Selected Poems of James Whitcomb Riley
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Poetry; Year 2

Selected Poems
of

James Whitcomb Riley

1849-1916

Inscribed, with All Faith and Affection:

To all the little children:—
the happy ones; and sad ones;

The sober and the silent ones;
the boisterous and glad ones;

The good ones—Yes, the good ones, too;
and all the lovely bad ones.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawsack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin, and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage, too!

I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—

I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

When the Green Gits Back in the Trees

In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,

And the sun comes out and stays,

And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,

And you think of yer bare-foot days;

When you ort to work and you want to not,

And you and yer wife agrees

It’s time to spade up the garden-lot,

When the green gits back in the trees

Well! work is the least o’ my idees

When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

When the green gits back in the trees, and bees

Is a-buzzin’ aroun’ ag’in

In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please

Old gait they bum roun’ in;

When the groun’s all bald whare the hay-rick stood,

And the crick’s riz, and the breeze

Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,

And the green gits back in the trees,—

I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,

The time when the green gits back in the trees!

When the whole tail-feathers o’ Wintertime

Is all pulled out and gone!

And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,

And the swet it starts out on

A feller’s forred, a-gittin’ down

At the old spring on his knees—

I kindo’ like jest a-loaferin’ roun’

When the green gits back in the trees—

Jest a-potterin’ roun’ as I—durn—please—

When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

The Brook-Song

Little brook! Little brook!

You have such a happy look—

Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and
curve and crook—

And your ripples, one and one,

Reach each other’s hands and run

Like laughing little children in the sun!

Little brook, sing to me:

Sing about a bumblebee

That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled
mumblingly,

Because he wet the film

Of his wings, and had to swim,

While the water-bugs raced round and laughed at him!

Little brook—sing a song

Of a leaf that sailed along

Down the golden-braided centre of your current
swift and strong,

And a dragon-fly that lit

On the tilting rim of it,

And rode away and wasn’t scared a bit.

And sing—how oft in glee

Came a truant boy like me,

Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting
melody,

Till the gurgle and refrain

Of your music in his brain

Wrought a happiness as keen to him as pain.

Little brook—laugh and leap!

Do not let the dreamer weep:

Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in
softest sleep;

And then sing soft and low

Through his dreams of long ago—

Sing back to him the rest he used to know!

Little Orphant Annie

Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,

An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,

An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,

An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;

An’ all us other children, when the supper-things is done,

We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun

A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about,

An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers,—

An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,

His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,

An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wuzn’t there at all!

An’ they seeked him in the rafter room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,

An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’-wheres, I guess;

But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an’ roundabout:—

An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!

An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin,

An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin;

An’ wunst, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks wuz there,

She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she didn’t care!

An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,

They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,

An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ’fore she knowed what she’s about!

An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!

An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,

An’ the lamp-wick sputter, an’ the wind goes woo—oo!

An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,

An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,—

You better mind yer parunts, an’ yer teachurs fond an’ dear,

An’ cherish them ’at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,

An he’p the pore an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about,

Er the Gobble-uns ’ll git you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!

The Raggedy Man

O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;

An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!

He comes to our house every day,

An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay;

An’ he opens the shed—an’ we all ist laugh

When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;

An’ nen—ef our hired girl says he can—

He milks the cow fer ’Lizabuth Ann.—

Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W’y, The Raggedy Man—he’s ist so good,

He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood;

An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,

An’ does most things ’at boys can’t do.—

He clumbed clean up in our big tree

An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me—

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer ’Lizabuth Ann—

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer The Raggedy Man.—

Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An’ The Raggedy Man one time say he

Pick’ roast’ rambos from a’ orchurd-tree,

An’ et ’em—all ist roast’ an’ hot!—

An’ it’s so, too!—’cause a corn-crib got

Afire one time an’ all burn’ down

On “The Smoot Farm,” ’bout four mile from town—

On “The Smoot Farm”! Yes—an’ the hired han’

’At worked there nen ’uz The Raggedy Man!—

Ain’t he the beatin’est Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man’s so good an’ kind

He’ll be our “horsey,” an’ “haw” an’ mind

Ever’thing ’at you make him do—

An’ won’t run off—’less you want him to!

I drived him wunst way down our lane

An’ he got skeered, when it ’menced to rain,

An’ ist rared up an’ squealed and run

Purt’ nigh away!—an’ it’s all in fun!

Nen he skeered ag’in at a’ old tin can ...

Whoa! y’ old runaway Raggedy Man!

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An’ The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,

An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes:

Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,

An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ’at swallers the’rselves:

An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,

He showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got,

’At lives ’way deep in the ground, an’ can

Turn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann!

Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!

Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An’ wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late,

An’ pigs ist root’ thue the garden-gate,

He ’tend like the pigs ’uz bears an’ said,

“Old Bear-shooter’ll shoot ’em dead!”

An’ race’ an’ chase’ ’em, an’ they’d ist run

When he pint his hoe at ’em like it’s a gun

An’ go “Bang!—Bang!” nen ’tend he stan’

An’ load up his gun ag’in! Raggedy Man!

He’s an old Bear-shooter Raggedy Man!

