The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches

HER LIGHT GUITAR

She twankled a tune on her light guitar —A low, sweet jangle of tangled sounds,As blurred as the voices of the fairies are,Dancing in moondawn dales and downs;And the tinkling drip of the strange refrainRan over the rim of my soul like rain.The great blond moon in the midnight skiesPaused and poised o'er the trellis eaves,And the stars, in the light of her upturned eyes,Sifted their love through the rifted leaves,Glittered and splintered in crystal mistDown the glittering strings that her fingers kissed.O the melody mad! O the tinkle and thrillOf the ecstasy of the exquisite thing!The red rose dropped from the window-sillAnd lay in a long swoon quivering;While the dying notes of the strain divineRippled in glee up my spellbound spine.

WHILE CIGARETTES TO ASHES TURN

I"He smokes – and that's enough," says Ma —"And cigarettes, at that!" says Pa."He must not call again," says she —"He shall not call again!" says he.They both glare at me as before —Then quit the room and bang the door. —While I, their wilful daughter, say,"I guess I'll love him, anyway!"IIAt twilight, in his room, alone,His careless feet inertly thrownAcross a chair, my fancy canBut worship this most worthless man!I dream what joy it is to setHis slow lips round a cigarette,With idle-humored whiff and puff —Ah! this is innocent enough!To mark the slender fingers raiseThe waxen match's dainty blaze,Whose chastened light an instant glowsOn drooping lids and arching nose,Then, in the sudden gloom, instead,A tiny ember, dim and red,Blooms languidly to ripeness, thenFades slowly, and grows ripe again.IIII lean back, in my own boudoir —The door is fast, the sash ajar;And in the dark, I smiling stareAt one wide window over there,Where some one, smoking, pinks the gloom,The darling darkness of his room!I push my shutters wider yet,And lo! I light a cigarette;And gleam for gleam, and glow for glow,Each pulse of light a word we know,We talk of love that still will burnWhile cigarettes to ashes turn.

TWO SONNETS TO THE JUNE-BUG

IYou make me jes' a little nervouserThan any dog-gone bug I ever see!And you know night's the time to pester me —When any tetch at all 'll rub the furOf all my patience back'ards! You're the myrrhAnd ruburb of my life! A bumblebeeCain't hold a candle to you; and a heBald hornet, with a laminated spurIn his hip pocket, daresent even cheepWhen you're around! And, dern ye! you have madeMe lose whole ricks and stacks and piles of sleep, —And many of a livelong night I've laidAnd never shut an eye, hearin' you keepUp that eternal buzzin' serenade!IIAnd I've got up and lit the lamp, and clumOn cheers and trunks and wash-stands and bureaus,And all such dangerous articles as those,And biffed at you with brooms, and never come'In two feet of you, – maybe skeered you some, —But what does that amount to when it throwsA feller out o' balance, and his noseGits barked ag'inst the mantel, while you humFer joy around the room, and churn your headAg'inst the ceilin', and draw back and buttThe plasterin' loose, and drop – behind the bed,Where never human-bein' ever puttHarm's hand on you, er ever truthful saidHe'd choked yer dern infernal wizzen shut!

AUTOGRAPHIC

For an AlbumI feel, if aught I ought to rhyme,I ought 'a' thought a longer time,And ought 'a' caught a higher sense,Of autocratic eloquence.I ought 'a' sought each haughty MuseThat taught a thought I ought to use,And fought and fraught, and so devisedA poem unmonotonized. —But since all this was vain, I thoughtI ought to simply say, – I oughtTo thank you, as I ought to do,And ought to bow my best to you;And ought to trust not to intrudeA rudely wrought-up gratitude,But ought to smile, and ought to laugh,And ought to write – an autograph.

AN IMPROMPTU ON ROLLER SKATES

Rumble, tumble, growl, and grate!Skip, and trip, and gravitate!Lunge, and plunge, and thrash the planksWith your blameless, shameless shanks:In excruciating pain,Stand upon your head again,And, uncoiling kink by kink,Kick the roof out of the rink!In derisive bursts of mirth,Drop ka-whop and jar the earth!Jolt your lungs down in your socks,Oh! tempestuous equinoxOf dismembered legs and arms!Strew your ways with wild alarms;Fameward skoot and ricochetOn your glittering vertebræ!

