The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches

IN THE HEART OF JUNE

In the heart of June, love,You and I together,On from dawn till noon, love,Laughing with the weather;Blending both our souls, love,In the selfsame tune,Drinking all life holds, love,In the heart of June.In the heart of June, love,With its golden weather,Underneath the moon, love,You and I together.Ah! how sweet to seem, love,Drugged and half aswoonWith this luscious dream, love,In the heart of June.

DREAMS

"Do I sleep, do I dream,Do I wonder and doubt —Are things what they seemOr is visions about?"

There has always been an inclination, or desire, rather, on my part to believe in the mystic – even as far back as stretches the gum-elastic remembrance of my first "taffy-pullin'" given in honor of my fifth birthday; and the ghost-stories, served by way of ghastly dessert, by our hired girl. In fancy I again live over all the scenes of that eventful night: —

The dingy kitchen, with its haunting odors of a thousand feasts and wash-days; the old bench-legged stove, with its happy family of skillets, stewpans and round-bellied kettles crooning and blubbering about it. And how we children clustered round the genial hearth, with the warm smiles dying from our faces just as the embers dimmed and died out in the open grate, as with bated breath we listened to how some one's grandmother had said that her first man went through a graveyard once, one stormy night, "jest to show the neighbors that he wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and how when he was just passing the grave of his first wife "something kind o' big and white-like, with great big eyes like fire, raised up from behind the headboard, and kind o' re'ched out for him"; and how he turned and fled, "with that air white thing after him as tight as it could jump, and a hollerin' 'wough-yough-yough!' till you could hear it furder'n you could a bullgine," and how, at last, just as the brave and daring intruder was clearing two graves and the fence at one despairing leap, the "white thing," had made a grab at him with its iron claws, and had nicked him so close his second wife was occasioned the onerous duty of affixing another patch in his pantaloons. And in conclusion, our hired girl went on to state that this blood-curdling incident had so wrought upon the feelings of "the man that wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and had given him such a distaste for that particular graveyard, that he never visited it again, and even entered a clause in his will to the effect that he would ever remain an unhappy corpse should his remains be interred in said graveyard.

I forgot my pop-corn that night; I forgot my taffy; I forgot all earthly things; and I tossed about so feverishly in my little bed, and withal so restlessly, that more than once my father's admonition above the footboard of the big bed, of "Drat you! go to sleep, there!" foreshadowed my impending doom. And once he leaned over and made a vicious snatch at me, and holding me out at arm's length by one leg, demanded in thunder-tones, "what in the name o' flames and flashes I meant, anyhow!"

I was afraid to stir a muscle from that on, in consequence of which I at length straggled off in fitful dreams – and heavens! what dreams! – A very long and lank, and slim and slender old woman in white knocked at the door of my vision, and I let her in. She patted me on the head – and oh! how cold her hands were! And they were very hard hands, too, and very heavy – and, horror of horrors! – they were not hands – they were claws! – they were iron! – they were like the things I had seen the hardware man yank nails out of a keg with. I quailed and shivered till the long and slim and slender old woman jerked my head up and snarled spitefully, "What's the matter with you, bub," and I said, "Nawthin'!" and she said, "Don't you dare to lie to me!" I moaned.

"Don't you like me?" she asked.

I hesitated.

"And lie if you dare!" she said – "Don't you like me?"

"Oomh-oomh!" said I.

"Why?" said she.

"Cos, you're too long – and slim – an'" —

"Go on!" said she.

" – And tall!" said I.

"Ah, ha!" said she, – "and that's it, hey?"

And then she began to grow shorter and thicker, and fatter and squattier.

"And how do I suit you now?" she wheezed at length, when she had wilted down to about the size of a large loaf of bread.

I shook more violently than ever at the fearful spectacle.

"How do you like me now?" she yelped again, – "And don't you lie to me neither, or I'll swaller you whole!"

I writhed and hid my face.

"Do you like me?"

"No-o-oh!" I moaned.

She made another snatch at my hair. I felt her jagged claws sink into my very brain. I struggled and she laughed hideously.

"You don't, hey?"

"Yes, yes, I do. I love you!" said I.

"You lie! You lie!" She shrieked derisively. "You know you lie!" and as I felt the iron talons sinking and gritting in my very brain, with one wild, despairing effort, I awoke.

I saw the fire gleaming in the grate, and by the light it made I dimly saw the outline of the old mantelpiece that straddled it, holding the old clock high upon its shoulders. I was awake then, and the little squatty woman with her iron talons was a dream! I felt an oily gladness stealing over me, and yet I shuddered to be all alone.