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An’ sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on

We’re little prince-children, an’ old King’s gone

To git more money, an’ lef’ us there—

And Robbers is ist thick ever’where;

An’ nen—ef we all won’t cry, fer shore—

The Raggedy Man he’ll come and “’splore

The Castul-halls,” an’ steal the “gold”—

An’ steal us, too, an’ grab an’ hold

An’ pack us off to his old “Cave”!—An’

Haymow’s the “cave” o’ The Raggedy Man!—

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man—one time, when he

Wuz makin’ a little bow-’n’-orry fer me,

Says “When you’re big like your Pa is,

Air you go’ to keep a fine store like his—

An’ be a rich merchunt—an’ wear fine clothes?—

Er what air you go’ to be, goodness knows?”

An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizabuth Ann,

An’ I says “’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!—

I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Funny Little Fellow

’Twas a Funny Little Fellow

Of the very purest type,

For he had a heart as mellow

As an apple over-ripe;

And the brightest little twinkle

When a funny thing occurred,

And the lightest little tinkle

Of a laugh you ever heard!

His smile was like the glitter

Of the sun in tropic lands,

And his talk a sweeter twitter

Than the swallow understands;

Hear him sing—and tell a story—

Snap a joke—ignite a pun,—

’Twas a capture—rapture—glory,

And explosion—all in one!

Though he hadn’t any money—

That condiment which tends

To make a fellow “honey”

For the palate of his friends;—

Sweet simples he compounded—

Sovereign antidotes for sin

Or taint,—a faith unbounded

That his friends were genuine.

He wasn’t honored, may be—

For his songs of praise were slim,—

Yet I never knew a baby

That wouldn’t crow for him;

I never knew a mother

But urged a kindly claim

Upon him as a brother,

At the mention of his name.

The sick have ceased their sighing

And have even found the grace

Of a smile when they were dying

As they looked upon his face;

And I’ve seen his eyes of laughter

Melt in tears that only ran

As though, swift dancing after,

Came the Funny Little Man.

He laughed away the sorrow,

And he laughed away the gloom

We are all so prone to borrow

From the darkness of the tomb;

And he laughed across the ocean

Of a happy life, and passed,

With a laugh of glad emotion,

Into Paradise at last.

And I think the Angels knew him,

And had gathered to await

His coming, and run to him

Through the widely-opened Gate—

With their faces gleaming sunny

For his laughter-loving sake,

And thinking, “What a funny

Little Angel he will make!”

Down Around the River

Noon-time an’ June-time, down around the river!

Have to furse with ’Lizey Ann—but lawzy! I fergive her!

Drives me off the place, an’ says ’at all ’at she’s a-wishin’,

Land o’ gracious! time’ll come I’ll git enough o’ fishin’!

Little Dave, a-choppin’ wood, never ’pears to notice;

Don’t know where she’s hid his hat, er keerin’ where his coat is,—

Specalatin’, more’n like, he haint a-goin’ to mind me,

An’ guessin’ where, say twelve o’clock, a feller’d likely find me!

Noon-time an’ June-time, down around the river!

Clean out o’ sight o’ home, an’ skulkin’ under kivver

Of the sycamores, jack-oaks, an’ swamp-ash an’ ellum—

Idies all so jumbled up, you kin hardly tell ’em!—

Tired, you know, but lovin’ it, an’ smilin’ jes’ to think ’at

Any sweeter tiredness you’d fairly want to drink it!

Tired o’ fishin’—tired o’ fun—line out slack an’ slacker—

All you want in all the world’s a little more tobacker!

Hungry, but a-hidin’ it, er jes’ a-not a-keerin’:—

Kingfisher gittin’ up an’ skootin’ out o’ hearin’;

Snipes on the t’other side, where the County Ditch is,

Wadin’ up an’ down the aidge like they’d rolled their britches!

Old turkle on the root kindo-sorto drappin’

Intoo th’ worter like he don’t know how it happen!

Worter, shade an’ all so mixed, don’t know which you’d orter

Say; th’ worter in the shadder—shadder in the worter!

Somebody hollerin’—’way around the bend in

Upper Fork—where yer eye kin jes’ ketch the endin’

Of the shiney wedge o’ wake some muss-rat’s a-makin’

With that pesky nose o’ his! Then a sniff o’ bacon,

Corn-bred an’ ’dock-greens—an’ little Dave a-shinnin’

’Crost the rocks an’ mussel-shells, a-limpin’ an’ a-grinnin’,

With yer dinner fer ye, an’ a blessin’ from the giver,

Noon-time an’ June-time down around the river!

At Aunty’s House

One time, when we’z at Aunty’s house—

’Way in the country!—where

They’s ist but woods—an’ pigs, an’ cows—

An’ all’s out-doors an’ air!—

An’ orchurd-swing; an’ churry-trees—

An’ churries in ’em!—Yes, an’ these—

Here red-head birds steals all they please,

An’ tetch ’em ef you dare!—

W’y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there,

We et out on the porch!

Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut

The table wuz; an’ I

Let Aunty set by me an’ cut

My vittuls up—an’ pie.

’Tuz awful funny!—I could see

The red-heads in the churry-tree;

An’ bee-hives, where you got to be

So keerful, goin’ by;—

An’ “Comp’ny” there an’ all!—an’ we—

We et out on the porch!

An’ I ist et p’surves an’ things

’At Ma don’t ’low me to—

An’ chickun-gizzurds—(don’t like wings

Like Parunts does! do you?)

An’ all the time, the wind blowed there,

An’ I could feel it in my hair,

An’ ist smell clover ever’where!—

An’ a’ old red-head flew

Purt’ nigh wite over my high-chair,

When we et on the porch!

The Days Gone By

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!

The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye;

The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail

As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale;

When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky,

And my happy heart brimmed over, in the days gone by.

In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped

By the honeysuckle tangles where the water-lilies dipped,

And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink,

Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink,

And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant’s wayward cry

And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by.

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!

The music of the laughing lip, the lustre of the eye;

The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin’s magic ring—

The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything,—

When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh,

In the golden olden glory of the days gone by.

The Bumblebee

You better not fool with a Bumblebee!—

Ef you don’t think they can sting—you’ll see!

They’re lazy to look at, an’ kind o’ go

Buzzin’ an’ bummin’ aroun’ so slow,

An’ ac’ so slouchy an’ all fagged out,

Danglin’ their legs as they drone about

The hollyhawks ’at they can’t climb in

’Ithout ist a-tumble-un out ag’in!

Wunst I watched one climb clean ’way

In a jimson-blossom, I did, one day,—

An’ I ist grabbed it—an’ nen let go—

An’ “Ooh-ooh! Honey! I told ye so!”

Says The Raggedy Man; an’ he ist run

An’ pullt out the stinger, an’ don’t laugh none,

An’ says: “They has be’n folks, I guess,

’At thought I wuz predjudust, more er less,—

Yit I still muntain ’at a Bumblebee

Wears out his welcome too quick fer me!”

The Tree-Toad

“’S cur’ous-like,” said the tree-toad,

“I’ve twittered fer rain all day;

And I got up soon,

And hollered tel noon—

But the sun, hit blazed away,

Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,

Weary at hart, and sick at soul!

“Dozed away fer an hour,

And I tackled the thing agin:

And I sung, and sung,

Tel I knowed my lung

Was jest about give in;

And then, thinks I, ef hit don’t rain now,

They’s nothin’ in singin’, anyhow!

“Wunst in a while some farmer

Would come a-drivin’ past;

And he’d hear my cry,

And stop and sigh—

Tel I jest laid back, at last,

And I hollered rain tel I thought my th’oat

Would bust wide open at ever’ note!

“But I fetched her!—O I fetched her!—

’Cause a little while ago,

As I kindo’ set,

With one eye shet,

And a-singin’ soft and low,

A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,

A-sayin’,—’ef you’ll jest hush i’ll rain!’”

The Boy Lives on Our Farm

The boy lives on our Farm, he’s not

Afeard o’ horses none!

An’ he can make ’em lope, er trot,

Er rack, er pace, er run.

Sometimes he drives two horses, when

He comes to town an’ brings

A wagon-full o’ ’taters nen,

An’ roastin’-ears an’ things.

Two horses is “a team,” he says,

An’ when you drive er hitch,

The right-un’s a “near-horse,” I guess

Er “off”—I don’t know which—

The Boy lives on our Farm, he told

Me, too, ’at he can see,

By lookin’ at their teeth, how old

A horse is, to a T!

I’d be the gladdest boy alive

Ef I knowed much as that,

An’ could stand up like him an’ drive,

An’ ist push back my hat,

Like he comes skallyhootin’ through

Our alley, with one arm

A-wavin’ Fare-ye-well! to you—

The Boy lives on our Farm!

The Squirtgun Uncle Maked Me

Uncle Sidney, when he wuz here,

Maked me a squirtgun out o’ some

Elder-bushes ’at growed out near

Where wuz the brickyard—’way out clear

To where the toll-gate come!

So when we walked back home again,

He maked it, out in our woodhouse where

Wuz the old workbench, an’ the old jack-plane,

An’ the old ’pokeshave, an’ the tools all lay’n’

Ist like he wants ’em there.

He sawed it first with the old hand-saw;

An’ nen he peeled off the bark, an’ got

Some glass an’ scraped it; an’ told ’bout Pa,

When he wuz a boy an’ fooled his Ma,

An’ the whippin’ ’at he caught.

Nen Uncle Sidney, he took an’ filed

A’ old arn ramrod; an’ one o’ the ends

He screwed fast into the vise; an’ smiled,

Thinkin’, he said, o’ when he wuz a child,

’Fore him an’ Pa wuz mens.

He punched out the peth, an’ nen he put

A plug in the end with a hole notched through;

Nen took the old drawey-knife an’ cut

An’ maked a handle ’at shoved clean shut

But ist where yer hand held to.

An’ he wropt th’uther end with some string an’ white

Piece o’ the sleeve of a’ old tored shirt;

An’ nen he showed me to hold it tight,

An’ suck in the water an’ work it right

An’ it ’ud ist squirt an’ squirt!

The Old Tramp

A Old Tramp slep’ in our stable wunst,

An’ The Raggedy Man he caught

An’ roust him up, an’ chased him off

Clean out through our back lot!

An’ th’ Old Tramp hollered back an’ said,—

“You’re a purty man!—You air!—

With a pair o’ eyes like two fried eggs,

An’ a nose like a Bartlutt pear!”

Old Aunt Mary’s

Wasn’t it pleasant, O brother mine,

In those old days of the lost sunshine

Of youth—when the Saturday’s chores were through,

And the Sunday’s wood in the kitchen, too,

And we went visiting, me and you,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?

It all comes back so clear to-day!

Though I am as bald as you are gray—

Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,

We patter along in the dust again,

As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

We cross the pasture, and through the wood

Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,

Where the hammering red-heads hopped awry,

And the buzzard raised in the clearing sky

And lolled and circled, as we went by

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

And then in the dust of the road again;

And the teams we met, and the countrymen;

And the long highway, with sunshine spread

As thick as butter on country bread,

Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

Why, I see her now in the open door,

Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o’er

The clapboard roof!—And her face—ah, me!

Wasn’t it good for a boy to see—

And wasn’t it good for a boy to be

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?

And O my brother, so far away,

This is to tell you she waits to-day

To welcome us:—Aunt Mary fell

Asleep this morning, whispering, “Tell

The boys to come!” And all is well

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

Winter Fancies

I

Winter without

And warmth within;

The winds may shout

And the storm begin;

The snows may pack

At the window pane,

And the skies grow black,

And the sun remain

Hidden away

The livelong day—

But here—in here is the warmth of May!

II

Swoop your spitefullest

Up the flue,

Wild Winds—do!

What in the world do I care for you?

O delightfullest

Weather of all,

Howl and squall,

And shake the trees till the last leaves fall!

III

The joy one feels,

In an easy chair,

Cocking his heels

In the dancing air

That wreathes the rim of a roaring stove

Whose heat loves better than hearts can love,

Will not permit

The coldest day

To drive away

The fire in his blood, and the bliss of it!

IV

Then blow, Winds, blow!

And rave and shriek,

And snarl and snow

Till your breath grows weak—

While here in my room

I’m as snugly shut

As a glad little worm

In the heart of a nut!

The Runaway Boy

Wunst I sassed my Pa, an’ he

Won’t stand that, an’ punished me,—

Nen when he was gone that day,

I slipped out an’ runned away.

I tooked all my copper-cents,

An’ clumbed over our back fence

In the jimpson-weeds ’at growed

Ever’where all down the road.

Nen I got out there, an’ nen

I runned some—an’ runned again

When I met a man ’at led

A big cow ’at shooked her head.

I went down a long, long lane

Where was little pigs a-play’n’;

An’ a grea’-big pig went “Booh!”

An’ jumped up, an’ skeered me too.

Nen I scampered past, an’ they

Was somebody hollered “Hey!”

An’ I ist looked ever’where,

An’ they was nobody there.

I Want to, but I’m ’fraid to try

To go back…. An’ by-an’-by

Somepin’ hurts my throat inside—

An’ I want my Ma—an’ cried.

Nen a grea’-big girl come through

Where’s a gate, an’ telled me who

Am I? an’ ef I tell where

My home’s at she’ll show me there.

But I couldn’t ist but tell

What’s my name; an’ she says well,

An’ she tooked me up an’ says

She know where I live, she guess.

Nen she telled me hug wite close

Round her neck!—an’ off she goes

Skippin’ up the street! An’ nen

Purty soon I’m home again.

An’ my Ma, when she kissed me,

Kissed the big girl too, an’ she

Kissed me—ef I p’omise shore

I won’t run away no more!

Granny

Granny’s come to our house,

And ho! my lawzy-daisy!

All the childern round the place

Is ist a-runnin’ crazy!

Fetched a cake fer little Jake,

And fetched a pie fer Nanny,

And fetched a pear fer all the pack

That runs to kiss their Granny!

Lucy Ellen’s in her lap,

And Wade and Silas Walker

Both’s a-ridin’ on her foot,

And ’Pollos on the rocker;

And Marthy’s twins, from Aunt Marinn’s,

And little Orphant Annie,

All’s a-eatin’ gingerbread

And giggle-un at Granny!

Tells us all the fairy tales

Ever thought er wundered—

And ’bundance o’ other stories—

Bet she knows a hunderd!—

Bob’s the one fer “Whittington,”

And “Golden Locks” fer Fanny!

Hear ’em laugh and clap their hands,

Listenin’ at Granny!

“Jack the Giant-Killer” ’s good;

And “Bean-Stalk” ’s another!—

So’s the one of “Cinderell’”

And her old godmother;—

That-un’s best of all the rest—

Bestest one of any,—

Where the mices scampers home

Like we runs to Granny!

Granny’s come to our house,

Ho! my lawzy-daisy!

All the childern round the place

Is ist a-runnin’ crazy!

Fetched a cake fer little Jake,

And fetched a pie fer Nanny,

And fetched a pear fer all the pack

That runs to kiss their Granny!

Our Hired Girl

Our hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann;

An’ she can cook best things to eat!

She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,

An’ pours in somepin’ ’at’s good an’ sweet;

An’ nen she salts it all on top

With cinnamon; an’ nen she’ll stop

An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow,

In th’ old cook-stove, so’s ’twon’t slop

An’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, so

It’s custard-pie, first thing you know!

An’ nen she’ll say,

“Clear out o’ my way!

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!

Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!

Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!”