WRITTEN IN BUNNER'S "AIRS FROM ARCADY"

O ever gracious Airs from Arcady!What lack is there of any jocund thingIn glancing wit or glad imaginingCapricious fancy may not find in thee? —The laugh of Momus, tempered daintilyTo lull the ear and lure its listening;The whistled syllables the birds of springFlaunt ever at our guessings what they be;The wood, the seashore, and the clanging town;The pets of fashion, and the ways of such;The robe de chambre, and the russet gown;The lordling's carriage, and the pilgrim's crutch —From hale old Chaucer's wholesomeness, clean downTo our artistic Dobson's deftest touch!

IN THE AFTERNOON

You in the hammock; and I, near by,Was trying to read, and to swing you, too;And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye,And the shade of the maples so cool and blue,That often I looked from the book to youTo say as much, with a sigh.You in the hammock. The book we'd broughtFrom the parlor – to read in the open air, —Something of love and of LauncelotAnd Guinevere, I believe, was there —But the afternoon, it was far more fairThan the poem was, I thought.You in the hammock; and on and onI droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff —But, with always a half of my vision goneOver the top of the page – enoughTo caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluffOf your hair and your odorous "lawn."You in the hammock – and that was a year —Fully a year ago, I guess —And what do we care for their GuinevereAnd her Launcelot and their lordliness! —You in the hammock still, and – Yes —Kiss me again, my dear!

AT MADAME MANICURE'S

Daintiest of Manicures!What a cunning hand is yours;And how awkward, rude and greatMine, as you manipulate!Wonderfully cool and calmAre the touches of your palmTo my fingers, as they restIn their rosy, cosey nest,While your own, with deftest skill,Dance and caper as they will, —Armed with instruments that seemGathered from some fairy dream —Tiny spears, and simitarsSuch as pixy armorersMight have made for jocund faysTo parade on holidays,And flash round in dewy dells,Lopping down the lily-bells;Or in tilting, o'er the leas,At the clumsy bumblebees,Splintering their stings, perchance,As the knights in old romanceSnapped the spears of foes that foughtIn the jousts at Camelot!Smiling? Dainty Manicure? —'Twould delight me, but that you'reSimply smiling, as I see,At my nails and not at me!Haply this is why they glowAnd light up and twinkle so!

A CALLER FROM BOONE

BENJ. F. JOHNSON VISITS THE EDITOR

It was a dim and chill and loveless afternoon in the late fall of eighty-three when I first saw the genial subject of this hasty sketch. From time to time the daily paper on which I worked had been receiving, among the general literary driftage of amateur essayists, poets and sketch-writers, some conceits in verse that struck the editorial head as decidedly novel; and, as they were evidently the production of an unlettered man, and an old man, and a farmer at that, they were usually spared the waste-basket, and preserved – not for publication, but to pass from hand to hand among the members of the staff as simply quaint and mirth-provoking specimens of the verdancy of both the venerable author and the Muse inspiring him. Letters as quaint as were the poems invariably accompanied them, and the oddity of these, in fact, had first called attention to the verses. I well remember the general merriment of the office when the first of the old man's letters was read aloud, and I recall, too, some of his comments on his own verse, verbatim. In one place he said: "I make no doubt you will find some purty sad spots in my poetry, considerin'; but I hope you will bear in mind that I am a great sufferer with rheumatizum, and have been, off and on, sence the cold New Year's. In the main, however," he continued, "I allus aim to write in a cheerful, comfortin' sperit, so's ef the stuff hangs fire, and don't do no good, it hain't a-goin' to do no harm, – and them's my honest views on poetry."

