title: A book of fireside poems,
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Copyright material in this book is used by permission of and special arrangements with: Cotton Noe for Tip Sams, from Tip Sams of Kentucky and Other Poems; Jessie Rittenhouse Scollard for The King of Dreams, by Clinton Scollard; Harry Lee and Good Housekeeping for The Bells of Calif on; Dorothy Reid for Men; William Alexander Percy for Overtones and The Un¬ loved to His Beloved; Harcourt, Brace and Company for Blasphemy from Challenge, by Louis Untermeyer; Mildred Plew Meigs for The Knights in the Ruby Windoivpane; A. M. Robertson for Father Coyote, The Black Vulture, and The Queen Forgets, by George Sterling; Houghton Mifflin Company for Some Day of Days by Nora Perry, Beware by Henry W. Longfellow, Ode for a Special Occasion by Oliver Wendell Holmes, L’Eau Dormante and “Forever and a Day” by Thomas Bailey Aldrich, and Music I Heard by Conrad Aiken; David Morton for Old Ships and Immortalis; The Kaleidograph and Lillian Wright for Of Life; Forbes & Company and Belle Latham King for That Cat and If I should Die by Ben King; Virginia Eaton for Heart's Desire; Double¬ day, Doran & Company for The Tom-Cat from Awakening and Other Poems by Don Marquis, JVarm Babies from Splinters by Keith Preston, and Himself from The Dreamers by Theodosia Garrison; Dodd, Mead & Company for Wine and Water by Gilbert K. Chesterton, Turning of the Babies in the Bed by Paul Laurence Dunbar, O Death Will Find Me by Rupert Brooke, and The Constant Cannibal Maiden by Wallace Irwin; Eleanor Quarles Moore and The Lyric for Spouse by Edwin Quarles; The Bobbs Merrill Company for Leonainie from Armazindy, copyright 1922, by James Whitcomb Riley; Edwin Markham for Lion and Lioness; Virginia McCormick and The Lyric for The Snob; Marjorie F. Sergept for For Antoinette by Evelyn Ahrend from Younger Poets; Thomas Seltzer for The Blind Girl by Nathalia Crane; Tessa Sweazy Webb for Old Things; The Forum for To a Calm One by Selma R. Osterman. Our thanks to any others whom our intensive searches may have failed to discover. t>ci A Printed in U. S. A. NOV 15 1937 112023 N ^ j \ The continuance of a series of anthologies appearing at intervals depends, naturally, on the reception of the volumes as they appear. A Book of Fireside Poems is the fourth in such a series,* and with each has come a wider response. The success of the series, together with the letters that have come to us, has given us an insight into the minds of a large group of lovers of poetry. If I may speak for them and give some unity to their letters, it will be to say that they are loath to lose the spiritual values in poetry, however great may be the intellectual gains. Most of them hasten to say that they are not opposed to the newer poetry; on the contrary, they voice their joy in the honesty and the freedom that has come with the post-Whitman revolution. But they still love the glory of the great line, and they do not understand why honest realism that has been the chief gain of the revolution must some¬ times be effected with crude and disquieting words, nor why the ultimate should so often be the mere exigencies of a sordid day. Thruout the series I have sought to blend the best of the new, with its frankness and its freedom from the half-honest cant and the cramped forms of the other century, and the immortal old. “No New Year yet hath slain December.” This fourth book will be found to contain a good deal of humor; in fact within the ancient meaning of the word, it is entirely humor¬ ous, as befits the hearth. Says Bliss Perry: “It is only the humorist who sees things truly, because he sees both the greatness and the littleness of mortals; but even he may not know whether to laugh or cry at what he sees.” And Holmes: “If the sense of the ridiculous is one side of an impressible nature, it is very well; but if that is all there is in a man, he had better have been an ape and stood at the head of his profession.” “Humor,” thinks Carlyle, “is not con¬ tempt; its essence is love.” And so you should find herein something of the kindly, some¬ thing of the laughable, and something of the majesty of the im¬ measurable, blended in the sacrament of a quiet hour. —William R. Bowlin *The preceding volumes are: A Book of Treasured Poems, A Book of Living Poems, and A Book of Personal Poems. PAGE A Song at Twilight —Anonymous. 13 Tip Sams —Cotton Noe. 14 The Lonely Night —Darius Earl Maston. 15 The King of Dreams —Clinton Scollard. 16 Familiarity —William Cow per. 16 A Threnody —George Thomas Lanigan ... 17 Bitter Chill —John Keats. 13 The Lights of London Town —George R. Sims. 19 The Bells of Calif on —Harry Lee. 20 Men —Dorothy Reid ... 21 Address to the Toothache —Robert Burns. 22 Dollie —Samuel Mintern Peck. 23 Overtones —William Alexander Percy. 24 Blasphemy —Louis Untermeyer. 25 Sonnet —Rupert Brooke. 26 The Knights in the Ruby Windowpane —Mildred Plew Meigs. 27 Barter —Earle V. Eastwood. 28 The Legend of Heinz von Stein —Charles Godfrey Leland. 29 Father Coyote —George Sterling. 30 Casey at the Bat —Ernest Lawrence Thayer. 31 To Dianeme —Robert Herrick. 33 Beware —Henry W. Longfellow. 34 Old Ships —David Morton. 35 The Lure —John Boyle O’Reilly. 36 Of Life —Lillian Wright. 36 Two Fishers —Anonymous. 37 That Cat —Ben King. 33 Famous Limericks. 39 Heart’s Desire —Virginia Eaton. 42 To a Calm One —Selma Osterman. 42 vi PAGE The Tom-Cat —Don Marquis ... 43 The Queen Forgets —George Sterling. 44 “He’d Nothing but His Violin ”—Mary Kyle Dallas. 45 The Optimist —John Ferguson. 46 Cornin’ Through the Rye —Robert Burns. 47 De Sheepfol ’—Sarah Pratt McLean Greene. 48 Antiquated Cradle —Bishop William Croswell Doane. 49 Fairies’ Song, from Midsummer-Night’s Dream— William Shahspere. 50 You’ll Remember Me —Alfred Bunn and Michael Balfe. 51 Woman. 52 Not Yet —Mary E. Coleridge. 54 The Earth and Man —Stop ford Brooke. 55 What Shall Endure?—/. C. Lindberg. 55 It’s Raining down in Georgia —Edith L. Nichols. 56 The Constant Cannibal Maiden —Wallace Irwin. 57 Threnody —Ruth Guthrie Harding. 58 The Humorist —Keith Preston. 58 Auld Lang Syne —Robert Burns. 59 Fate— R. K. Munkittrick. 60 Epitaphs. 61 Spring and Winter, from Love’s Labour’s Lost— William Shakspere. 64 To a Little Girl —Helen Parry Eden. 65 The Sailor’s Consolation —Charles Dibdin. 66 Himself —Theodosia Garrison. 67 Immortalis —David Morton. 68 The Sabbath —Anonymous. 69 The Eagle —Alfred Tennyson. 69 Spouse —Edwin Quarles. 70 As to the Weather —Anonymous. 70 Leonainie —James Whitcomb Riley. 71 Midnight, from Midsummer-Night’s Dream— William Shakspere. 72 Simplex Munditiis —Ben Jonson. ... 73 Lion and Lioness —Edwin Markham. 74 Lines by an Old Fogy —Anonymous. 74 Tam o’Shanter —Robert Burns. Gone —Mary E. Coleridge. Blow Me Eyes —Wallace Irwin .. .... Winter’s Tale —Macklin Thomas. W’en de Col’ Win’ Blows —Opie Read. Hastings Mill —Cecily Fox-Smith. The Weather Glass— E. J. Pratt. The Whiting and the Snail —Lewis Carroll. The Gardener’s Cat —Patrick Chalmers .'. How Very Modern —Thomas Moore. To the Night —Percy Bysshe Shelley. The Beloved Vagabond— W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez - “Forever and a Day ”—Thomas Bailey Aldrich. When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer— Walt Whitman Song of a Factory Girl —Mary a Zaturenska. Old Pine Trees —Leigh Hanes .. Lost Dog —Frances Rodman .. “Son of a Jackass ”—Anonymous. Evening— V. Sackville-West. I Heard a Soldier —Herbert Trench .• Lying —Thomas Moore. Little Woodland God —Judy Van der Veer. For Antoinette —Evelyn Ahrend. Dress Model —Douglas B. Krantzor. Wander-Thirst —Gerald Gould. On Happy Days —Anonymous. In a Rose Garden —John Bennett. If I Should Die —Ben King. De Promise Lan ’—John Richard Moreland. The Blind Girl —Nathalia Crane. No Fault in Women —Robert Herrick. To Each His Own —Margaret Root Garvin. “She Was a Beauty ”—Henry Cuyler Bunner. Bookra —Charles Dudley Warner. On Knowing When to Stop— L. J. Bridgman. Old Things —Tessa Sweazy Webb .. To the Terrestrial Globe —William S. Gilbert. Another Way —Ambrose Bierce. Cave Sedem —Theodore F. MacManus. PAGE 113 113 114 115 116 117 118 , 118 , 119 . 120 121 . 122 . 123 . 124 . 124 . 125 . 126 . 126 . 127 . 127 . 128 . 129 . 130 . 130 . 131 . 131 . 132 . 133 . 134 . 135 . 136 . 137 . 138 . 139 . 139 . 140 . 140 . 141 . 142 ix PAGE The Turning of the Babies in the Bed —Paul Laurence Dunbar 143 A Hue and Cry after Fair Amoret —William Congreve . 144 Don’t Lose Caste— C . F. Davis . 145 The Plaidie— Charles Sibley . 145 Ode for a Social Meeting— Oliver Wendell Holmes . 147 In After Days —Austin Dobson . 148 A BOOK OF FIRESIDE POEMS. ■ A SONG OF TWILIGHT Anonymous If you’ve ever been a parent you will love this tender poem. If you’ve ever been a teacher you will recog¬ nize the educator’s ideal in the lines —• The future shines before them in the light of their own eyes. Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, To see the nursery lighted and the children’s table spread; “Mother, mother, mother!” the eager voices calling, “The baby was so sleepy that he had to go to bed!” Oh, to come home once more, and see the smiling faces. Dark head, bright head, clustered at the pane; Much the years have taken, when the heart its path retraces, But until time is not for me, the image will remain. Men and women now they are, standing straight and steady, Grave heart, gay heart, fit for life’s emprise; Shoulder set to shoulder, how should they be but ready! The future shines before them with the light of their own eyes. Still each answers to my call; no good has been denied me, My burdens have been fitted to the little strength that’s mine, Beauty, pride and peace have walked by day beside me, The evening closes gently in, and how can I repine? But oh, to see once more, when the early dusk is jailing. The nursery windows glowing and the childrens table spread; “Mother, mother, mother!” the high child-voices calling, “He couldn’t stay awake for you, he had to go to bed!” [ 13 ] TIP SAMS Cotton Noe 1864- brought a kindly laugh literary Americana. James Thomas Cotton Noe , by legislative ac¬ tion poet laureate of Kentucky , was for many years head of the department of English at the university of his native state. He knows and loves the mountain people. His Tip Sams has to thousands , and won an unquestioned place in The poem is from Tip Sams of Kentucky and Other Poems. Tip Sams had twins And a razor-back sow, Five dogs and a mule And an old roan cow; A bone-spavined filly And a one-room house, And a little wrinkled woman Just as meek as a mouse. Old Tip raised tobacco And he trafficked in skins. For he had seven sons In addition to the twins, And every mother’s son, And the little mammy, Jude, Smoked a pipe all day And the twins both chewed. But Tip kept a-digging And he never lost heart, For the dogs hunted rabbits And they caught a right smart; And the bone-spavined filly And the mule pulled a plow, - And they lived off the givings Of the old roan cow, And the acorn-fattened farrow Of the razor-back sow. f 14 1 FIRESIDE POEMS 15 But here the story closes Of my little romance, For the seven sons are sleeping On the battlefields of France; But their daddy grows tobacco And trafficks still in skins, And the little wrinkled mammy Has another pair of twins. THE LONELY NIGHT Darius Earl Maston Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills Like footsteps upon wool. —T ennyson—Oenone There is some stir about my place, I do not mind the day So very much. In it I space My tasks and work away. But when the shadows slyly creep And comes night’s stygian gloom, A lonely vigil then I keep In my beleaguered room. Beleaguered by dull aching dreams Of how things used to be. The lonely night how dark it seems From it I fain would flee! I read the news, I con a book, Yet my thoughts fly away! And every little while I look,— But you have gone to stay! THE KING OF DREAMS Clinton Scollard 1860-1932 I shall be satisfied If only the dreams abide. Some must delve when the dawn is nigh; Some must toil when the noonday beams; But when night comes, and the soft winds sigh, Every man is a King of Dreams! One must plod while another must ply At plow or loom till the sunset streams, But when night comes and the moon rides high. Every man is a King of Dreams! One is a slave to a master’s cry, Another, serf to a despot seems, But when night comes, and the discords die. Every man is a King of Dreams! This you may sell and that may buy, And this you may barter for gold that gleams, But there’s one domain that is fixed for aye,— Every man is a King of Dreams. FAMILIARITY William Cowper 1731-1800 Give a clown your finger and he will take your whole hand The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thump upon your back, How he esteems your merit, Is such a friend that one had need Be very much his friend indeed To pardon or to bear it. .— Heywood. [ 16 ] A THRENODY George Thomas Lanigan 1845-1886 “The Ahkoond of Swat is dead ” —London Papers. Swat, Mohammedan province on the far frontier of India, has lost its Ahkoond —let Lanigan mourn his passing. What, what, what, What’s the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean’s bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med¬ iterranean—he’s dead; The Ahkoond is dead! For the Ahkoond I mourn, Who wouldn’t? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn’t. Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow, Swats!) Swats wha hae wi’ Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, Sorrow, Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water. Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter! r 17 ] FIRESIDE POEMS 18 Mourn, city of Swat! Your great Ahkoond is not, But lain ’mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone, his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthy walls his frame surround (Forever hajlowed be the ground!) And sceptics mock the lowly mound And say “He’s now of no Ahkoond!” His soul .is in the skies— The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries— He knows what’s Swat. Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning Of the Swattish nation! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength; Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not! K BITTER CHILL John Keats 1795-1821 St. Agnes’ Eve—the night before January 21. Some words warm—these freeze. St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold. SS THE LIGHTS OF LONDON TOWN George R. Sims 1847-1922 Would you have all the biography of the world in one volume and that one volume distilled and condensed to a poem? Then , The Lights of London Town. The way was long and weary, But gallantly they strode, A country lad and lassie, Along the heavy road. The night was dark and stormy, But blithe of heart were they, For shining in the distance The Lights of London lay. O gleaming lamps of London that gem the City’s crown, What fortunes lie within you, 0 Lights of London Town. The year passed on and found them Within the mighty fold, The years had brought them trouble, But brought them little gold. Oft from their garret window, On long still summer nights, They’d seek the far-off country Beyond the London lights. 0 mocking lamps of London, what weary eyes look down, And mourn the day they saw you, 0 Lights of London Town. With faces worn and weary, That told of sorrow’s load, [ 19 ] 20 FIRESIDE POEMS One day a man and woman Crept down a country road. They sought their native village, Heart-broken from the fray; Yet shining still behind them, The Lights of London lay. O cruel lamps of London, if tears your lights could drown, Your victims’ eyes would weep them, O Lights of London Town. THE BELLS OF CALIFON Harry Lee Come will a day when fires are low, and year on year is gray, your heart will rove in Calif on as once it did in May. Great hills surround green Califon. From wooded heights one sees Far, far below The clustered roofs, The spires Among the trees. Looking down on Califon, Lovely it is to hear The music of the Sabbath bells Updrifting Cool and clear. Above the streets of Califon Now budding maples meet, And lilacs Blooming in the rain Make all the byways sweet. 21 FIRESIDE P 0 EMS Beyond the hills of Califon The world I longed for lay. Now Califon is miles on miles And years on years away; So many doors are closed now That I shall never dare To go again to Califon, With no one left To care. But often in the twilight, Often at the dawn, I hear again The singing bells, The bells of Califon. MEN Dorothy Reid God give us men! —J. G. Holland I like men, They stride about, They reach in their pockets And pull things out; They look important, They rock on their toes, They lose all the buttons Off their clothes. They throw away pipes, They find them again, Men are queer creatures, I like men. ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE Robert Burns 1759-1796 A “towmont’s toothache!” A twelve month toothache which Burns in a letter from his Ellisland farm calls “omnipotent ” This is not comedy, but tragedy—the hell of all diseases. God bless the modern dentist. My curse upon your venom’d stang, That shoots my tortur’d gums alang; And thro’ my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi’ gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, Like racking engines! When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes; Our neighbour’s sympathy may ease us, Wi’ pitying moan; But thee—thou hell o’ a’ diseases, Ay mocks our groan! Adown my beard the slavers trickle! I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O’ a’ the numerous human dools, Ill har’sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak’d i’ the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’ fools, Thou bear’st the gree. Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell, Whence a’ the tones o’ mis’ry yell, \ 22 ] FIRESIDE POEMS 23 And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu’ raw, Thou Toothache, surely bear’st the bell Amang them a’! O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel. Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick;— Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal A towmont’s Toothache. DOLLIE Samuel Mintern Peck 1854 - Samuel Mintern Peck, like Holmes, was trained for medicine, and like him and numerous others, turned to litera¬ ture chiefly because he couldn’t help it. He is the author of Rings and Love Knots, Rhymes and Roses, and Fair Women of Today. If there is any ques¬ tion of his knowing the last subject, read Dollie. (V£L SO CO <JUH ( TG- She sports a witching gown, With a ruffle up and down On the skirt; She is gentle, she is shy; But there’s mischief in her eye,— She’s a flirt! She displays a tiny glove, And a dainty little love Of a shoe; 24 FIRESIDE POEMS And she wears her hat a-tilt Over bangs that never wilt In the dew. ’Tis rumored chocolate creams Are the fabric of her dreams— But enough! I know beyond a doubt That she carries them about In her muff. With her dimples and her curls She exasperates the girls Past belief: They hint that she’s a cat And delightful things like that, In their grief. It is shocking, I declare! But what does Dollie care When the beaux Come flocking to her feet Like the bees about a sweet Little rose! OVERTONES William Alexander Percy Once I sought a time and place for soli¬ tude and prayer; but now where’er I find Thy face l find a closet there. I heard a bird at break of day Sing from the autumn trees A song so mystical and calm So full of certainties, No man, I think, could listen long Except upon his knees. Yet this was but a simple bird, Alone, among the trees. BLASPHEMY (From the Group, The Heretic) Louis Untermeyer Blasphemy? Some other word. Glory of the unfinished; suspense before the unac¬ countable; gamble with the running wheels spun by man’s own clumsy