When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad,

An’ says folks got to walk the chalk

When she’s around, er wisht they had!

I play out on our porch an’ talk

To Th’ Raggedy Man ’at mows our lawn;

An’ he says, “Whew!” an’ nen leans on

His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,

An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn!

Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies,

It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!”

An’ nen he’ll say,

“Clear out o’ my way!

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!

Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!

Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!”

Wunst our hired girl, when she

Got the supper, an’ we all et,

An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me

An’ Pa went wher’ the “Social” met,—

An’ nen when we come home, an’ see

A light in the kitchen door, an’ we

Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “Lan’-

O’-Gracious! who can her beau be?”

An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth Ann

Wuz parchin’ corn fer The Raggedy Man!

Better say,

“Clear out o’ the way!

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!

Take the hint, an’ run, child, run!

Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!”

A Barefoot Boy

A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play—

For May is here once more, and so is he,—

His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,

And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:

Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array

Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me

Of woody pathways winding endlessly

Along the creek, where even yesterday

He plunged his shrinking body—gasped and shook—

Yet called the water “warm,” with never lack

Of joy. And so, half enviously I look

Upon this graceless barefoot and his track,—

His toe stubbed—ay, his big toe-nail knocked back

Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.

The Old Swimmin’-Hole

Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! whare the crick so still and deep

Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,

And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below

Sounded like the laugh of something we wunst ust to know

Before we could remember anything but the eyes

Of the angels lookin’ out as we left Paradise;

But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,

And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the happy days of yore,

When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,

Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide

That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,

It made me love myself, as I leaped to cares

My shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.

But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his toll

From the old man come back to the old swimmin’-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the long, lazy days

When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,

How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,

Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane

You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole

They was lots o’ fun on hands at the old swimmin’-hole.

But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll

Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’-hole.

Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,

And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;

And it mottled the worter with amber and gold

Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;

And the snake-feeder’s four gauzy wings fluttered by

Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,

Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze’s controle

As it cut acrost some orchurd to’rds the old swimmin’-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! When I last saw the place,

The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;

The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot

Whare the old divin’-log lays sunk and fergot.

And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be—

But never again will theyr shade shelter me!

And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,

And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin’-hole.

There Was a Cherry-Tree

There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows

Cool even now the fevered sight that knows

No more its airy visions of pure joy—

As when you were a boy.

There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay sat

His blue against its white—O blue as jet

He seemed there then!—But now—Whoever knew

He was so pale a blue!

There was a cherry-tree—our child-eyes saw

The miracle:—Its pure white snows did thaw

Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet

But for a boy to eat.

There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!—

There was a bloom of snow—There was a boy—

There was a bluejay of the realest blue—

And fruit for both of you.

The First Bluebird

Jest rain and snow! and rain again!

And dribble! drip! and blow!

Then snow! and thaw! and slush! and then

Some more rain and snow!

This morning I was ’most afeard

To wake up when, I jing!

I seen the sun shine out and heerd

The first bluebird of Spring!

Mother she’d raised the winder some;

And in acrost the orchurd come,

Soft as a angel’s wing,

A breezy, treesy, beesy hum,

Too sweet fer anything!

The winter’s shroud was rent a-part

The sun bust forth in glee,

And when that bluebird sung, my hart

Hopped out o’ bed with me!

The Pixy People

It was just a very

Merry fairy dream!

All the woods were airy

With the gloom and gleam;

Crickets in the clover

Clattered clear and strong,

And the bees droned over

Their old honey-song.

In the mossy passes,

Saucy grasshoppers

Leapt about the grasses

And the thistle-burrs;

And the whispered chuckle

Of the katydid

Shook the honeysuckle

Blossoms where he hid.

Through the breezy mazes

Of the lazy June,

Drowsy with the hazes

Of the dreamy noon,

Little Pixy-people

Winged above the walk,

Pouring from the steeple

Of a mullein-stalk.

One—a gallant fellow,

Evidently King,—

Wore a plume of yellow

In a jewelled ring

On a pansy bonnet,

Gold and white and blue,

With the dew still on it,

And the fragrance, too.

One—a dainty lady,

Evidently Queen—

Wore a gown of shady

Moonshine and green,

With a lace of gleaming

Starlight that sent

All the dewdrops dreaming

Everywhere she went.

One wore a waistcoat

Of roseleaves, out and in,

And one wore a faced-coat

Of tiger-lily-skin;

And one wore a neat coat

Of palest galingale;

And one a tiny street-coat,

And one a swallow-tail.

And Ho! sang the King of them,

And Hey! sang the Queen;

And round and round the ring of them

Went dancing o’er the green;

And Hey! sang the Queen of them,

And Ho! sang the King

And all that I had seen of them

—Wasn’t anything!

It was just a very

Merry fairy dream!

All the woods were airy

With the gloom and gleam;

Crickets in the clover

Clattered clear and strong,

And the bees droned over

Their old honey-song!

Pansies

Pansies! Pansies! How I love you, pansies!

Jaunty-faced, laughing-lipped and dewy-eyed with glee;

Would my song might blossom out in little five-leaved stanzas

As delicate in fancies

As your beauty is to me!

But my eyes shall smile on you, and my hands enfold you,

Pet, caress, and lift you to the lips that love you so,

That, shut ever in the years that may mildew or mold you,

My fancy shall behold you

Fair as in the long ago.

The Prayer Perfect

Dear Lord! kind Lord!

Gracious Lord! I pray

Thou wilt look on all I love,

Tenderly to-day!

Weed their hearts of weariness;

Scatter every care

Down a wake of angel-wings

Winnowing the air.

Bring unto the sorrowing

All release from pain;

Let the lips of laughter

Overflow again;

And with all the needy

O divide, I pray,

This vast treasure of content

That is mine to-day!

When Early March Seems Middle May

When country roads begin to thaw

In mottled spots of damp and dust,

And fences by the margin draw

Along the frosty crust

Their graphic silhouettes, I say,

The Spring is coming round this way.

When morning-time is bright with sun

And keen with wind, and both confuse

The dancing, glancing eyes of one

With tears that ooze and ooze

And nose-tips weep as well as they,

The Spring is coming round this way.

When suddenly some shadow-bird

Goes wavering beneath the gaze,

And through the hedge the moan is heard

Of kine that fain would graze

In grasses new, I smile and say,

The Spring is coming round this way.

When knotted horse-tails are untied,

And teamsters whistle here and there,

And clumsy mitts are laid aside,

And choppers’ hands are bare,

And chips are thick where children play,

The Spring is coming round this way.

When through the twigs the farmer tramps,

And troughs are chunked beneath the trees,

And fragrant hints of sugar-camps

Astray in every breeze,—

When early March seems middle May,

The Spring is coming round this way.

When coughs are changed to laughs, and when

Our frowns melt into smiles of glee,

And all our blood thaws out again

In streams of ecstasy,

And poets wreak their roundelay,

The Spring is coming round this way.

The Funniest Thing in the World

The funniest thing in the world, I know,

Is watchin’ the monkeys’at’s in the show!

Jumpin’ an’ runnin’ an’ racin’ roun’,

’Way up the top o’ the pole; nen down!

First they’re here, an’ nen they’re there,

An’ ist a’most any an’ ever’where!

Screechin’ an’ scratchin’ wherever they go,

They’re the funniest thing in the world, I know!

They’re the funniest thing in the world, I think:

Funny to watch’em eat an’ drink;

Funny to watch’em a-watchin’ us,

An’ actin’ ’most like grown folks does!

Funny to watch’em p’tend to be

Skeerd at their tail ’at they happen to see;

But the funniest thing in the world they do

Is never to laugh, like me an’ you!

Naughty Claude

When Little Claude was naughty wunst

At dinner-time, an’ said

He won’t say “Thank you” to his Ma,

She maked him go to bed

An’ stay two hours an’ not git up,

So when the clock struck Two,

Nen Claude says,—“Thank you, Mr. Clock,

I’m much obleeged to you!”

An Impetuous Resolve

When little Dickie Swope’s a man,

He’s go’ to be a Sailor;

An’ little Hamey Tincher, he’s

A-go’ to be a Tailor:

Bud Mitchell, he’s a-go’ to be

A stylish Carriage-Maker;

An’ when I grow a grea’-big man,

I’m go’ to be a Baker!

An’ Dick’ll buy his sailor-suit

O’ Hame; an’ Hame’ll take it

An’ buy as fine a double-rigg

As ever Bud can make it:

An’ nen all three’ll drive roun’ fer me,

An’ we’ll drive off togevver,

A-slingin’ pie-crust’long the road

Ferever an’ ferever!

The Old Hay-Mow

The Old Hay-mow’s the place to play

Fer boys, when it’s a rainy day!

I good-’eal ruther be up there

Than down in town, er anywhere!

When I play in our stable-loft,

The good old hay’s so dry an’ soft,

An’ feels so fine, an’ smells so sweet,

I ’most ferget to go an’ eat.

An’ one time wunst I did ferget

To go ’tel dinner was all et,—

An’ they had short-cake—an’—Bud he

Hogged up the piece Ma saved fer me!

Nen I won’t let him play no more

In our hay-mow where I keep store

An’ got hen-eggs to sell,—an’ shoo

The cackle-un old hen out, too!

An’ nen, when Aunty she was here

A-visitun from Rensselaer,

An’ bringed my little cousin,—he

Can come up there an’ play with me.

But, after while—when Bud he bets

’At I can’t turn no summersetts,—

I let him come up, ef he can

Ac’ ha’f-way like a gentleman!

On the Sunny Side

Hi and whoop-hooray, boys!

Sing a song of cheer!

Here’s a holiday, boys,

Lasting half a year!

Round the world, and half is

Shadow we have tried;

Now we’re where the laugh is,—

On the sunny side!

Pigeons coo and mutter,

Strutting high aloof

Where the sunbeans flutter

Through the stable roof.

Hear the chickens cheep, boys,

And the hen with pride

Clucking them to sleep, boys,

On the sunny side!

Hear the clacking guinea;

Hear the cattle moo;

Hear the horses whinny,

Looking out at you!

On the hitching-block, boys,

Grandly satisfied,

See the old peacock, boys,

On the sunny side!

Robins in the peach-tree;

Bluebirds in the pear;

Blossoms over each tree

In the orchard there!