If only some one were awake, I thought, whose blessed company would drown all recollections of that fearful dream; but I dared not stir or make a noise. I could only hear the ticking of the clock, and my father's sullen snore. I tried to compose my thoughts to pleasant themes, but that telescopic old woman in white would rise up and mock my vain appeals, until in fancy I again saw her altitudinous proportions dwindling into that repulsive and revengeful figure with the iron claws, and I grew restless and attempted to sit up. Heavens! something yet held me by the hair. The chill sweat that betokens speedy dissolution gathered on my brow. I made another effort and arose, that deadly clutch yet fastened in my hair. Could it be possible! The short, white woman still held me in her vengeful grasp! I could see her white dress showing from behind either of my ears. She still clung to me, and with one wild, unearthly cry of "Pap!" I started round the room.

I remember nothing further, until as the glowing morn sifted through the maple at the window, powdering with gold the drear old room, and baptizing with its radiance the anxious group of old home-faces leaning over my bed, I heard my father's voice once more rasping on my senses – "Now get the booby up, and wash that infernal wax out of his hair!"

BECAUSE

Why did we meet long years of yore?And why did we strike hands and say:"We will be friends, and nothing more";Why are we musing thus to-day?Because because was just because,And no one knew just why it was.Why did I say good-by to you?Why did I sail across the main?Why did I love not heaven's own blueUntil I touched these shores again?Because because was just because,And you nor I knew why it was.Why are my arms about you now,And happy tears upon your cheek?And why my kisses on your brow?Look up in thankfulness and speak!Because because was just because,And only God knew why it was.

TO THE CRICKET

The chiming seas may clang; and Tubal CainMay clink his tinkling metals as he may;Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away;Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strainTill not a note of melody remain! —But thou, O cricket, with thy roundelay,Shalt laugh them all to scorn! So wilt thou, pray,Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again:I shall not weary; there is purest worthIn thy sweet prattle, since it sings the loneHeart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearthOf childish memories – no harsher toneThan we might listen to in gentlest mirth,Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth.

THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhoodThat now but in mem'ry I sadly review;The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood,The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto;The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple,The doves that came fluttering out overheadAs it solemnly gathered the God-fearing peopleTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible —The dust-covered Bible —The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.The blessed old volume! The face bent above it —As now I recall it – is gravely severe,Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love itMakes grander the text through the lens of a tear,And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his headLike a haloéd patriarch's leans as he listensTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible —The dust-covered Bible —The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derisionAnd scoff the old book though it uselessly liesIn the dust of the past, while this newer revisionLisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,When so long He has, listening, leaned out of HeavenTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read?The old-fashioned Bible —The dust-covered Bible —The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

UNCOMFORTED

Lelloine! Lelloine! Don't you hear me calling?Calling through the night for you, and calling through the day;Calling when the dawn is here, and when the dusk is falling —Calling for my Lelloine the angels lured away!Lelloine! I call and listen, starting from my pillow —In the hush of midnight, Lelloine! I cry,And o'er the rainy window-pane I hear the weeping willowTrail its dripping leaves like baby-fingers in reply.Lelloine, I miss the glimmer of your glossy tresses,I miss the dainty velvet palms that nestled in my own;And all my mother-soul went out in answerless caresses,And a storm of tears and kisses when you left me here alone.I have prayed, O Lelloine, but Heaven will not hear me,I can not gain one sign from Him who leads you by the hand;And O it seems that ne'er again His mercy will come near me —That He will never see my need, nor ever understand.Won't you listen, Lelloine? – just a little leaningO'er the walls of Paradise – lean and hear my prayer,And interpret death to Him in all its awful meaning,And tell Him you are lonely without your mother there.

WHAT THEY SAID

Whispering to themselves apart,They who knew her said of her,"Dying of a broken heart —Death her only comforter —For the man she loved is dead —She will follow soon!" they said.Beautiful? Ah! brush the dustFrom Raphael's fairest face,And restore it, as it mustFirst have smiled back from its placeOn his easel as he leantWrapt in awe and wonderment!Why, to kiss the very hemOf the mourning-weeds she wore,Like the winds that rustled them,I had gone the round world o'er;And to touch her hand I swearAll things dareless I would dare!But unto themselves apart,Whispering, they said of her,"Dying of a broken heart —Death her only comforter —For the man she loved is dead —She will follow soon!" they said.So I mutely turned away,Turned with sorrow and despair,Yearning still from day to dayFor that woman dying there,Till at last, by longing led,I returned to find her – dead?"Dead?" – I know that word would tellRhyming there – but in this case"Wed" rhymes equally as wellIn the very selfsame place —And, in fact, the latter wordIs the one she had preferred.Yet unto themselves apart,Whisp'ring they had said of her —"Dying of a broken heart —Death her only comforter —For the man she loved is dead —She will follow soon!" they said.

