Second Book of Verse

IN AMSTERDAM

 
MEYNHEER Hans Von Der Bloom has got
A majazin in Kalverstraat,
Where one may buy for sordid gold
Wares quaint and curious, new and old.
Here are antiquities galore, —
The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore,
Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks,
Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks,
And all those joys I might rehearse
That please the eye, but wreck the purse.
 
 
I most admired an ancient bed,
With ornate carvings at its head, —
A massive frame of dingy oak,
Whose curious size and mould bespoke
Prodigious age. "How much?" I cried.
"Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied;
And then the honest Dutchman said
A king once owned that glorious bed, —
King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame,
Had owned and slept within the same!
 
 
Then long I stood and mutely gazed,
By reminiscent splendors dazed,
And I had bought it right away,
Had I the wherewithal to pay.
But, lacking of the needed pelf,
I thus discoursed within myself:
"O happy Holland! where's the bliss
That can approximate to this
Possession of the rare antique
Which maniacs hanker for and seek?
My native land is full of stuff
That's good, but is not old enough.
Alas! it has no oaken beds
Wherein have slumbered royal heads,
No relic on whose face we see
The proof of grand antiquity."
 
 
Thus reasoned I a goodly spell
Until, perchance, my vision fell
Upon a trademark at the head
Of Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed, —
A rampant wolverine, and round
This strange device these words I found:
"Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay,
Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A."
 
 
At present I'm not saying much
About the simple, guileless Dutch;
And as it were a loathsome spot
I keep away from Kalverstraat,
Determined when I want a bed
In which hath slept a royal head
I'll patronize no middleman,
But deal direct with Michigan.
 

TO THE PASSING SAINT

 
AS to-night you came your way,
Bearing earthward heavenly joy,
Tell me, O dear saint, I pray,
Did you see my little boy?
 
 
By some fairer voice beguiled,
Once he wandered from my sight;
He is such a little child,
He should have my love this night.
 
 
It has been so many a year, —
Oh, so many a year since then!
Yet he was so very dear,
Surely he will come again.
 
 
If upon your way you see
One whose beauty is divine,
Will you send him back to me?
He is lost, and he is mine.
 
 
Tell him that his little chair
Nestles where the sunbeams meet,
That the shoes he used to wear
Yearn to kiss his dimpled feet.
 
 
Tell him of each pretty toy
That was wont to share his glee;
Maybe that will bring my boy
Back to them and back to me.
 
 
O dear saint, as on you go
Through the glad and sparkling frost,
Bid those bells ring high and low
For a little child that's lost!
 
 
O dear saint, that blessest men
With the grace of Christmas joy,
Soothe this heart with love again, —
Give me back my little boy!
 

THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST

 
OF all the gracious gifts of Spring,
Is there another can surpass
This delicate, voluptuous thing, —
This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid,
What exhalations superfine
Our gustatory nerves pervade,
Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!
 
 
The ancients loved this noble fish;
And, coming from the kitchen fire
All piping hot upon a dish,
What raptures did he not inspire?
"Fish should swim twice," they used to say, —
Once in their native, vapid brine,
And then again, a better way —
You understand; fetch on the wine!
 
 
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
How often have I cast for you,
How often sadly seen you scud
Where weeds and water-lilies grew!
How often have you filched my bait,
How often snapped my treacherous line!
Yet here I have you on this plate, —
You shall swim twice, and now in wine.
 
 
And, harkee, garçon! let the blood
Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him, —
Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood
This piscatorial pride should swim;
So, were he living, he would say
He gladly died for me and mine,
And, as it were his native spray,
He'd lash the sauce – what, ho! the wine!
 
 
I would it were ordained for me
To share your fate, O finny friend!
I surely were not loath to be
Reserved for such a noble end;
For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
At last reels in his ruthless line,
What were my ecstasy to swim
In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
 
 
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!
And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,
Come hither every year and bring
The boons provocative of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low,
However much I might repine,
I think I might survive the blow,
If plied with wine and still more wine!
 

NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT

 
THE mill goes toiling slowly around
With steady and solemn creak,
And my little one hears in the kindly sound
The voice of the old mill speak;
While round and round those big white wings
Grimly and ghostlike creep,
My little one hears that the old mill sings,
"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
 
 
The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn,
And over his pot of beer
The fisher, against the morrow's dawn,
Lustily maketh cheer;
He mocks at the winds that caper along
From the far-off, clamorous deep,
But we – we love their lullaby-song
Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
 
 
Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound,
Groans of the stony mart;
To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around,
Hitched to our new milk-cart!
And you shall help me blanket the kine,
And fold the gentle sheep,
And set the herring a-soak in brine, —
But now, little tulip, sleep!
 
 
A Dream-One comes to button the eyes
That wearily droop and blink,
While the old mill buffets the frowning skies,
And scolds at the stars that wink;
Over your face the misty wings
Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep,
And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings,
"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
 

THE ONION TART

 
OF tarts there be a thousand kinds,
So versatile the art,
And, as we all have different minds,
Each has his favorite tart;
But those which most delight the rest
Methinks should suit me not:
The onion tart doth please me best, —
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
 
 
Where but in Deutschland can be found
This boon of which I sing?
Who but a Teuton could compound
This sui generis thing?
None with the German frau can vie
In arts cuisine, I wot,
Whose summum bonum breeds the sigh,
"Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!"
 
 
You slice the fruit upon the dough,
And season to the taste,
Then in an oven (not too slow)
The viand should be placed;
And when 'tis done, upon a plate
You serve it piping hot.
Your nostrils and your eyes dilate, —
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
 
 
It sweeps upon the sight and smell
In overwhelming tide,
And then the sense of taste as well
Betimes is gratified:
Three noble senses drowned in bliss!
I prithee tell me, what
Is there beside compares with this?
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
 
 
For if the fruit be proper young,
And if the crust be good,
How shall they melt upon the tongue
Into a savory flood!
How seek the Mecca down below,
And linger round that spot,
Entailing weeks and months of woe, —
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
 
 
If Nature gives men appetites
For things that won't digest,
Why, let them eat whatso delights,
And let her stand the rest;
And though the sin involve the cost
Of Carlsbad, like as not
'Tis better to have loved and lost, —
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
 
 
Beyond the vast, the billowy tide,
Where my compatriots dwell,
All kinds of victuals have I tried,
All kinds of drinks, as well;
But nothing known to Yankee art
Appears to reach the spot
Like this Teutonic onion tart, —
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
 
 
So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide
As full as I can hold,
And for complete reform inside
Plank down my horde of gold,
Remorse shall not consume my heart,
Nor sorrow vex my lot,
For I have eaten onion tart, —
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
 

GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE

 
IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye,
And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny:
The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright,
The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle, – all give me keen delight;
And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen
A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine.
 
 
Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown
Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town.
'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing, —
Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king, —
And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen,
And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine.
 
 
Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown;
For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town."
The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess
When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress:
To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whale-bones in between,
Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine.
 
 
With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end
(The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!);
And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise,
Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes;
For grandma knew a thing or two, – by which remark I mean
That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine.
 
 
I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle
With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile.
It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round,
That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found.
How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen!
And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine.
 
 
But there were those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect gown;
For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town:
The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!"
The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split;
Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, she turned a bilious green,
When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine.
 
 
But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine, —
The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign.
Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town,
And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown;
But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!"
Yet evermore my grandma wore his favorite bombazine.
 
 
And when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless heirs, —
Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs!
Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing,
And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous thing.
'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene;
And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine.
 
 
Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part, —
The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart.
This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is passing fair,
Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear.
Yet wear it, do; perchance when you and I are off the scene,
Our boy shall sing this comely thing as I the bombazine.
 

RARE ROAST BEEF

 
WHEN the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir
Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair;
When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head,
Filling bon vivants and epicures with certain nameless dread;
When any ill of body or of intellect abounds,
Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes, —
In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief
That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef.
 
