{42}

[Ill.u.s.tration: The poet's love for the children--headpiece]

THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN

Kindly and warm and tender, He nestled each childish palm So close in his own that his touch was a prayer And his speech a blessed psalm.

He has turned from the marvelous pages Of many an alien tome-- Haply come down from Olivet, Or out from the gates of Rome--

{43}

[Ill.u.s.tration: Of the orchard-lands of childhood]

{45}

Set sail o'er the seas between him And each little beckoning hand That fluttered about in the meadows And groves of his native land,--

Fluttered and flashed on his vision As, in the glimmering light Of the orchard-lands of childhood, The blossoms of pink and white.

And there have been sobs in his bosom, As out on the sh.o.r.es he stept, And many a little welcomer Has wondered why he wept.--

That was because, O children, Ye might not always be The same that the Savior's arms were wound About, in Galilee.

{46}

[Ill.u.s.tration: Friend of a wayward hour--headpiece]

FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR

Friend of a wayward hour, you came Like some good ghost, and went the same; And I within the haunted place Sit smiling on your vanished face, And talking with--your name.

But thrice the pressure of your hand-- First hail--congratulations--and Your last "G.o.d bless you!" as the train That brought you s.n.a.t.c.hed you back again Into the unknown land.

{47}

"G.o.d bless me?" Why, your very prayer Was answered ere you asked it there, I know--for when you came to lend Me your kind hand, and call me friend, G.o.d blessed me unaware.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Friend of a wayward hour--tailpiece]

{48}

[Ill.u.s.tration: My Henry--headpiece]

MY HENRY

He's jes' a great, big, awk'ard, hulkin'

Feller,--humped, and sort o' sulkin'-- Like, and ruther still-appearin'-- Kind-as-ef he wuzn't keerin'

Whether school helt out er not-- That's my Henry, to a dot!

Allus kind o' liked him--whether Childern, er growed-up together!

Fifteen year' ago and better, 'Fore he ever knowed a letter, Run acrosst the little fool In my Primer-cla.s.s at school.

{49}

[Ill.u.s.tration: Nothin' that boy wouldn't resk!]

{51}

When the Teacher wuzn't lookin', He'd be th'owin' wads; er crookin'

Pins; er sprinklin' pepper, more'n Likely, on the stove; er borin'

Gimlet-holes up thue his desk-- Nothin' _that_ boy wouldn't resk!

But, somehow, as I was goin'

On to say, he seemed so knowin', _Other_ ways, and cute and cunnin'-- Allus wuz a notion runnin'

Thue my giddy, fool-head he Jes' had be'n cut out fer me!

Don't go much on _prophesyin'_, But last night whilse I wuz fryin'

Supper, with that man a-pitchin'

Little Marthy round the kitchen, Think-says-I, "Them baby's eyes Is my Henry's, jes' p'cise!"

{52}

[Ill.u.s.tration: A letter to a friend--headpiece]

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

The past is like a story I have listened to in dreams That vanished in the glory Of the Morning's early gleams; And--at my shadow glancing-- I feel a loss of strength, As the Day of Life advancing Leaves it shorn of half its length.

{53}

But it's all in vain to worry At the rapid race of Time-- And he flies in such a flurry When I trip him with a rhyme, I'll bother him no longer Than to thank you for the thought That "my fame is growing stronger As you really think it ought."

And though I fall below it, I might know as much of mirth To live and die a poet Of unacknowledged worth; For Fame is but a vagrant-- Though a loyal one and brave, And his laurels ne'er so fragrant As when scattered o'er the grave.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A letter to a friend--tailpiece]