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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 gra.s.ses 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!

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"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--sh.o.r.e!"

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.

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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!"

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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?

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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?

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OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS