Joseph Crosby Lincoln

“ By the meadow and the bushes, where the blackbirds build their nests, Up the hill, beneath the shadow of the pine, Till the breath of Ocean meets us, dancing o'er his sparkling crests, And our faces feel the tingling of the brine. And my heart leaps gayly upward, like the foam upon the sea, As I watch the breakers tumbling with a roar, And the ships that dot the azure seem to wave a hail to me, And to beckon to a wondrous, far-off shore. ”

“ The shore line swims in a hazy heat, Asleep in the sea and sky, And the muffled beat where the breakers meet Is a soft, sweet lullaby. The pine-clad hill has a crimson crown Of glittering sunset glows; The roofs of brown in the distant town Are bathed in a blush of rose; The radiant ripples shine and shift In shimmering shreds of gold; The seaweeds lift and drowse and drift, And the jellies fill and fold. The great sun sinks, and the gray fog heaps His cloak on the silent sea; The night-wind creeps where the ocean sleeps, And the wavelets wake in glee ”

“ Swinging high on the bending bough, Scenting the lazy breeze, What is the gods' ambrosia now To apples of gold like these?
MIDSUMMER Sun like a furnace hung up overhead, Burnin' and blazin' and blisterin' red; Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep, One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep; Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin' still, Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,—Labor and laziness callin' to me: "Hoe or the fishin'-pole—which'll it be?" There's the old cornfield out there in the sun, Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done ”

“ He is rigger, rower, swimmer, sailor, doctor, undertaker, And he's good at every one of 'em the same: And he risks his life fer others in the quicksand and the breaker, And a thousand wives and mothers bless his name. He's an angel dressed in oilskins, he's a saint in a "sou'wester", He's as plucky as they make, or ever can; He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't swelled his head, And he's jest the U.S. Gov'ment's hired man. ”

“ And I says ter myself, "I'm a darlin'; A chap with a woman like that, To set here a-grumblin' and snarlin', As sour as a sulky young brat— I'd better jest keep my helm steady, And not mind the fog that's adrift, For when the Lord gits good and ready, I reckon it's certain ter lift."
THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-SHIP My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold, And her fluttering banners are brave of hue, And her shining sails are of satin fold, And her tall sides gleam where the warm waves woo: While the flung spray leaps in a diamond dew From her bright bow, dipping its dance of glee ”

“ SUNDAY AFTERNOONS From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note, Through the wintry Sabbath gloaming drifting shreds of music float, And the quiet and the firelight and the sweetly solemn tunes Bear me, dreaming, back to boyhood and its Sunday afternoons: When we gathered in the parlor, in the parlor stiff and grand, Where the haircloth chairs and sofas stood arrayed, a gloomy band, Where each queer oil portrait watched us with a countenance of wood, And the shells upon the what-not in a dustless splendor stood. ”

“ BIRDS'-NESTING TIME The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust Through the dingy school-house pane, A shining scimitar, free from rust, That cuts the cloud of the drifting dust, And scatters a golden rain; And the boy at the battered desk within Is dreaming a dream sublime, For study's a wrong, and school a sin, When the joys of woods and fields begin, And it's just birds'-nesting time. He dreams of a nook by the world unguessed, Where the thrush's song is sung, And the dainty yellowbird's fairy nest, Lined with the fluff from the cattail's crest, 'Mid the juniper boughs is hung ”

“ Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet, He hums a tune, and looks straight down six stories to the street; Far, far below he sees the crowd's pale faces flush and fade, But Fireman Mike O'Rafferty can't stop to be afraid. Sometimes he climbs long ladders, through a fiery, burning rain To reach a pallid face that glares behind a crackling pane; Sometimes he feels his foothold shake with giddy swing and sway, And barely leaps to safety as the crashing roof gives way ”

