[Ill.u.s.tration: How the cages jolted past]

How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast, And the mystery within it only hinted of at last From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!

And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town, With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down, And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.

Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!

And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed.

As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!

[Ill.u.s.tration: And, last of all, the clown]

THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Lugubrious Whing-Whang--t.i.tle]

The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's best Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,-- 'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest, An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed, An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest.-- Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

I don't know what in the world it means-- Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!-- An' nen when I _tell_ him I don't, he leans Like he was a-grindin' on some machines An' says: Ef I _don't_, w'y, I don't know _beans!_ Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!--

Out on the margin of Moons.h.i.+ne Land, Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand, Writing his name with his tail in the sand, And swiping it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Or what _is_ the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks?-- Crouching low by the winding creeks And holding his breath for weeks and weeks!

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings; And she sits and as sadly and softly sings As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,-- Tickle me, Dear, Tickle me here, Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

WAITIN' FER THE CAT TO DIE

[Ill.u.s.tration: Waitin' Fer The Cat to Die--t.i.tle]

Lawzy! don't I rickollect That-'air old swing in the lane!

Right and proper, I expect, Old times _can't_ come back again; But I want to state, ef they _Could_ come back, and I could say What _my_ pick 'ud be, i jing!

I'd say, Gimme the old swing 'Nunder the old locus'-trees On the old place, ef you please!-- Danglin' there with half-shet eye, Waitin' fer the cat to die!

I'd say, Gimme the old gang Of barefooted, hungry, lean, Ornry boys you want to hang When you're growed up twic't as mean!

The old gyarden-patch, the old Truants, and the stuff we stol'd!

The old stompin'-groun', where we Wore the gra.s.s off, wild and free As the swoop of the old swing, Where we ust to climb and cling, And twist roun', and fight, and lie-- Waitin' fer the cat to die!

'Pears like I 'most allus could Swing the highest of the crowd-- Jes sail up there tel I stood Downside-up, and screech out loud,-- Ketch my breath, and jes drap back Fer to let the old swing slack, Yit my tow-head dippin' still In the green boughs, and the chill Up my backbone taperin' down, With my shadder on the ground'

Slow and slower trailin' by-- Waitin' fer the cat to die!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Barefooted, hungry, lean, ornry boys]

Now my daughter's little Jane's Got a kind o' baby-swing On the porch, so's when it rains She kin play there--little thing!

And I'd limped out t'other day With my old cheer this-a-way, Swingin' _her_ and rockin' too, Thinkin' how _I_ ust to do At _her_ age, when suddently, "Hey, Gran'pap!" she says to me, "Why you rock so slow?" ... Says I, "Waitin' fer the cat to die!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: Why you rock so slow?]

NAUGHTY CLAUDE

[Ill.u.s.tration: Naughty Claude]

When Little Claude was naughty wunst At dinner-time, an' said He won't say "_Thank you_" to his Ma, She maked him go to bed An' stay two hours an' not git up,-- So when the clock struck Two, Nen Claude says,--"Thank you, Mr. Clock, I'm much obleeged to you!"

THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN

[Ill.u.s.tration: The South Wind and The Sun--t.i.tle]

O the South Wind and the Sun How each loved the other one-- Full of fancy--full of folly-- Full of jollity and fun!

How they romped and ran about, Like two boys when school is out, With glowing face, and lisping lip, Low laugh, and lifted shout!

And the South Wind--he was dressed With a ribbon round his breast That floated, flapped and fluttered In a riotous unrest; And a drapery of mist, From the shoulder and the wrist Flowing backward with the motion Of the waving hand he kissed.

And the Sun had on a crown Wrought of gilded thistledown, And a scarf of velvet vapor, And a raveled-rainbow gown; And his tinsel-tangled hair, Tossed and lost upon the air, With glossier and flossier Than any anywhere.

And the South Wind's eyes were two Little dancing drops of dew, As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips, And blew and blew and blew!

And the Sun's--like diamond-stone, Brighter yet than ever known, As he knit his brows and held his breath, And shone and shone and shone!

And this pair of merry fays Wandered through the summer days; Arm-in-arm they went together Over heights of morning haze-- Over slanting slopes of lawn They went on and on and on, Where the daisies looked like star-tracks Trailing up and down the dawn.

And where'er they found the top Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop, They chucked it underneath the chin And praised the lavish crop, Till it lifted with the pride Of the heads it grew beside, And then the South Wind and the Sun Went onward satisfied.

Over meadow-lands they tripped, Where the dandelions dipped In crimson foam of clover bloom And dripped and dripped and dripped!

And they clinched the b.u.mble-stings, Gauming honey on their wings, And bundling them in lily-bells, With maudlin murmurings.

And the humming-bird, that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle horns, They mesmerized and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And, with whispered laughter, slipped away, And left him hanging there.

And they braided blades of gra.s.s Where the truant had to pa.s.s; And they wriggled through the rushes And the reeds of the mora.s.s, Where they danced, in rapture sweet, O'er the leaves that laid a street Of undulant mosaic for The touches of their feet.

By the brook with mossy brink, Where the cattle came to drink, They trilled and piped and whistled With the thrush and bobolink, Till the kine, in listless pause, Switched their tails in mute applause, With lifted heads, and dreamy eyes, And bubble-dripping jaws.