hand—these give purpose to each dawn. I do not envy God— There is no thing in all the skies or under To startle and awaken Him to wonder; No marvel can appear To stir His placid soul to terrible thunder— He was not born with awe nor blessed with fear. I do not envy God— He is not burned with Spring and April madness; The rush of life—its rash, impetuous gladness He cannot hope to know. He cannot feel the fever and the sadness, The leaping fire, the insupportable glow. I do not envy God— Forever He must watch the planets crawling To flaming goals where sun and star are falling; He cannot wander free. For he must face, through centuries appalling, A vast and infinite monotony. I do not envy God— He cannot die, He dare not even slumber. Though He be God, and free from care and cumber, I would not share His place; For He must live when years have lost their number And Time sinks crumbling into shattered Space. I do not envy God— Nay more, I pity Him His lonely Heaven; [ 25 ] 26 FIRESIDE POEMS I pity Him each lonely morn and even, His splendid, lonely throne; For He must sit and wait till all is riven Alone—through all eternity—alone. In the short years given him before he met death in the great war, Rupert Brooke earned for himself the expectancy of a literary world. Com¬ mon men are born to die , but poets to immortality. If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is forever England .... His corner of England lies in the Greek island Skyros , on the road to the Dardanelles. Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire Of watching you; and swing me suddenly Into the shade and loneliness and mire Of the last land! There, waiting patiently, One day, I think, I’ll feel a cool wind blowing, See a slow light across the Stygian tide, And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing, And tremble. And I shall know that you have died. And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream, Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host, Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam— Most individual and bewildering ghost!— And turn, and toss your brown delightful head Amusedly, among the ancient Dead. THE KNIGHTS IN THE RUBY WINDOWPANE Mildred Plew Meigs Hush—-tis the lullaby Time is singing — Hush, and heed not, for all things pass — The knights in the ruby windowpane Riding the ruby glass. This is the tale of the ruby knights, The knights of the ruby train, Who one fine day went out to ride In a castle windowpane; ’Twas thus they rode in the sunset glow, Cantering, cantering, row upon row, Long, long ago. Then clocks went click in the castle wall, And the harpstring died on the air, And the lords and the ladies, one by one, Went out by the twisted stair; But still in the high-hung windowpane, Rich with its red old hue, The ruby knights went on and on, Cantering two by two; The knights in the ruby windowpane, Riding the red years through. Then time went tick and the dust came down To sift at the carven sill; And webs at the casement wound and wound, But high in the window still, Soft while the silver sunset ran And ripped at a wrought cuirass, [ 27 ] 28 FIRESIDE POEMS The ruby knights went on and on, (The knights who never pass) The knights in the ruby windowpane, Riding the ruby glass. Now cracks run wide in the crumbling wall, And the lazy leaves drift through, And the little birds come shyly in To build their nests and coo; But still in the high-arched windowpane, Soft as the webs are wound, The ruby knights ride on and on, With never a single sound; The knights in the ruby windowpane Riding the red years round. This is the tale of the ruby knights, The knights of the ruby train, Who ride today in the red old heart Of a castle windowpane, Just as they rode in the sunset glow, Cantering, cantering, row upon row, Long, long ago. S BARTER {g Earle V. Eastwood A beautiful thought, a tragic fact. But listen to wisdom: I am not one of those who do not believe in love at first sight, but I believe in taking a second look. — H. Vincent. A book you may buy for a shilling Where quaint little shops tempt the throng, And love, though your guineas are useless, Perhaps may be had for a song. You may, should the volume displease you, Exchange it or sell it again; But love that you buy with your singing Can only be bartered for pain. THE LEGEND OF HEINZ von STEIN Charles Godfrey Leland 1824-1903 Charles Godfrey Leland was a student of German and gypsy folklore. Here is one of his terrible tales. Out rode from his wild, dark castle, The terrible Heinz von Stein; He came to the door of a tavern, And gazed on the swinging sign. He sat himself down at a table, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came with a flask and a corkscrew A maiden of beauty divine. Then, seized with a deep love-longing, He uttered, “0 damsel mine. Suppose you just give a few kisses To the valorous Ritter von Stein!” But she answered, “The kissing business Is entirely out of my