AFTER THE FROST

After the frost! O the rose is dead,And the weeds lie pied in the garden-bed,And the peach tree's shade in the wan sunshine,Faint as the veins in these hands of mine,Streaks the gray of the orchard wallWhere the vine rasps loose, and the last leaves fall,And the bare boughs writhe, and the winds are lost —After the frost – the frost!After the frost! O the weary headAnd the hands and the heart are quietéd;And the lips we loved are locked at last,And kiss not back, though the rain falls fastAnd the lashes drip, and the soul makes moan,And on through the dead leaves walks aloneWhere the bare boughs writhe and the winds are lost —After the frost – the frost!

CHARLES H. PHILLIPS

OBIT NOVEMBER 5TH, 1881O friend! There is no wayTo bid farewell to thee!The words that we would sayAbove thy grave to-dayStill falter and delayAnd fail us utterly.When walking with us here,The hand we loved to pressWas gentle, and sincereAs thy frank eyes were clearThrough every smile and tearOf pleasure and distress.In years, young; yet in thoughtMature; thy spirit, free,And fired with fervor caughtOf thy proud sire, who foughtHis way to fame, and taughtIts toilsome way to thee.So even thou hast gainedThe victory God-given —Yea, as our cheeks are stainedWith tears, and our souls painedAnd mute, thou hast attainedThy high reward in Heaven!

WHEN IT RAINS

When it rains, and with the rainNever bird has heart to sing,And across the window-paneIs no sunlight glimmering;When the pitiless refrainBrings a tremor to the lips,Our tears are like the rainAs it drips, drips, drips —Like the sad, unceasing rain as it drips.When the light of heaven's blueIs blurred and blotted quite,And the dreary day to youIs but a long twilight;When it seems that ne'er againShall the sun break its eclipse,Our tears are like the rainAs it drips, drips, drips —Like the endless, friendless rain as it drips.When it rains! weary heart,O be of better cheer!The leaden clouds will part,And the morrow will be clear;Take up your load again,With a prayer upon your lips,Thanking Heaven for the rainAs it drips, drips, drips —With the golden bow of promise as it drips.

AN ASSASSIN

Cat-like he creeps along where ways are dim,From covert unto covert's secrecy;His shadow in the moonlight shrinks from himAnd crouches warily.He hugs strange envies to his breast, and nursesWild hatreds, till the murderous hand he gripsFalls, quivering with the tension of the cursesHe launches from his lips.Drenched in his victim's blood he holds high revel;He mocks at justice, and in all men's eyesInsults his God – and no one but the devilIs sorry when he dies.

BEST OF ALL

Of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall,Is not silence the best of all?The deep, sweet hush when the song is closed,And every sound but a voiceless ghost;And every sigh, as we listening leant,A breathless quiet of vast content?The laughs we laughed have a purer ringWith but their memory echoing;And the joys we voiced, and the words we said,Seem so dearer for being dead.So of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall,Is not silence the best of all?

BIN A-FISHIN'

W'en de sun's gone down, un de moon is riz,Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!It's I's aguine down wha' the by-o is!Bin a-fishin' all night long!ChorusBin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!Bin a-fishin' clean fum de dusk of nightTwell away 'long on in de mornin' light.Bait my hook, un I plunk her down!Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!Un I lay dat catfish weigh five pound!Bin a-fishin' all night long!ChorusFolks tells me ut a sucker won't bite,Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!Yit I lif' out fo' last Chuesday night,Bin a-fishin' all night long!ChorusLittle fish nibble un de big fish come;Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!"Go way, little fish! I want some!"Bin a-fishin' all night long!ChorusSez de bull frog, "D-runk!" sez de ole owl, "Whoo!"Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!'Spec, Mr. Nigger, dey's a-meanin' you,Bin a-fishin' all night long!Chorus

