The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems.

by George W. Doneghy.

THE OLD HANGING FORK.

I.

O don't you remember those days so divine, Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine, When with sapling pole and a painted cork We fished up and down the old Hanging Fork-- From the railroad bridge, with its single span, Clear down to the mill at Dawson's old dam-- From early morn till the shades of night, And it made no difference if fish _didn't_ bite?

II.

What pleasure it gives to think and to dream Of those long, happy days, and the old winding stream, When we waded the creek with our pants to the knee, And got our lines tangled in a sycamore tree, And were most scared to death when out from the root The long, wriggling snake through the water did shoot, And you lost your line, your hook and your cork, And I slipped and fell in the old Hanging Fork!

III.

The years they have come, and the years they have fled, And frosted with silver the hairs of the head, But still in fond memory there lingers the joy Of scenes such as these, when a bare-footed boy I wandered away to the clear rippling stream-- No cankering care to trouble life's dream;-- And we spit on our bait and in whispers we'd talk, As we threw out our lines in the old Hanging Fork!

IV.

We sat there and fished with the sun beaming down On the tops of our heads through hats minus crown, And when I got a bite or you caught a perch We'd just give our lines a thundering lurch, And land him high up on the bank in the weeds, Then string him along with the pumpkin seeds!

O don't you remember the hot, dusky walk, Along the white pike to the old Hanging Fork?

SWEET SEPTEMBER DAYS.

I.

There's a something in the atmosphere, in sweet September days, That mantles all the landscape with its languid, dreamy haze; And you see the leaves a-dropping, in a lazy kind of way, Where the maple trees are standing in their Summer-time array.

II.

There's a yellowish tinge a-creeping over Nature's emerald sheen, And the cattle stand, half-sleeping, in the middle of the stream Where the gla.s.sy pool is shaded by the overhanging limb, And the pebbly bottom's glinting where the silvery minnows swim.

III.

The ta.s.seled corn is nodding, and the crow on drowsy wing Is sailing o'er the orchard where the ripening apples swing, And the fleecy clouds are floating in the azure of the sky, And the gentle breeze is sighing as it's idly wafted by.

IV.

The cantaloupes are ripening in their yellow golden rinds; And the melons, round and juicy, are a-clinging to the vines; And the merry, laughing children, in their happy hour of play, Are a-romping in the meadow and a-sliding down the hay.

V.

The busy bees are buzzing where the grapes with purple blush, And the hanging bunches tempting with their weight the arbor crush, And the blue jays are a-wrangling in the wood across the road, Where the hickory boughs are bending 'neath an extra heavy load.

VI.

Let your poets keep a-singing about the Springtime gay, And the blossoms and the flowers in the merry month of May-- But the early Autumn splendor, with its sweet September days, Eclipses boasted Springtime in a thousand kind of ways!

YER OLD COB PIPE.

I.

When the chilling winds of Winter come a-knocking at the door, And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er, And you've supped on sweet potatoes and a 'possum frosted ripe, Then glory hallelujah! Git yer Old Cob Pipe!

II.

When the fire is blazing brightly and the room is snug and warm, And you've left your cares and troubles on the outside with the storm, And your natural leaf is colored with a golden yellow stripe, Then glory hallelujah! Git yer Old Cob Pipe!

III.

When the old split-bottom rocker is far better than a throne, And the visions of the fancy are the fairest earth has known, And you watch the mystic shapes that the dancing shadows write, Then glory hallelujah! Git yer Old Cob Pipe!

IV.

When your dressing gown and slippers might be envied by a king, And the voices of the children sound as sweet as birds' that sing, And the feelings that possess you are all of heavenly type, Then glory hallelujah! Git yer Old Cob Pipe!

V.

When the ringlets aromatic have circled round your head, And a drowsiness o'ertakes you, and you want to go to bed, And the bowlful that you're smoking has burned to ashes white, Then glory hallelujah! Quit yer Old Cob Pipe!

TIM Bl.u.s.tER'S DREAM.

'Twas a place of fifty acres, in a lonely neighborhood, And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house stood; And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare That ghosts and goblins horrible held nightly revel there.