line; And I certainly will not begin it On a countenance ugly as thine!” Oh then the bold knight was angry, And cursed both coarse and fine; And asked, “How much is the swindle For your sour and nasty wine?” And fiercely he rode to the castle, And sat himself down to dine; And this is the dreadful legend Of the terrible Heinz von Stein. [ 29 ] At this instant a most whimsical variety of voices — barks, howls, yelps, whines—all mingled as it were together, sounded from the prairie not far off, as if a whole conclave of wolves of every age and sex were assembled there. . . . . They all proceeded from the throat of one little wolf, not larger than a spaniel, seated by himself at some distance. — Parkman, The Oregon Trail At twilight time, when the lamps are lit, Father coyote comes to sit At the chaparral’s edge, on the mountain-side— Comes to listen and to deride The rancher’s hound and the rancher’s son. The passer-by and everyone. And we pause at milking-time to hear His reckless carolling, shrill and clear,— His terse and swift and valorous troll, Ribald, rollicking, scornful, droll. As one might sing in coyotedom: “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!” Yet well I wot there is little ease Where the turkeys roost in the almond trees. With mute forbodings, canny and grim, As they shift and shiver along the limb. And the dog flings back an answer brief (Curse o’ the honest man on the thief,) And the cat, till now intent to rove. Stalks to her lair by the kitchen stove; Not that she fears the rogue on the hill; But—no mice remain, and—the night is chill. And now, like a watchman of the skies, Whose glance to a thousand valleys flies, The moon glares over the granite ledge— Pared a slice on its upper edge. [ 30 ] 31 FIRESIDE POEMS And father coyote waits no more, Knowing that down on the valley floor, In a sandy nook all cool and white The rabbits play and the rabbits fight, Flopping, nimble, scurrying, Careless now with the surge of Spring . .. Furry lover, alack! alas! Skims your fate o’er the moonlit grass! CASEY AT THE BAT Ernest Lawrence Thayer 1863 - This is the world's classic of baseball. In the so-called gay nineties, De Wolf Hopper began reciting it up and down the vaude¬ ville front of America. In a letter to Mark Sullivan in 1924 he said — «/ did it first in May, 1888, at Wallaces theater. New York City. How many times I have done it since can best be numbered by the stars of the Milky Way.” In his own Reminiscences of De Wolf Hopper, he says— “When my name is called on resurrection morn I shall, very prob¬ ably/unless some friend is there to pull the sleeve of my ascension robe, arise, clear my throat and begin: ‘The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that dayJ ” There have been dozens of claimants to the authorship of Casey at the Bat but Mr. Hopper, who knew the man says that it was written by Thayer and first printed in a San Francisco newspaper early m 1888. The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play; And so, when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game. 32 FIRESIDE POEMS A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast; They thought, if only Casey could but get a whack, at that. They’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the deli; It struck upon the hillside, and recoiled upon the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face; And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there; Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped. “That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore; “Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand. And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; FIRESIDE POEMS 33 He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew, But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.” “Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud!” But a scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed; They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate. He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go. And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow. Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout. But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out. TO DIANEME Robert Herrick 1591-1674 O why should the spirit of mortal be proud! —William Knox Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair, Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty’s gone. BEWARE Henry W. Longfellow 1807-1882 From Act 1 , Scene 3 , of the Spanish Student. I know a maiden fair to see. Take care! She can both false and friendly be. Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care! She gives a side glance and looks down. Beware! Beware! Trust her not. She is fooling thee! And she has hair of a golden hue. Take care! And what she says, it is not true, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care! She knows how much it is best to show. Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! [34] FIRESIDE POEMS 35 She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care! It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! OLD SHIPS David Morton 1886 - There is often a majesty in words apart from their meanings, notably in the sounding phrases of Hebrew scripture of obscure mean¬ ing, and in the dimly identified words of great music. Shelley’s “As I lay asleep in Italy” and Keats’ “Silent, upon a peak in Darien” are poetic examples. David Morton is a musician of words. As in his own sonnet, Symbols, he tries for such as — May venture near the snares of sound, at last — Most fortunate captor if, from time to time. One may be taken, trembling, in a rhyme. There is a memory stays upon old ships, A weightless cargo in the musty hold,— Of bright lagoons and prow-caressing lips, Of stormy midnights,—and a tale untold. They have remembered islands in the dawn, And windy capes that tried their slender spars, And tortuous channels where their keels have gone, And calm blue nights of stillness and of stars. Ah, never think that ships forget a shore, Or bitter seas, or winds that made them wise; There is a dream upon them, evermore;— And there be some who say that sunk ships rise To seek familiar harbors in the night, Blowing in mists their spectral sails like light. John Boyle O'Reilly is one of the picturesque figures in literature. Born in Ireland in 1844 , he never forgot the Emerald Isle. In 1865 he went into the British army , some say to further the cause of Ireland; at any rate he was convicted and sent to penal Australia in 1866 on a sentence of fifteen years. Three years later he escaped on an American whaler and came to Boston. Then began a very creditable literary career. He , it would seem , holds with John Lacy — When a woman means mischief if she but look upon her apron strings the devil will help her presently. “What bait do you use,” said the Saint to the Devil, “When you fish where the souls of men abound?” “Well, for specific tastes,” said the King of Evil, “Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.” “But for general use?” asked the Saint. “Ah, then,” Said the Demon, “I angle for Man not men And the thing I hate Is to change my bait, So I fish with a woman the whole year round.” OF LIFE Lillian Wright Nor even see the galley first. Write well, my pen; be sure and true; Make no misstatement and no lies; This is a manuscript that you May not revise. [36] TWO FISHERS Anonymous In the middle of the last century, humorous poetry—so called—followed pretty well the style here illustrated. This was peculiarly true of American poetry. The type, of course, is too obvious for fine humor. But we can stand one more for auld lang syne. One morning when Spring was in her teens— A morn to a poet’s wishing, All tinted in delicate pinks and greens— Miss Bessie and I went fishing. I in my rough and easy clothes, With my face at the sun-tan’s mercy; She with her hat tipped down to her nose, And her nose tipped —vice versa. I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks, And a hamper for lunching recesses; She with the bait of her comely looks, And the seine of her golden tresses. So we sat us down on the sunny dike, Where the white pond-lilies teeter, And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike, And she like Simon Peter. All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes, And dreamily watched and waited, But the fish were cunning and would not rise, And the baiter alone was baited. 38 FIRESIDE POEMS And when the time of departure came, My bag hung flat as a flounder; But Bessie had neatly hooked her game— A hundred-and-fifty-pounder. THAT CAT Ben King 1857-1894 Ben King was an institution in the Middle West. A good musician, a prime entertainer, a poet, he was welcome in every assemblage, and his sudden death at the age of thirty-seven was felt as a shock in the literary west. That Cat was the King household pet. The poet’s widow. Belle Latham King, recalls that her name was Lady Varian. The cat that comes to my window sill When the moon looks cold and the night is still— He comes in a frenzied state alone • With a tail that stands like a pine tree cone. And says: “I have finished my evening lark, And I think I can hear a hound dog bark. My whiskers are froze ’nd stuck to my chin. I do wish you’d git up and let me in.” That cat gits in. But if in the solitude of the night He doesn’t appear to be feeling right, And rises and stretches and seeks the floor, And some remote corner he would explore. And doesn’t feel satisfied just because There’s no good spot for to sharpen his claws, And meows and canters uneasy about, Beyond the least shadow of any doubt— That cat gits out. FAMOUS LIMERICKS The origin of the verse form called the limerick is lost in the years. Attempts to connect it with Limerick, a county in the western part of the Irish Free State have not been convincing altho the form may have been