Rolling Stones Part 36

"I push my boat among the reeds; I sit and stare about; Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds, Put to a sullen rout.

I paddle under cypress trees; All fearfully I peer Through oozy channels when the breeze Comes rustling at my ear.

"The long moss hangs perpetually; Gray scalps of buried years; Blue crabs steal out and stare at me, And seem to gauge my fears; I start to hear the eel swim by; I shudder when the crane Strikes at his prey; I turn to fly, At drops of sudden rain.

"In every little cry of bird I hear a tracking shout; From every sodden leaf that's stirred I see a face frown out; My soul shakes when the water rat Cowed by the blue snake flies; Black knots from tree holes glimmer at Me with accusive eyes.

"Through all the murky silence rings A cry not born of earth; An endless, deep, unechoing thing That owns not human birth.

I see no colors in the sky Save red, as blood is red; I pray to G.o.d to still that cry From pallid lips and dead.

"One spot in all that stagnant waste I shun as moles shun light, And turn my prow to make all haste To fly before the night.

A poisonous mound hid from the sun, Where crabs hold revelry; Where eels and fishes feed upon The Thing that once was He.

"At night I steal along the sh.o.r.e; Within my hut I creep; But awful stars blink through the door, To hold me from my sleep.

The river gurgles like his throat, In little choking coves, And loudly dins that phantom note From out the awful groves.

"I shout with laughter through the night: I rage in greatest glee; My fears all vanish with the light Oh! splendid nights they be!

I see her weep; she calls his name; He answers not, nor will; My soul with joy is all aflame; I laugh, and laugh, and thrill.

"I count her teardrops as they fall; I flout my daytime fears; I mumble thanks to G.o.d for all These gibes and happy jeers.

But, when the warning dawn awakes, Begins my wandering; With stealthy strokes through tangled brakes, A wasted, frightened thing."

SOME POSTSCRIPTS

TWO PORTRAITS

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze, Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze; Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze, As o'er the keno board boldly he plays.

--That's Texas Bill.

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze, Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze; Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze, As o'er the keyboard boldly he plays.

--That's Paderewski.

A CONTRIBUTION

There came unto ye editor A poet, pale and wan, And at the table sate him down, A roll within his hand.

Ye editor accepted it, And thanked his lucky fates; Ye poet had to yield it up To a king full on eights.

THE OLD FARM

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare On the apple trees and the growing gra.s.s Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air; With my lighted pipe and well-filled gla.s.s Of the old farm I am dreaming, And softly smiling, seeming To see the bright sun beaming Upon the old home farm.

And when I think how we milked the cows, And hauled the hay from the meadows low; And walked the furrows behind the plows, And chopped the cotton to make it grow I'd much rather be here dreaming And smiling, only seeming To see the hot sun gleaming Upon the old home farm.

VANITY

A Poet sang so wondrous sweet That toiling thousands paused and listened long; So lofty, strong and n.o.ble were his themes, It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.

He, G.o.d-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man, And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears; Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean, And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears.

The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound, Raised o'er the clay of one he'd fondly loved; And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

THE LULLABY BOY

The lullaby boy to the same old tune Who abandons his drum and toys For the purpose of dying in early June Is the kind the public enjoys.

But, just for a change, please sing us a song, Of the sore-toed boy that's fly, And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad, And positively will not die.

CHANSON DE BOHeME

_Lives of great men all remind us Rose is red and violet's blue; Johnny's got his gun behind us 'Cause the lamb loved Mary too._ --Robert Burns' "Hocht Time in the aud Town."

I'd rather write this, as bad as it is Than be Will Shakespeare's shade; I'd rather be known as an F. F. V.

Than in Mount Vernon laid.

I'd rather count ties from Denver to Troy Than to head Booth's old programme; I'd rather be special for the New York _World_ Than to lie with Abraham.

_For there's stuff in the can, there's Dolly and Fan, And a hundred things to choose; There's a kiss in the ring, and every old thing That a real live man can use._

I'd rather fight flies in a boarding house Than fill Napoleon's grave, And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed Than be Andre the brave.

I'd rather distribute a coat of red On the town with a wad of dough Just now, than to have my cognomen Spelled "Michael Angelo."

_For a small live man, if he's prompt on hand When the good things pa.s.s around, While the world's on tap has a better snap Than a big man under ground._

HARD TO FORGET

I'm thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned, And my heart is heavy and sad As I think of the days that by have fled Since I was a little lad.

There rises before me each spot I know Of the old home in the dell, The fields, and woods, and meadows below That memory holds so well.

The city is pleasant and lively, Ned, But what to us is its charm?

To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead, On our childhood's old home farm.

I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned, With your head bowed on your arm, For to-morrow at four we'll be jerked out of bed To plow on that darned old farm.

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