“ THE BULLFROG SERENADE When the toil of day is over And the dew is on the clover, And the night-hawk whirls in circles overhead; When the cow-bells melt and mingle In a softened, silver jingle, And the old hen calls the chickens in to bed; When the marshy meadows glimmer With a misty, purple shimmer, And the twilight flush is changing into shade; When the firefly lamps are burning And the dusk to dark is turning,— Then the bullfrogs chant their evening serenade: "Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! ”

“ And the years may flow for weal or woe, And the frost may follow the flowers, Our steps are bound to the self-same round In this workaday life of ours. But narrow our path may be, my dear, And simple the scenes we view, A heart like thine, and a love like mine, Will carry us bravely through. With a happy song we'll trudge along, And smile in the shine or showers, And we'll ease the pack on a brother's back By this workaday life of ours. ”

“ For men must die that men may live— Lord, may we steer our course aright.. The dripping deck beneath him reels, The flooded scuppers spout the brine; He heeds them not, he only feels The tugging of a tightened line. The grim white sea-fog o'er him throws Its clammy curtain, damp and cold; He minds it not—his work he knows, 'T is but to fill an empty hold. ”

“ The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper, The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall, And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball. The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street, The mothers lean out from the windows to see, While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet, And tenement babies crow loud in their glee; And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,— Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;— There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light, In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball. ”

“ I hear the voice of "Father" as he drives the lumbering steers, And the pigeons coo and flutter on the shed, While all the simple, homelike sounds come whispering to my ears, And the cloudless sky of June is overhead; And again the yoke is creaking as the oxen swing and sway, The old cart rattles loudly as it jars, Then we pass beneath the elm trees where the robin's song is gay, And go out beyond the garden through the bars ”

“ When the hot summer daylight is dyin', And the mist through the valley has rolled, And the soft velvet clouds ter the west'ard Are purple with trimmings of gold,— Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky, The crickets chirp out from each nook, And the frogs with their voices so husky Jine in from the marsh and the brook. ”

“ THE OLD CARRYALL It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed, Where the spider-webs swing from the beams overhead, And the sun, siftin' in through the dirt and the mold Of the winder's dim pane, specks it over with gold. ”

“ And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead, And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball ”

“ Ah, of all earth's fragrant flowers in the bowers on her breast, Sure the blooms which memory brings us are the brightest and the best; And the fairest, rarest blossoms ne'er could win my love, I know, Like the sweet old-fashioned posies mother tended long ago. ”

“ Jackson got stuffy At her not comin' sooner ter call, And old Miss Macgregor is huffy 'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at all. Each one of the crowd hates the other, The church has been full of their strife; But now they're all hatin' another, And that one's the minister's wife. But still, all their cackle unheedin', She goes, in her ladylike way, A-givin' the poor what they're needing And helpin' the church every day: Our numbers each Sunday is swelling And real, true religion is rife, And sometimes I feel like a-yellin', "Three cheers fer the minister's wife!" ”

“ He's a-pullin' at an oar that is freezin' to his fingers, He's a-clingin' in the riggin' of a wreck, He knows destruction's nearer every minute that he lingers, But it do'n't appear ter worry him a speck: He's draggin' draggled corpses from the clutches of the combers— The kind of job a common chap would shirk— But he takes 'em from the wave and he fits 'em fer the grave, And he thinks it's all included in his work. ”

“ THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming Through the window, sets its gleaming, With a softened silver sparkle in the dim and dusky hall, With its tassel torn and tattered, And its blade, deep-bruised and battered, Like a veteran, scarred and weary, hangs the old sword on the wall. ”

“ I try ter be religious and ter tread the narrer way, But seems as if that critter knew when I knelt down ter pray, And all my thoughts of heaven go a-tumblin' down ter,—well, A different kind of climate—when that bird sets out ter yell: "Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!" I read once in a poetry book, that Ezry had ter home, The awful fuss a feller made about a crow, that come And pestered him about ter death and made him sick and sore, By settin' on his mantel-piece and hollerin' "Nevermore!" ”