popularized in Ireland by the famous Irish Brigade of the French army during the eighteenth century. The form, wrongly credited to Edward Lear, first appeared about 1820, and was doubtlessly popularized by him thru the publication in 1846 of his Book of Nonsense. The limerick is now a part of the poetry of all languages and, like the famous shot at Concord , heard round the world. Oh won’t you come up, come all the way up. Come all the way up to Limerick. There was a young lady of Niger Who smiled as she rode on a tiger; They returned from the ride With the lady inside, And a smile on the face of the tiger. A flea and a fly in a flue, Were imprisoned, so what could they do Said the flee, “Let us fly,” Said the fly, “Let us flee,” So they flew through a flaw in the flue. The poor benighted Hindoo, He does the best he kindoo; He sticks to his caste From first to last: For pants he makes his skindoo. There was an old man of Nantucket, Who kept all his cash in a bucket; [39] 40 FIRESIDE POEMS But his daughter named Nan Ran away with a man— And as for the bucket, Nantucket. There was a young man so benighted, He didn’t know when he was slighted, But went to a party And ate just as hearty As if he’d been duly invited. There was a young man at St. Kitts Who was very much troubled with fits The eclipse of the moon Threw him into a swoon, When he tumbled and broke into bits. Fantastic rime sometimes occurs in the limerick. The lifeboat that’s kept in Torquay Is intended to float in the suay; The crew and the coxwain Are as sturdy as oxwain, And as smart and as brave as can buay. Kipling is sometimes credited with this one: There was once a small boy in Quebec Stood buried in snow to his neck. When asked “Are you friz?” He replied “Yes, I is, But we don’t call this cold in Quebec.” Woodrow Wilson is said to have been fond of quoting this next, which has resulted in his being given credit of authorship. However , the verse goes back at least fifty years. For beauty I am not a star, There are others more lovely by far; But my face—I don’t mind it, Because I’m behind it, It’s the folks out in front that I jar. Awfhow y IzvW € y FIRESIDE POEMS 41 There was a young lady of Lynn Who was so excessively thin That when she essayed To drink lemonade She slipped thru the straw and fell in. And Edwin Meade Robinson is accused of this: There once was a guy named Othello, A dark, disagreeable fellow; After croaking his wife, Then he took his own life— That bird wasn’t black, he was yellow. The art of writing foolishness is of the rarest in literature. Edward Lear, Gelett Burgess, and Lewis Carroll have done it, and W. S. Gilbert employed this skill delightfully, especially in the light operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. This is an original, by Lear: There was an old man in a tree Who was horribly bored by a bee; When they said, “Does it buzz?” He replied, “Yes, it does! It’s a regular brute of a bee!” And here is Gilbert’s revision: There was an old man of St. Bees, Who was stung in the arm by a wasp; When they asked, “Does it hurt?” He replied, “No, it doesn’t, But I thought all the while’t was a Hornet!” & FURTHER FOOLISHNESS Anonymous Sir! I believe upon that ground alone. I could not, had I seen it with my own. —Cowper “I’ve seen some great sights in my life,” Said Old Man Martford, “But the strangest sight I ever saw, My father saw in Hartford.” k HEART’S DESIRE Virginia Eaton Some day to know a home like hers Wherein their hearts might rest. —Theodosia Garrison, The Gypsies I want a little house with green vines straying Above the lintel of a quaint carved door; And casement windows with white curtains swaying In every breeze; a polished oaken floor. A shaded porch for idle moments dreaming. . .. A shining sink with painted shelves above To hold blue plates and cups; a kettle steaming; White cloth and candles laid for one I love. Though other fires with friendly warmth are burning And others gladly share their bread and wine, Within my heart there is a constant yearning For intimate, dear things I may call mine! Strong arms for shelter . . . home ... a child’s caress . .. Than these life holds no greater happiness. TO A CALM ONE Selma R. Osterman Oh, weary hearts, that yearn for sleep. Look, and learn from the ships of the deep! Although tempestuous autumn in my veins Leaps to the wildness of a gypsy tune, Some day I’ll be content with quiet rain, And even silence frozen by the moon. Often the ship that plays the fiercest wave Sinks, longingly and tired, to the deep . .. So I, when life has spent my restless blood, Shall come to you for silence and for sleep. [42] THE TOM-CAT Don Marquis 1878 - Far in the distance a cat languishes loudly. —Henley At midnight in the alley A Tom-cat comes to wail, And he chants the hate of a million years As he swings his snaky tail. Malevolent, bony, brindled, Tiger and devil and bard, His eyes are coals from the middle of Hell And his heart is black and hard. 