder if your memory holds A garden old like mine — Within its midst, a summer-house As lovely as a shrine ? Around mine bloomed a world of flowers, That scented every breeze; And all life's noises have not drowned The murmur of its bees. And where the roses thickest grew And bloomed the deepest red, A group of lonely head-stones marked Some long-forgotten Dead. And there we children lingered oft And mused upon each grave. With all the passion for the Past A happy Present gave. And now another Past has crept About the old, and spread — Till nothing but a Verse will bloom In that old garden dead ! (^ *«rt»'^»M»Ki»-1*?*.a*:S*K^^ -^-^.■.'li i tes^ t "% A ROSE SONG When Sylvia wears a snow}' rose Upon her lovely breast, I marvel that the rose remains So white in such a nest: I'd glow till every petal pale Had flushed to warmest pink And show her in a splendid blush How deep a rose could think ! When Sylvia wears a crimson rose Above her dainty ear, I wonder how the rose keeps calm With Sylvia's smile so near: I'd loose me from the silken hair Where she had bade me lie. And fall — all red and passionate — At Sylvia's feet to die ! '^m ±jj She brought away the rose he gave Once from a garden fair, With eyes that saw but that one rose Of all the roses there. Now when the patient summers bring Their chastened roses red, She sees and loves them all because Of one rose — long since dead ! J .v^;;^^^fe*^i^''^ CHRISTMAS ETCHINGS Christmas in the North; and wide And wan the world Hes cold In winter-burial deep of snow That hides each field and fold; And all is still between the vast Black sky and vast white earth, And life and love have crept within — To shelter at the hearth. Christmas in the South; and warm And brown the earth is stretched— And where yon dark field meets the clear Soft rim of night, is etched A lovel}', luminous silhouette Of flocks and shepherds calm, And one large, melting Star that hangs Low in a skv of balm ! i. 'S' -r&iSi .^.m^ u ^ fe^'fe'T^^ \Wi «@S^^' m i- ■ I- ^ i THE ROUT What shall we do, my heart and I, Guests here at Life's gay rout, If e're the long, long night has waned The dreams should all go out ? The dreams that lit the tinsel place With radiance strangel}^ fair, And made its crowded loneliness A borrowed joyance wear ! The dreams that touched our pulses ti The throbbing veins ran wine. And kept us glad and unafraid And young and half divine ! The dreams that helped us to forget How dull the hours had grown ; How many revellers we loved Had said " Good night " — and flown. What shall we do, my heart and I, Late guests at Life's poor rout ? We are so far from home, and see ! The dreams are going out ! u ..^.jtais^ "^'^^m. ■^tat^^T^-yirtf^l^r^. -v«>«*js«*»(K«' ■I fe^^ A VOICE OF THE NIGHT Wide and warm lies the Southern nis^O i Steeped in purple dusk; Calm except for the scented winds That stir the jessamine's mttsk, And silent — until a sudden Voice Piercing the night is heard, And the cpiet, fragrant world awakes To the song of a Mocking-bird. Was it a dream that suddenly stirred The sleeping bird to bliss And woke his passionate eager heart To rapture such as this ? ( )r was it that, from his lofty nest. He saw in the East a ray Of faint but certain dawn — and laughed Because of Hope and Day ! J H- rM _J u\ IC. THE ANGEL OF THE DARK The quiet night comes softly down, Good-bve, dear day, good-bye ! The Angel of the Dark is here, And in her arms I lie ! r Good-bye, dear day, the long, long night Holds not a single fear, Because this Angel of the Dark Is just my Mammy dear ! r \ ^ ■^syik^ m fgi ^ ^^,,,^ ^ ^;;^ A STUDY There on the wall hangs the sketch of a Head, Unfinished and dim and crude; Its weak lines drowned in a splendid bhn- Of shadows rich and rude. Black and calm as an alien face Blown from tropic seas; Caught in a pose of bland content And the rapture of taking its ease. Large and massive and richly dark With shadows that smoulcier and burn ; Blank as a sphinx with its l;)rooding look Of placid unconcern. And whether the Artist will finish the sketch No man, it seems, can know: He may give it a touch like dawn seme day. Or leave it forever — so ! t... ^C:) % 4 * 1 6 V-. , . A MYSTIC I got religion through a heap Of fights wid doubt an' sin, An' man}' a time 'twas hard to tell If Heaben or Hell would win. But one day as I walked to'a'ds home P^ Still seekin' peace of min' i . I asked de Lord to end my doubts j" By givin' me a vSign. [. An' suddenly I heerd His voice I Say softly, " Gabe, look back;" ■ An', lo, de road was smoove-as | glass — I I hadn't left a track ! f So den I knowed dat I was in •[; De spirit for a fac" ; ? 'Cause in de flesh a nigger's foot j^ Is 'casion for a track ! ■". L ^ w y-r^^:. f^'' i..,.. f72^^:^^^^ Z^ff^^' A WAIF Who made me? Well, 'twas God I 'spec', At least, dat's what is said: But how is I to know fer sure, Now dat my Mamm}^'s dead ! De ether chillun leanis de news Right at dere Mammies' side An' laughs becase dere's no sich place For me, since Mammy died ! But one thing I do know, becase Hits somethin' Mammy said: " Dat Heaben was where a chile would find Its Mammy was not dead ! " i a L r^ ACER SPADES 1 )e chillun all tuk after Her, A warm, bright ginger-bread, Exceptin' little Acer Spades, An' he was black instead. So, bein' he tuk after uic, Why, I tiik after /;/;;;, An' dat small little boy he filled My heart right to de brim. Well — all de ethers dey growed uji An' scattered far an' wide; An' only one has staA'ed wid me — Dat Acer Spades who died ! L. u. f THE PROBLEM '4 \ ou've made me the Problem of the age — The Riddle— the Puzzle — the Knot: And the nations stand frowning and gaining around, Trying to unravel the plot. And all the while I'm the simplest thing Ever made in the image of fun, It you leave me alone with a cotton-held And a hoe, and plenty of sun ! ^:^^ A VETERAN It's curious, when dere's sich a lot Of nigger-pensions 'round, Dat mine in some strange sort of way Aint never yit been found ! Of course, sir, I was in de war. Me an' my Master too ! We lit in at de fus' drum-tap An' stayed till hit was through. An' I kept always clost to him In camp — as clost could be, An' in de field as clost, of course. As hit was safe for me. An', bet your life, we made things wami All up an' down de line ; For " General " was my Master's rank, An' body-sergeant mine ! But now, when I says " pension,' Dey laughs an' says to me: You better go an' die, an' git Yotn- pension fum ole Lee ! why B t I '■^^,^9).^!Mjw '.:s?<* N "w^ ^::. '4 i VANITY FAIR De Cake-walk hit comes off to-night Down yander at Sis Lou's; An' I've been sont to git a patch Put on her Sonday shoes. Oh, won't dem dancers switch around All up an' down in twos, An' won't day scrape an' stomp dere feet All in dere Sonday shoes ! I seem to hear de banjos play, I feel de floors shake, I hear de tromp of Sonday shoes. An' smell the smell of cake ! De Lord knows if I had my way, Of all things, I would choose To go to dat Cake-walk to-night An' Stan' in Sis Lou's shoes ! ;■y.eJ'i^J-^}.S■^!^.\■r■^l^:^^'^^^fi'rr-« -it vi>',W-'\ TfV- ^i^ AUG 31 1904 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 930 816 9