“ Under me yawns the grave, under me lies the shoal Where the whirling eddies wait to grapple the drowning crew, And the hungry quicksand hides the bones of the ship it slew. Swift on the outward tack! quick, to the seaward bear! ”

“ Just the bullfrogs pipin' in amongst the grass, Where the water's shinin' like a lookin'-glass; Just a dog a-barkin' somewheres up along, So far off his yelpin' 's like a kind of song. Summer nights at Grandpa's—hear the crickets sing, And the water bubblin' down beside the spring; Hear the cattle chewin' fodder in the shed, And an owl a-hootin' high up overhead; Hear the "way-off noises," faint and awful far— So mixed-up a feller do'n't know what they are— But so sort er lazy that they seem ter keep Sayin' over 'n' over, "Sonny, go ter sleep." ”

“ Summer nights at Grandpa's—ain't it fun ter lay In the early mornin' when it's gettin' day— When the sun is risin' and it's fresh and cool, And you 're feelin' happy coz there ain't no school?— When you hear the crowin' as the rooster wakes, And you think of breakfast and the buckwheat cakes; Sleepin' in the city's too much fuss and noise; Summer nights at Grandpa's are the things for boys.
GRANDFATHER'S "SUMMER SWEETS" Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe. Out on the gnarled old tree, Out where the robin redbreasts pipe, And buzzes the bumblebee ”

“ WASTED ENERGY South Pokus is religious,—that's the honest, livin' truth; South Pokus folks are pious,—man and woman, maid and youth; And they listen every Sunday, though it rains or snows or shines, In their seven shabby churches, ter their seven poor divines, Who dispense the balm and comfort that the thirstin' sperit needs, By a-fittin' of the gospel ter their seven different creeds, Each one sure his road ter Heaven is the only sartin way,— Fer South Pokus is religious, as I started off ter say. ”

“ Do'n't it seem like each was louder than the grandest sort of gun? Can't yer see the big, red flashes, if yer only shut yer eyes, And jest smell the burnin' powder, sweeter'n breaths from paradise? O you boys, gray-haired and bearded. O you youngsters grown ter men, We can't buy them kind of crackers now, nor never shall again! Fer the joys thet used ter glitter through the fizz and puff and crash, Has, ter most of us, been deadened by the grindin' chink of cash; But I'd like ter ask yer, fellers, how much of yer hoarded gold Would yer give if it could buy yer one glad Fourth like them of old? ”

“ My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three, And handsome and strong as a feller can be; And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small, You never would think she could boss him at all; But, my jing! She do'n't do a thing But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string! It jest makes me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know, To think that he'll let a girl bully him so. ”

“ We have ter listen awful hard ter every word of his And watch him jest like kittens do a rat, And laugh at every joke he makes, don't care how old it is, 'Cause he can boss the teacher,—think of that! I useter say, when I growed up I 'd be a circus chap And drive two lions hitched up like a span; But, honest, more I think of it, I b'lieve the bestest snap Is jest ter be a school-committee man. ”

“ Oh, the story-book boy! all his troubles are o'er, For he gets to be Judge in a year or two more; And the wicked old landlord in poverty dies, And the Squire's son drinks, and in gutters he lies; But the girl whom he saved is our hero's fair bride, And his old mother comes to their home to abide; In silks and sealskins, she cries, in her joy: "Thank Heaven, I'm Ma of a story-book boy!"
THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN
Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late, And kinder warm and sleepy, don't yer know ”

“ I jest think it's awful—those actions of his. I won't fall in love, when I'm grown—no sir-ee! My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me!
"THE WIDDER CLARK" It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill, The wind comes down the chimbly with a whistle sharp and shrill, The dead leaves rasp and rustle in the corner by the shed, And the branches scratch and rattle on the skylight overhead. The cracklin' blaze is climbin' up around the old backlog, As we set by the fireplace here, myself and cat and dog ”