All the world’s in joy, boys,

Glad and glorified

As a romping boy, boys,

On the sunny side!

Where’s a heart as mellow?

Where’s a soul as free?

Where is any fellow

We would rather be?

Just ourselves or none, boys,

World around and wide,

Laughing in the sun, boys,

On the sunny side!

A Sudden Shower

Barefooted boys scud up the street,

Or skurry under sheltering sheds;

And schoolgirl faces, pale and sweet,

Gleam from the shawls about their heads.

Doors bang; and mother-voices call

From alien homes; and rusty gates

Are slammed; and high above it all,

The thunder grim reverberates.

And then, abrupt,—the rain! the rain!—

The earth lies gasping; and the eyes

Behind the streaming window-pane

Smile at the trouble of the skies.

The highway smokes; sharp echoes ring;

The cattle bawl and cowbells clank;

And into town comes galloping

The farmer’s horse, with steaming flank.

The swallow dips beneath the eaves,

And flirts his plumes and folds his wings;

And under the catawba leaves

The caterpillar curls and clings.

The bumble-bee is pelted down

The wet stem of the hollyhock;

And sullenly, in spattered brown,

The cricket leaps the garden walk.

Within, the baby claps his hands

And crows with rapture strange and vague;

Without, beneath the rosebush stands

A dripping rooster on one leg.

A Home-Made Fairy-Tale

Bud, come here to your Uncle a spell,

And I’ll tell you something you mustn’t tell—

For it’s a secret and shore-nuff true,

And maybe I oughtn’t to tell it to you!—

But out in the garden, under the shade

Of the apple-trees where we romped and played

Till the moon was up, and you thought I’d gone

Fast asleep.—That was all put on!

For I was a-watchin’ something queer

Goin’ on there in the grass, my dear!

’Way down deep in it, there I see

A little dude-Fairy who winked at me,

And snapped his fingers, and laughed as low

And fine as the whine of a mus-kee-to!

I kept still—watchin’ him closer—and

I noticed a little guitar in his hand,

Which he leant ’ginst a little dead bee—and laid

His cigarette down on a clean grass-blade;

And then climbed up on the shell of a snail—

Carefully dusting his swallowtail—

And pulling up, by a waxed web-thread,

This little guitar, you remember, I said!

And there he trinkled and trilled a tune—

“My Love, so Fair, Tans in the Moon!”

Till presently, out of the clover-top

He seemed to be singing to, came k’pop!

The purtiest, daintiest Fairy face

In all this world, or any place!

Then the little ser’nader waved his hand,

As much as to say, “We’ll excuse you!” and

I heard, as I squinted my eyelids to,

A kiss like the drip of a drop of dew!

The Man in the Moon

Said the Raggedy Man, on a hot afternoon:

“My!

Sakes!

What a lot o’ mistakes

Some little folks makes on The Man in the Moon!

But people that’s b’en to see him like me,

And calls on him frequent and intimutly,

Might drop a few facts that would interest you

Clean!

Through!—

If you wanted ’em to—

Some actual facts that might interest you!

“O The Man in the Moon has a crick in his back;

Whee!

Whimm!

Aint you sorry for him?

And a mole on his nose that is purple and black;

And his eyes are so weak that they water and run

If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun—

So he jes’ dreams of stars, as the doctors advise—

My!

Eyes!

But isn’t he wise—

To jes’ dream of stars, as the doctors advise?

“And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear-

Whee!

Whing!

What a singular thing!

I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear—

There’s a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin—

He calls it a dimple-but dimples stick in

Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!

Whang!

Ho!

Why, certainly so!-

It might be a dimple turned over, you know!

“And The Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee—

Gee!

Whizz!

What a pity that is!

And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be—

So whenever he wants to go North he goes South,

And comes back with porridge-crumbs all round his mouth,

And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan,

Whing!

Whann!

What a marvelous man!

What a very remarkably marvelous man!

“And the Man in the Moon,” sighed The Raggedy Man,

“Gits!

So!

Sullonesome, you know—

Up there by hisse’f sence creation began!—

That when I call on him and then come away,

He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay—

Till-Well! if it wasn’t fer Jimmy-cum-jim,

Dadd!

Limb!

I’d go pardners with him—

Jes’ jump my job here and be pardners with him!”

Prior to Miss Belle’s Appearance

What makes you come here fer, Mister,

So much to our house?—Say?

Come to see our big sister!—

An’ Charley he says ’at you kissed her

An’ he ketched you, th’uther day!—

Didn’ you, Charley?—But we p’omised Belle

An’ crossed our heart to never to tell—

’Cause she gived us some o’ them-er

Chawk’lut-drops ’at you bringed to her!

Charley he’s my little b’uther—

An’ we has a-mostest fun,

Don’t we, Charley?—Our Muther,

Whenever we whips one anuther,

Tries to whip us—an’ we run—

Don’t we, Charley?—An’ nen, bime-by,

Nen she gives us cake—an’ pie—

Don’t she, Charley?—when we come in

An’ pomise never to do it ag’in!

He’s named Charley.—I’m Willie—

An’ I’m got the purtiest name!

But Uncle Bob he calls me “Billy”—

Don’t he, Charley?—’N’ our filly

We named “Billy,” the same

Ist like me! An’ our Ma said

’At “Bob puts foolishnuss into our head!”—

Didn’ she, Charley?—An’ she don’t know

Much about boys!—’Cause Bob said so!