UNCLE DAN'L IN TOWN OVER SUNDAY

I cain't git used to city ways —Ner never could, I' bet my hat!Jevver know jes' whur I was raised? —Raised on a farm! D' ever tell you that?Was undoubtatly, I declare!And now, on Sunday – fun to spareAround a farm! Why jes' to setUp on the top three-cornered railOf Pap's old place, nigh La Fayette,I'd swap my soul off, hide and tail!You fellers in the city here,You don't know nothin'! – S'pose to-day,This clatterin' Sunday, you waked upWithout no jinglin'-janglin' bells,Ner rattlin' of the milkman's cup,Ner any swarm of screechin' birdsLike these here English swallers – S'poseUt you could miss all noise like those,And git shet o' thinkin' of 'em afterwerds,And then, in the country, wake and hearNothin' but silence – wake and seeNothin' but green woods fur and near? —What sort o' Sunday would that be?..Wisht I hed you home with me!Now think! The laziest of all days —To git up any time – er sleep —Er jes' lay round and watch the hazeA-dancin' 'crost the wheat, and keepMy pipe a-goern laisurely,And puff and whiff as pleases me —And ef I leave a trail of smokeClean through the house, no one to say,"Wah! throw that nasty thing away;Hev some regyard fer decency!"To walk round barefoot, if you choose;Er saw the fiddle – er dig some baitAnd go a-fishin' – er pitch hoss shoesOut in the shade somewhurs, and waitFor dinner-time, with an appetiteUt folks in town cain't equal quite!To laze around the barn and pokeFer hens' nests – er git up a matchBetwixt the boys, and watch 'em scratchAnd rassle round, and sweat and swearAnd quarrel to their hearts' content;And me a-jes' a-settin' thereA-hatchin' out more devilment!What sort o' Sunday would that be?..Wisht I hed you home with me!

SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY

ISoldiers and saviours of the homes we love;Heroes and patriots who marched away,And who marched back, and who marched on above —All – all are here to-day!By the dear cause you fought for – you are here;At summons of bugle, and the drumWhose palpitating syllables were ne'erMore musical, you come!Here – by the stars that bloom in fields of blue,And by the bird above with shielding wings;And by the flag that floats out over you,With silken beckonings —Ay, here beneath its folds are gathered allWho warred unscathed for blessings that it gave —Still blessed its champion, though it but fallA shadow on his grave!IIWe greet you, Victors, as in vast arrayYou gather from the scenes of strife and death —From spectral fortress walls where curls awayThe cannon's latest breath.We greet you – from the crumbling battlementsWhere once again the old flag feels the breezeStroke out its tattered stripes and smooth its rentsWith rippling ecstasies.From living tombs where every hope seemed lost —With famine quarantined by bristling guns —The prison pens – the guards – the "dead-line" crossedBy – riddled skeletons!From furrowed plains, sown thick with bursting shells —From mountain gorge, and toppling crags o'erhead —From wards of pestilential hospitals,And trenches of the dead.IIIIn fancy all are here. The night is o'er,And through dissolving mists the morning gleams;And clustered round their hearths we see once moreThe heroes of our dreams.Strong, tawny faces, some, and some are fair,And some are marked with age's latest prime,And, seer-like, browed and aureoled with hairAs hoar as winter-time.The faces of fond lovers, glorified —The faces of the husband and the wife —The babe's face nestled at the mother's side,And smiling back at life;A bloom of happiness in every cheek —A thrill of tingling joy in every vein —In every soul a rapture they will seekIn Heaven, and find again!IV'Tis not a vision only – we who payBut the poor tribute of our praises hereAre equal sharers in the guerdon theyPurchased at price so dear.The angel, Peace, o'er all uplifts her hand,Waving the olive, and with heavenly eyesShedding a light of love o'er sea and landAs sunshine from the skies —Her figure pedestalled on Freedom's soil —Her sandals kissed with seas of golden grain —Queen of a realm of joy-requited toilThat glories in her reign.O blessed land of labor and reward!O gracious Ruler, let Thy reign endure;In pruning-hook and ploughshare beat the sword,And reap the harvest sure!

SHADOW AND SHINE

Storms of the winter, and deepening snows,When will you end? I said,For the soul within me was numb with woes,And my heart uncomforted.When will you cease, O dismal days?When will you set me free?For the frozen world and its desolate waysAre all unloved of me!I waited long, but the answer came —The kiss of the sunshine layWarm as a flame on the lips that frameThe song in my heart to-day.Blossoms of summer-time waved in the air,Glimmers of sun in the sea;Fair thoughts followed me everywhere,And the world was dear to me.

