Pipes O'Pan At Zekesbury Part 7

WANT TO BE WHUR MOTHER IS.

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"

Jeemses Rivers! won't some one ever shet that howl o' his?

That-air yellin' drives me wild!

Cain't none of ye stop the child?

Want jer Daddy? "Naw." Gee whizz!

"Want to be whur mother is!"

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"

Coax him, Sairy! Mary, sing somepin far him! Lift him, Liz-- Bang the clock-bell with the key-- Er the _meat-ax!_ Gee-mun-nee!

Listen to them lungs o' his!

"Want to be whur mother is!"

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"

Preacher guess'll pound all night on that old pulpit o' his; 'Pears to me some wimmin jest Shows religious interest Mostly 'fore their fambly's riz!

"Want to be whur mother is!"

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"

Nights like these and whipperwills allus brings that voice of his!

Sairy; Mary; 'Lizabeth; Don't set there and ketch yer death In the dew--er rheumatiz-- Want to be whur mother is?

OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME.

I.

In the jolly winters Of the long-ago, It was not so cold as now-- O! No! No!

Then, as I remember, s...o...b..a.l.l.s, to eat, Were as good as apples now, And every bit as sweet!

II.

In the jolly winters Of the dead-and-gone, Bub was warm as summer, With his red mitts on,-- Just in his little waist- And-pants all together, Who ever heard him growl About cold weather?

III.

In the jolly winters of the long-ago-- Was it _half_ so cold as now?

O! No! No!

Who caught his death o' cold, Making prints of men Flat-backed in snow that now's Twice as cold again?

IV.

In the jolly winters Of the dead-and-gone, Startin' out rabbit-hunting Early as the dawn,-- Who ever froze his fingers, Ears, heels, or toes,-- Or'd a cared if he had?

n.o.body knows!

V.

Nights by the kitchen-stove, Sh.e.l.ling white and red Corn in the skillet, and Sleepin' four abed!

Ah! the jolly winters Of the long-ago!

We were not so old as now-- O! No! No!

THREE DEAD FRIENDS.

Always suddenly they are gone-- The friends we trusted and held secure-- Suddenly we are gazing on, Not a _smiling_ face, but the marble-pure Dead mask of a face that nevermore To a smile of ours will make reply-- The lips close-locked as the eyelids are-- Gone--swift as the flash of the molten ore A meteor pours through a midnight sky, Leaving it blind of a single star.

Tell us, O Death, Remorseless Might!

What is this old, unescapable ire You wreak on us?--from the birth of light Till the world be charred to a core of fire!

We do no evil thing to you-- We seek to evade you--that is all-- That is your will--you will not be known Of men. What, then, would you have us do?-- Cringe, and wait till your vengeance fall, And your graves be fed, and the trumpet blown?

You desire no friends; but _we_--O we Need them so, as we falter here, Fumbling through each new vacancy, As each is stricken that we hold dear.

One you struck but a year ago; And one not a month ago; and one-- (G.o.d's vast pity!)--and one lies now Where the widow wails, in her nameless woe, And the soldiers pace, with the sword and gun, Where the comrade sleeps, with the laureled brow.

And what did the first?--that wayward soul, Clothed of sorrow, yet nude of sin, And with all hearts bowed in the strange control Of the heavenly voice of his violin.

Why, it was music the way he _stood_, So grand was the poise of the head and so Full was the figure of majesty!-- One heard with the eyes, as a deaf man would, And with all sense brimmed to the overflow With tears of anguish and ecstasy.

And what did the girl, with the great warm light Of genius sunning her eyes of blue, With her heart so pure, and her soul so white-- What, O Death, did she do to you?

Through field and wood as a child she strayed, As Nature, the dear sweet mother led; While from her canvas, mirrored back, Glimmered the stream through the everglade Where the grapevine trailed from the trees to wed Its likeness of emerald, blue and black.

And what did he, who, the last of these, Faced you, with never a fear, O Death?

Did you hate _him_ that he loved the breeze, And the morning dews, and the rose's breath?

Did you hate him that he answered not Your hate again--but turned, instead, His only hate on his country's wrongs?

Well--you possess him, dead!--but what Of the good he wrought? With laureled head He bides with us in his deeds and songs.

Laureled, first, that he bravely fought, And forged a way to our flag's release; Laureled, next--for the harp he taught To wake glad songs in the days of peace-- Songs of the woodland haunts he held As close in his love as they held their bloom In their inmost bosoms of leaf and vine-- Songs that echoed, and pulsed and welled Through the town's pent streets, and the sick child's room, Pure as a shower in soft sunshine.