THE STAGE COACH.

No matter what the weather was, in good old stage coach days, The driver with his ruddy face and spanking team of bays Would spin along the turnpike road, o'er level stretch and hill, That wound away from "Idleburg" to cla.s.sic Nicholasville.

The depths beneath his seat were filled with leathern sacks of mail, And all the coach's top at times was crowded to the rail With trunks, valises, packages, and bundles by the score, That must have weighed, it seemed to me, five thousand pounds or more.

And strapped within the bulging boot, that hung far out behind, Was added weight enough to make a team of oxen blind; And counting all the pa.s.sengers that filled the coach within, The load those horses had to drag--I thought it was a sin!

How proud of them the driver was! And often he would brag That they could pull a heavier load and never balk or flag; If all the road was ankle-deep in miry, sticky mud, That was the time his team would show its metal and its blood.

The "ribbons" then he'd gather up, and give his whip a crack, And any team in front of him had better clear the track; He seemed to own the turnpike road, and kept the right of way Unto himself as jealously as bloomers do to-day.

By wood and field he wound along, and by the river's bank, And when he reached the covered bridge the hoof-beats on the plank Were echoed from the cliffs around and from the vale below; And going up the hill beyond he'd let 'em walk and blow.

Then urged into a trot again around the curves they spun Till hove in sight the manor-house of Camp d.i.c.k Robinson; And on beyond where Nelson lay, the bravest of the brave, Till Nicholasville at last was reached, to them the reins he gave.

And when the sun was hanging low and slanting shadows fell, Along the streets of "Idleburg" that old familiar yell Would greet the ears of villagers from small boys as they ran With open mouths and l.u.s.ty lungs a-shouting "Here comes Sam!"

Ah me! The old stage coach, abandoned now, stands in the stable lot, A victim to the tooth of rust, and slow decay and rot; Its whole-souled driver years ago forever pa.s.sed away, And crumbled now to dust the hand that drove each gallant bay!

d.i.c.k'S RIVER.

I.

Rock-sentineled, romantic stream!

Thy waters flow with silvery gleam Where gla.s.sy pools and visions greet Embosomed in some cool retreat; Then rippling o'er a pebbly bed, With current fleet thy course is led To where, walled in by beetling cliffs, It plunges o'er the hidden rifts.

II.

Past where the meadows gently sweep The limpid waters silent creep, Until, o'erhung with cooling shade, They lave the sh.o.r.es of sylvan glade, And many a wild-flower blooming there Its incense flings upon the air; And spreading o'er each sloping side An emerald carpet stretches wide.

III.

Now gliding out, the waters gleam And sparkle with the sun's warm beam, Reflecting then some mirrored cloud Like specter wrapt in filmy shroud-- Till pouring down with fretful whirl They o'er the mill-dam rush and curl, And foaming round in eddies deep, The circles wide and wider creep!

IV.

Oh, by thy wave I've loved to stray On many a balmy summer's day-- When youth, and hope, and life were sweet-- Thy wooded banks and cliffs to greet!

And often back to days of yore My fancy strays along thy sh.o.r.e, And musing thus I fondly dream I see again thy waters gleam!

TO A LITTLE BOY.

I.

Dear little one with eyes so blue, And silken ringlets of flaxen hair!

Oh, may life have in store for you Something better than anguish and care!

Oh, may thy footsteps guided be In paths of peace and pleasantness!

Oh, may those bright eyes never see Much of the cold world's bitterness!

II.

Dear little one with innocent lips, Tasting life's cup at the sparkling brim!

Oh, may the dregs that sorrow sips Ever be kept aloof from him!

Oh, may the smile on his dimpled face Through the years to come still linger there!

Oh, may Time's fingers gently place The silver strands in his flaxen hair!

WHEN THE COAL HOUSE'S FULL.

When the nights are gittin' chilly and the leaves begin to fade, An' the mercury's down to thirty, 'stead o' ninety in the shade, There's a happy kind o' feelin' takes possession o' the soul-- With the smoke house full o' middlin', and the coal house full o' coal!

When the wintry winds are whistlin' through the branches o' the trees, An' the dead leaves are a-flyin' and a-rustlin' in the breeze, You kin feel the vast contentment that over you will roll-- If the barn is full o' fodder, and the coal house full o' coal!

When the 'skeeter's ceased from troublin' and the fly is chilled to death, An' the window-pane is written with the Frost King's icy breath, You kin dream about the Summer-time, an' that old fishin' pole-- If the pantry's full o' victuals, an' the coal house full o' coal!

When your supper's been digested an' you're dozin' in your chair, Or you're tucked between the blankets from the frosty, nippin' air, Why, your dreams will be the sweeter if you've helped some sufferin' soul Whose larder's scant o' victuals, and his coal house minus coal!

DECEMBER.

I.

White-shrouded, latest-born of all the year, In thy cold hands no bud or floweret bearing, Thou comest now to wail above the bier Of thy dead sisters--on thy bosom wearing The icy jewel and the frosted gem-- But on thy marble brow the Star of Bethlehem!

II.