 
And even when the body's in the very prime of health,
When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth,
And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more,
And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four, —
Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side,
And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied,
Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief,
And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef.
 
 
Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best, —
'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest;
Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour
Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more;
The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour;
Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour,
And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf
Of that glorious summum bonum, rare roast beef.
 
 
Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife,
How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life!
Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab, —
Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab?
Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam,
A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream!
Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief!
Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef.
 
 
Most every kind and rôle of modern victuals have I tried,
Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried,
Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese,
Your patties à la Turkey and your doughnuts à la grease;
I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls,
And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls;
But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief
And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef.
 
 
I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood,
Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood;
And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast,
Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (feste Burg) and host;
For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath,
Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path.
So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef
When I soever set me down to rare roast beef.
 

GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT

 
I WAS just a little thing
When a fairy came and kissed me;
Floating in upon the light
Of a haunted summer night,
Lo! the fairies came to sing
Pretty slumber songs, and bring
Certain boons that else had missed me.
From a dream I turned to see
What those strangers brought for me,
When that fairy up and kissed me, —
Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!
 
 
Simmerdew was there, but she
Did not like me altogether;
Daisybright and Turtledove,
Pilfercurds and Honeylove,
Thistleblow and Amberglee
On that gleaming, ghostly sea
Floated from the misty heather,
And around my trundle-bed
Frisked and looked and whispering said,
Solemn-like and all together:
"You shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!"
 
 
Ganderfeather kissed me then, —
Ganderfeather, quaint and merry!
No attenuate sprite was he,
But as buxom as could be;
Kissed me twice and once again,
And the others shouted when
On my cheek uprose a berry
Somewhat like a mole, mayhap,
But the kiss-mark of that chap
Ganderfeather, passing merry, —
Humorsome but kindly, very!
 
 
I was just a tiny thing
When the prankish Ganderfeather
Brought this curious gift to me
With his fairy kisses three;
Yet with honest pride I sing
That same gift he chose to bring
Out of yonder haunted heather;
Other charms and friendships fly, —
Constant friends this mole and I,
Who have been so long together!
Thank you, little Ganderfeather!
 

OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE

 
THERE are no days like the good old days, —
The days when we were youthful!
When humankind were pure of mind,
And speech and deeds were truthful;
Before a love for sordid gold
Became man's ruling passion,
And before each dame and maid became
Slave to the tyrant fashion!
 
 
There are no girls like the good old girls, —
Against the world I'd stake 'em!
As buxom and smart and clean of heart
As the Lord knew how to make 'em!
They were rich in spirit and common-sense,
And piety all supportin';
They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too,
And they made such likely courtin'!
 
 
There are no boys like the good old boys, —
When we were boys together!
When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet
That dimpled the laughing heather;
When the pewee sung to the summer dawn
Of the bee in the billowy clover,
Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will
Echoed his night song over.
 
 
There is no love like the good old love, —
The love that mother gave us!
We are old, old men, yet we pine again
For that precious grace, – God save us!
So we dream and dream of the good old times,
And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder,
As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams
Of heaven away off yonder.
 

OUR WHIPPINGS

 
COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes, —
The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys
As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise!
Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show
The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago;
What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify, —
Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's, – oh, my!
 
 
The way that we played hookey those many years ago,
We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know!
The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told, —
Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold!
How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his
He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"!
It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe, —
Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though!
 
 
We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days,
And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze;
How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand, —
But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand;
And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed,
Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red.
Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert
The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt!
 
 
For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild
That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child;
And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she
Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we:
But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die, —
Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made her cry!
Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid,
For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did!
 
 
In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four,
But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more!
Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone:
"I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!"
Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew, —
What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview!
Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert,
With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt!
 
 
The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest
Is often loath to realize that all is for the best;
Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight
The bufferings of childhood, – as we do here to-night.
The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways
That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes, —
So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times.