In another letter, evidently suspecting his poem had not appeared in print because of its dejected tone, he said: "The poetry I herewith send was wrote off on the finest Autumn day I ever laid eyes on! I never felt better in my life. The morning air was as invigoratin' as bitters with tanzy in it, and the folks at breakfast said they never saw such a' appetite on mortal man before. Then I lit out for the barn, and after feedin', I come back and tuck my pen and ink out on the porch, and jest cut loose. I writ and writ till my fingers was that cramped I couldn't hardly let go of the penholder. And the poem I send you is the upshot of it all. Ef you don't find it cheerful enough fer your columns, I'll have to knock under, that's all!" And that poem, as I recall it, certainly was cheerful enough for publication, only the "copy" was almost undecipherable, and the ink, too, so pale and vague, it was thought best to reserve the verses, for the time, at least, and later on revise, copy, punctuate, and then print it sometime, as much for the joke of it as anything. But it was still delayed, neglected, and in a week's time almost entirely forgotten. And so it was, upon this chill and sombre afternoon I speak of that an event occurred which most pleasantly reminded me of both the poem with the "sad spots" in it, and the "cheerful" one, "writ out on the porch" that glorious autumn day that poured its glory through the old man's letter to us.

Outside and in the sanctum the gloom was too oppressive to permit an elevated tendency of either thought or spirit. I could do nothing but sit listless and inert. Paper and pencil were before me, but I could not write – I could not even think coherently, and was on the point of rising and rushing out into the streets for a wild walk, when there came a hesitating knock at the door.

"Come in!" I snarled, grabbing up my pencil and assuming a frightfully industrious air: "Come in!" I almost savagely repeated, "Come in! And shut the door behind you!" and I dropped my lids, bent my gaze fixedly upon the blank pages before me and began scrawling some disconnected nothings with no head or tail or anything.

"Sir; howdy," said a low and pleasant voice. And at once, in spite of my perverse resolve, I looked up. I someway felt rebuked.

The speaker was very slowly, noiselessly closing the door. I could hardly face him when he turned around. An old man, of sixty-five, at least, but with a face and an eye of the most cheery and wholesome expression I had ever seen in either youth or age. Over his broad bronzed forehead and white hair he wore a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black felt hat, somewhat rusted now, and with the band grease-crusted, and the binding frayed at intervals, and sagging from the threads that held it on. An old-styled frock coat of black, dull brown in streaks, and quite shiny about the collar and lapels. A waistcoat of no describable material or pattern, and a clean white shirt and collar of one piece, with a black string-tie and double bow, which would have been entirely concealed beneath the long white beard but for its having worked around to one side of the neck. The front outline of the face was cleanly shaven, and the beard, growing simply from the under chin and throat, lent the old pioneer the rather singular appearance of having hair all over him with this luxurious growth pulled out above his collar for mere sample.

I arose and asked the old man to sit down, handing him a chair decorously.

"No – no," he said – "I'm much obleeged. I hain't come in to bother you no more'n I can he'p. All I wanted was to know ef you got my poetry all right. You know I take yer paper," he went on, in an explanatory way, "and seein' you printed poetry in it once-in-a-while, I sent you some of mine – neighbors kindo' advised me to," he added apologetically, "and so I sent you some – two or three times I sent you some, but I hain't never seed hide-ner-hair of it in your paper, and as I wus in town to-day, anyhow, I jest thought I'd kindo' drap in and git it back, ef you ain't goin' to print it – 'cause I allus save up most the things I write, aimin' sometime to git 'em all struck off in pamphlet-form, to kindo' distribit round 'mongst the neighbors, don't you know."

Already I had begun to suspect my visitor's identity, and was mechanically opening the drawer of our poetical department.

"How was your poetry signed?" I asked.

"Signed by my own name," he answered proudly, – "signed by my own name, – Johnson – Benjamin F. Johnson, of Boone County – this state."

"And is this one of them, Mr. Johnson?" I asked, unfolding a clumsily-folded manuscript, and closely scrutinizing the verse.

"How does she read?" said the old man eagerly, and searching in the meantime for his spectacles. "How does she read? – Then I can tell you!"

"It reads," said I, studiously conning the old man's bold but bad chirography, and tilting my chair back indolently, – "it reads like this – the first verse does," – and I very gravely read: —

"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!"

