The Old Soldiers Story Part 12

Then gie us Merriment: Loose him like a linnet Teeterin' on a bloomin' spray-- We ken him i' the minute,-- Twinklin' is ane ee asklent, Wi' auld Clootie in it-- Auld Sawney Lintwhite, We ken him i' the minute!

An' which ane, an' which ane, An' which ane for thee?-- For thou shalt hae thy vera choice, An' which sall it be?-- Ye hae the Holy Brither, An' ye hae the Scholarly; A' last, ye hae the b.u.t.t o' baith-- Which sall it be?

THE EARTHQUAKE

CHARLESTON, SEPTEMBER 1, 1886

An hour ago the lulling twilight leant Above us like a gentle nurse who slips A slow palm o'er our eyes, in soft eclipse Of feigned slumber of most sweet content.

The fragrant zephyrs of the tropic went And came across the senses, like to sips Of lovers' kisses, when upon her lips Silence sets finger in grave merriment.

Then--sudden--did the earth moan as it slept, And start as one in evil dreams, and toss Its peopled arms up, as the horror crept, And with vast breast upheaved and rent across, Fling down the storied citadel where wept, And still shall weep, a world above its loss.

A FALL-CRICK VIEW OF THE EARTHQUAKE

I kin hump my back and take the rain, And I don't keer how she pours; I kin keep kind o' ca'm in a thunder-storm, No matter how loud she roars; I hain't much skeered o' the lightnin', Ner I hain't sich awful shakes Afeard o' _cyclones_--but I don't want none O' yer dad-burned old earthquakes!

As long as my legs keeps stiddy, And long as my head keeps plum', And the buildin' stays in the front lot, I still kin whistle, _some_!

But about the time the old clock Flops off'n the mantel-shelf, And the bureau skoots fer the kitchen, I'm a-goin' to skoot, myself!

Plague-take! ef you keep me stabled While any earthquakes is around!-- I'm jes' like the stock,--I'll beller And break fer the open ground!

And I 'low you'd be as nervous And in jes' about my fix, When yer whole farm slides from in-under you, And on'y the mor'gage sticks!

Now cars hain't a-goin' to kill you Ef you don't drive 'crost the track; Crediters never'll jerk you up Ef you go and pay 'em back; You kin stand all moral and mundane storms Ef you'll on'y jes' behave-- But a' EARTHQUAKE:--Well, ef it wanted you It 'ud husk you out o' yer grave!

LEWIS D. HAYES

OBIT DECEMBER 28, 1886

In the midmost glee of the Christmas And the mirth of the glad New Year, A guest has turned from the revel, And we sit in silence here.

The band chimes on, yet we listen Not to the air's refrain, But over it ever we strive to catch The sound of his voice again;--

For the sound of his voice was music, Dearer than any note Shook from the strands of harp-strings, Or poured from the bugle's throat.--

A voice of such various ranges, His utterance rang from the height Of every rapture, down to the sobs Of every lost delight.

Though he knew Man's force and his purpose, As strong as his strongest peers, He knew, as well, the kindly heart, And the tenderness of tears.

So is it the face we remember Shall be always as a child's That, grieved some way to the very soul, Looks bravely up and smiles.

O brave it shall look, as it looked its last On the little daughter's face-- Pictured only--against the wall, In its old accustomed place--

Where the last gleam of the lamplight Out of the midnight dim Yielded its grace, and the earliest dawn Gave it again to him.

IN DAYS TO COME

In days to come--whatever ache Of age shall rack our bones, or quake Our slackened thews--whatever grip Rheumatic catch us i' the hip,-- We, each one, for the other's sake, Will of our very wailings make Such quips of song as well may shake The spasm'd corners from the lip-- In days to come.

Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rake The past up!--how our dry eyes slake Their sight upon the dewy drip Of juicy-ripe companionship, And blink stars from the blind opaque-- In days to come.

LUTHER A. TODD

OBIT JULY 27, 1887, KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

Gifted, and loved, and praised By every friend; Never a murmur raised Against him, to the end!

With tireless interest He wrought as he thought best,-- And--lo, we bend Where now he takes his rest!

His heart was loyal, to Its latest thrill, To the home-loves he knew-- And now forever will,-- Mother and brother--they The first to pa.s.s away,-- And, lingering still, The sister bowed to-day.

Pure as a rose might be, And sweet, and white, His father's memory Was with him day and night:-- He spoke of him, as one May now speak of the son,-- Sadly and tenderly,-- Yet as a trump had done.

Say, then, of him: He knew Full depths of care And stress of pain, and you Do him scant justice there,-- Yet in the lifted face Grief left not any trace, Nor mark unfair, To mar its manly grace.

It was as if each day Some new hope dawned-- Each blessing in delay, To him, was just beyond; Between whiles, waiting, he Drew pictures, cunningly-- Fantastic--fond-- Things that we laughed to see.

Sometimes, as we looked on His crayon's work, Some angel-face would dawn Out radiant, from the mirk Of features old and thin, Or jowled with double-chin, And eyes asmirk, And gaping mouths agrin.

That humor in his art, Of genius born, Welled warmly from a heart That could not but adorn All things it touched with love-- The eagle, as the dove-- The burst of morn-- The night--the stars above.

Sometimes, amid the wild Of faces queer, A mother, with her child Pressed warm and close to her; This, I have thought, somehow, The wife, with head abow, Unreconciled, In the great shadow now.

O you of sobbing breath, Put by all sighs Of anguish at his death-- Turn--as he turned _his_ eyes, In that last hour, unknown In strange lands, all alone-- Turn thine eyes toward the skies, And, smiling, cease thy moan.

WHEN THE HEa.r.s.e COMES BACK