THAT NIGHT

You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory! —The scent of the locusts – the light of the moon;And the violin weaving the waltzers a story,Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune,Till their shadows uncertainReeled round on the curtain,While under the trellis we drank in the June.Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were sleeping,Their shadowy tresses outlined in the brightCrystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, leapingForever, forever burst, full with delight;And its lisp on my spiritFell faint as that near itWhose love like a lily bloomed out in the night.O your love was an odorous sachet of blisses!The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay!And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses! —And the music! – in fancy I hear it to-day,As I sit here, confessingOur secret, and blessingMy rival who found us, and waltzed you away.

AUGUST

O mellow month and merry month,Let me make love to you,And follow you around the worldAs knights their ladies do.I thought your sisters beautiful,Both May and April, too,But April she had rainy eyes,And May had eyes of blue.And June – I liked the singingOf her lips – and liked her smile —But all her songs were promisesOf something, after while;And July's face – the lights and shadesThat may not long beguileWith alterations o'er the wheatThe dreamer at the stile.But you! – ah, you are tropical,Your beauty is so rare;Your eyes are clearer, deeper eyesThan any, anywhere;Mysterious, imperious,Deliriously fair,O listless Andalusian maid,With bangles in your hair!

THE GUIDE

IMITATEDWe rode across the level plain —We – my sagacious guide and I. —He knew the earth – the air – the sky;He knew when it would blow or rain,And when the weather would be dry:The blended blades of grass spake outTo him when Redskins were about;The wagon tracks would tell him too,The very day that they rolled through:He knew their burden – whence they came —If any horse along were lame,And what its owner ought to do;He knew when it would snow; he knew,By some strange intuition, whenThe buffalo would overflowThe prairies like a flood, and thenRecede in their stampede again.He knew all things – yea, he did knowThe brand of liquor in my flask,And many times did tilt it up,Nor halt or hesitate one whit,Nor pause to slip the silver cupFrom off its crystal base, nor askWhy I preferred to drink from it.And more and more I plied him, andDid query of him o'er and o'er,And seek to lure from him the loreBy which the man did understandThese hidden things of sky and land:And, wrought upon, he sudden drewHis bridle – wheeled, and caught my hand —Pressed it, as one that loved me true,And bade me listen.… There be fewLike tales as strange to listen to!He told me all – How, when a child,The Indians stole him – there he laughed —"They stole me, and I stole their craft!"Then slowly winked both eyes, and smiled,And went on ramblingly, – "And they —They reared me, and I ran away —'Twas winter, and the weather wild;And, caught up in the awful snowsThat bury wilderness and plain,I struggled on until I frozeMy feet ere human hands againWere reached to me in my distress, —And lo, since then not any rainMay fall upon me anywhere,Nor any cyclone's cussednessSlip up behind me unaware, —Nor any change of cold, or heat,Or blow, or snow, but I do knowIt's coming, days and days before; —I know it by my frozen feet —I know it by my itching heels,And by the agony one feelsWho knows that scratching nevermoreWill bring to him the old and sweetRelief he knew ere thus endowedWith knowledge that a certain cloudWill burst with storm on such a day,And when a snow will fall, and – nay,I speak not falsely when I sayThat by my tingling heels and toesI measure time, and can discloseThe date of month – the week – and lo,The very day and minute – yea —Look at your watch! – An hour agoAnd twenty minutes I did sayUnto myself with bitter laugh,'In less than one hour and a halfWill I be drunken!' Is it so?"

SUTTER'S CLAIM

IMITATEDSay! you feller! You—With that spade and the pick! —What do you 'pose to doOn this side o' the crick?Goin' to tackle this claim? Well, I reckonYou'll let up ag'in, purty quick!No bluff, understand, —But the same has been tried,And the claim never panned —Or the fellers has lied, —For they tell of a dozen that tried it,And quit it most onsatisfied.The luck's dead ag'in it! —The first man I seeThat stuck a pick in itProved that thing to me, —For he sort o' took down, and got homesick,And went back whar he'd orto be!Then others they worked itSome – more or less,But finally shirked it,In grades of distress, —With an eye out – a jaw or skull busted,Or some sort o' seriousness.The last one was plucky —He wasn't afeerd,And bragged he was "lucky,"And said that "he'd heerdA heap of bluff-talk," and swore awkardHe'd work any claim that he keered!Don't you strike nary lickWith that pick till I'm through;This-here feller talked slickAnd as peart-like as you!And he says: "I'll abide hereAs long as I please!"But he didn't… He died here —And I'm his disease!