"Stop! Stop!" said the old man excitedly – "Stop right there! That's my poetry, but that's not the way to read it by a long shot! Give it to me!" and he almost snatched it from my hand. "Poetry like this ain't no poetry at all, 'less you read it natchurl and in jes the same sperit 'at it's writ in, don't you understand. It's a' old man a-talkin', rickollect, and a-feelin' kindo' sad, and yit kindo' sorto' good, too, and I opine he wouldn't got that off with a face on him like a' undertaker, and a voice as solemn as a cow-bell after dark! He'd say it more like this." – And the old man adjusted his spectacles and read: —

"THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE""Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deepLooked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest belowSounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to knowBefore we could remember anything but the eyesOf the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole."

I clapped my hands in genuine applause. "Read on!" I said, – "Read on! Read all of it!"

The old man's face was radiant as he continued: —

"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tideThat gazed back at me so gay and glorified,It made me love myself, as I leaped to caressMy shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his tollFrom the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole."Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy daysWhen the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways,How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so planeYou could tell by the dent of the heel and the soleThey was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow rollLike the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole."Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;And it mottled the worter with amber and goldTel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled;And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered byLike the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controleAs it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole."Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spotWhare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.And I strayed down the banks whare the trees ust to be —But never again will theyr shade shelter me!And I wisht in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole."

My applause was long and loud. The old man's interpretation of the poem was a positive revelation, though I was glad enough to conceal from him my moistened eyes by looking through the scraps for other specimens of his verse.

"Here," said I enthusiastically, "is another one, signed 'Benj. F. Johnson,' read me this," and I handed him the poem.

The old man smiled and took the manuscript. "This-here one's on 'The Hoss,'" he said, simply clearing his throat. "They ain't so much fancy-work about this as the other'n, but they's jest as much fact, you can bet – 'cause, they're no animal a-livin' 'at I love better 'an

"THE HOSS""The hoss he is a splendud beast;He is man's friend, as heaven desined,And, search the world from west to east,No honester you'll ever find!"Some calls the hoss 'a pore dumb brute,'And yit, like Him who died fer you,I say, as I theyr charge refute,'Fergive; they know not what they do!'"No wiser animal makes tracksUpon these earthly shores, and henceArose the axium, true as facts,Extoled by all, as 'Good hoss-sense!'"The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th, —You hitch him up a time er twoAnd lash him, and he'll go his len'thAnd kick the dashboard out fer you!"But, treat him allus good and kind,And never strike him with a stick,Ner aggervate him, and you'll findHe'll never do a hostile trick."A hoss whose master tends him rightAnd worters him with daily care,Will do your biddin' with delight,And act as docile as you air."He'll paw and prance to hear your praise,Because he's learnt to love you well;And, though you can't tell what he says,He'll nicker all he wants to tell."He knows you when you slam the gateAt early dawn, upon your wayUnto the barn, and snorts elate,To git his corn, er oats, er hay."He knows you, as the orphant knowsThe folks that loves her like theyr own,And raises her and 'finds' her clothes,And 'schools' her tel a womern-grown!"I claim no hoss will harm a man,Ner kick, ner run away, cavort,Stump-suck, er balk, er 'catamaran,'Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort."But when I see the beast abusedAnd clubbed around as I've saw some,I want to see his owner noosed,And jest yanked up like Absolum!"Of course they's differunce in stock, —A hoss that has a little yeer,And slender build, and shaller hock,Can beat his shadder, mighty near!"Whilse one that's thick in neck and chistAnd big in leg and full in flank,That tries to race, I still insistHe'll have to take the second rank."And I have jest laid back and laughed,And rolled and wallered in the grassAt fairs, to see some heavy-draftLead out at first, yit come in last!"Each hoss has his appinted place, —The heavy hoss should plow the soil; —The blooded racer, he must race,And win big wages fer his toil."I never bet – ner never wroughtUpon my feller-man to bet —And yit, at times, I've often thoughtOf my convictions with regret."I bless the hoss from hoof to head —From head to hoof, and tale to mane! —I bless the hoss, as I have said,From head to hoof, and back again!"I love my God the first of all,Then Him that perished on the cross,And next, my wife, – and then I fallDown on my knees and love the hoss."

Again I applauded, handing the old man still another of his poems, and the last received. "Ah!" said he, as his gentle eyes bent on the title; "this-here's the cheerfullest one of 'em all. This is the one writ, as I wrote you about – on that glorious October morning two weeks ago – I thought your paper would print this-un, shore!"

"Oh, it will print it," I said eagerly; "and it will print the other two as well! It will print anything that you may do us the honor to offer, and we'll reward you beside just as you may see fit to designate. – But go on – go on! Read me the poem."

The old man's eyes were glistening as he responded with the poem entitled

"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN""When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock."They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfereWhen the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here —Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the hazeOf a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn daysIs a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock —When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock."The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;The stubble in the furries – kindo' lonesome-like, but stillA-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;The hosses in theyr stalls below – the clover overhead! —O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!"Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keepsIs poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is throughWith theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!..I don't know how to tell it – but ef sich a thing could beAs the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—I'd want to 'commodate 'em – all the whole-indurin' flock —When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!"

That was enough! "Surely," thought I, "here is a diamond in the rough, and a 'gem,' too, 'of purest ray serene'!" I caught the old man's hand and wrung it with positive rapture; and it is needless to go further in explanation of how the readers of our daily came to an acquaintance through its columns with the crude, unpolished, yet most gentle genius of Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone. P/

LORD BACON

WRITTEN AS A JOKE AND ASCRIBED TO A VERY PRACTICAL BUSINESS MAN, AMOS J. WALKERMaster of masters in the days of yore,When art met insult, with no law's redress;When Law itself insulted Righteousness,And Ignorance thine own scholastic lore,And thou thine own judicial office more, —What master living now canst love thee less,Seeing thou didst thy greatest art repressAnd leave the years its riches to restoreTo us, thy long neglectors. Yield us graceTo make becoming recompense, and dawnOn us thy poet-smile; nor let us trace,In fancy, where the old-world myths have gone,The shade of Shakespeare, with averted face,Withdrawn to uttermost oblivion.

MY FIRST WOMERN

I buried my first womernIn the spring; and in the fallI was married to my second,And hain't settled yit at all! —Fer I'm allus thinkin' – thinkin'Of the first one's peaceful ways,A-bilin' soap and singin'Of the Lord's amazin' grace.And I'm thinkin' of her, constant,Dyin' carpet chain and stuff,And a-makin' up rag carpets,When the floor was good enough!And I mind her he'p a-feedin',And I riccollect her nowA-drappin' corn, and keepin'Clos't behind me and the plow!And I'm allus thinkin' of herReddin' up around the house;Er cookin' fer the farm-hands;Er a-drivin' up the cows. —And there she lays out yanderBy the lower medder fence,Where the cows was barely grazin',And they're usin' ever sence.And when I look acrost there —Say it's when the clover's ripe,And I'm settin', in the evenin',On the porch here, with my pipe,And the other'n hollers "Henry!" —W'y they ain't no sadder thingThan to think of my first womernAnd her funeral last springWas a year ago —

AS WE READ BURNS

Who is speaking? Who has spoken?Whose voice ceasing thus has brokenThe sweet pathos of our dreams?Sweetest bard of sweetest themes,Pouring in each poet-heartSome rare essence of your artTill it seems your singing lipKisses every pencil tip!Far across the unknown lands —Reach of heavenly isle and sea —How we long to touch the handsYou outhold so lovingly!

TO JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER ON THE ANATOMY OF THE SONNETOho! ye sunny, sonnet-singin' vagrant,Flauntin' your simmer sangs in sic a weather!Ane maist can straik the bluebells and the heatherKeekin' aboon the snaw and bloomin' fragrant!Whiles you, ye whustlin' brither, sic a lay grantO' a' these janglin', wranglin' sweets thegither,I weel maun perk my ain doon-drappin' featherAnd pipe a wee: Tho' boisterous and flagrantThe winds blow whuzzle-whazzle rhymes that trickleFra' aff my tongue less limpid than I'd ha'e them,I in their little music hap a mickleO' canty praises, a' asklent to weigh themAgen your pride, and smile to see them tickleThe warm nest o' the heart wherein I lay them.