Baby’s a funniest feller!

Nain’t no hair on his head—

Is they, Charley?—It’s meller

Wite up there! An’ ef Belle er

Us ask wuz we that way, Ma said,—

“Yes; an’ yer Pa’s head wuz soft as that,

An’ it’s that way yet!”—An’ Pa grabs his hat

An’ says, “Yes, childern, she’s right about Pa—

’Cause that’s the reason he married yer Ma!”

An’ our Ma says ’at “Belle couldn’

Ketch nothin’ at all but ist ’bows!”—

An’ Pa says ’at “you’re soft as puddun!”—

An’ Uncle Bob says “you’re a good-un—

’Cause he can tell by yer nose!”-

Didn’ he, Charley?—An’ when Belle’ll play

In the poller on th’ pianer, some day,

Bob makes up funny songs about you,

Till she gits mad—like he wants her to!

Our sister Fanny she’s ’leven

Years old! ’At’s mucher ’an I—

Ain’t it, Charley? . . . I’m seven!—

But our sister Fanny’s in heaven!

Nere’s where you go ef you die!—

Don’t you, Charley?—Nen you has wings—

Ist like Fanny!—an’ purtiest things!—

Don’t you, Charley?—An’ nen you can fly—

Ist fly-an’ ever’thing!...I Wisht I’d die!

The Nine Little Goblins

They all climbed up on a high board-fence—

Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes—

Nine little Goblins that had no sense,

And couldn’t tell coppers from cold mince pies;

And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat—

And I asked them what they were staring at.

And the first one said, as he scratched his head

With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear

And rasped its claws in his hair so red—

“This is what this little arm is fer!”

And he scratched and stared, and the next one said,

“How on earth do you scratch your head?”

And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge—

Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;

And when he choked, with a final twinge

Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back

With a fist that grew on the end of his tail

Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.

And the third little Goblin leered round at me—

And there were no lids on his eyes at all—

And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,

“What is the style of your socks this fall?”

And he clapped his heels—and I sighed to see

That he had hands where his feet should be.

Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim,

Bowed his head, and I saw him slip

His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,

And paste them over his upper lip;

And then he moaned in remorseful pain—

“Would—Ah, would I’d me brows again!”

And then the whole of the Goblin band

Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,

And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,

Singing the songs that they used to know—

Singing the songs that their grandsires sung

In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.

And ever they kept their green-glass eyes

Fixed on me with a stony stare—

Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,

And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,

And I felt the heart in my breast snap to

As you’ve heard the lid of a snuff-box do.

And they sang “You’re asleep! There is no board-fence,

And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes!—

’Tis only a vision the mind invents

After a supper of cold mince-pies,—

And you’re doomed to dream this way,” they said,—

“And you sha’n’t wake up till you’re clean plum dead!”

The Lugubrious Whing-Whang

The rhyme o’ The Raggedy Man’s ’at’s best

Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,—

’Cause that-un’s the strangest of all o’ the rest,

An’ the worst to learn, an’ the last one guessed,

An’ the funniest one, an’ the foolishest.—

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

I don’t know what in the world it means—

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!—

An’ nen when I tell him I don’t, he leans

Like he was a-grindin’ on some machines

An’ says: Ef I don’t, w’y, I don’t know beans!

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!—

Out on the margin of Moonshine Land,

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand,

Writing his name with his tail in the sand,

And swiping it out with his oogerish hand;

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Or what is the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks?—

Crouching low by the winding creeks

And holding his breath for weeks and weeks!

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

’Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings

And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings;

And she sits and as sadly and softly sings

As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,—

Tickle me, Dear,

Tickle me here,

Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Craqueodoom

The Crankadox leaned o’er the edge of the moon

And wistfully gazed on the sea

Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune

To the air of “Ti-fol-de-ding-dee.”

The quavering shriek of the Fly-up-the-creek

Was fitfully wafted afar

To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek

With the pulverized rays of a star.

The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig,

And his heart it grew heavy as lead

As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wing

On the opposite side of his head,

And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill

Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies,

And plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill

To pick the tears out of his eyes.

The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance,

And the Squidjum hid under a tub

As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance

With a rub-a-dub—dub-a-dub—dub!

And the Crankadox cried, as he lay down and died,

“My fate there is none to bewail,”

While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide

With a long piece of crape to her tail.

A Dream

I dreamed I was a spider;

A big, fat, hungry spider;

A lusty, rusty spider

With a dozen palsied limbs;

With a dozen limbs that dangled

Where three wretched flies were tangled

And their buzzing wings were strangled

In the middle of their hymns.

And I mocked them like a demon—

A demoniacal demon

Who delights to be a demon

For the sake of sin alone;

And with fondly false embraces

Did I weave my mystic laces

Round their horror-stricken faces

Till I muffled every groan.

And I smiled to see them weeping,

For to see an insect weeping,

Sadly, sorrowfully weeping,

Fattens every spider’s mirth;

And to note a fly’s heart quaking,

And with anguish ever aching

Till you see it slowly breaking

Is the sweetest thing on earth.

I experienced a pleasure,

Such a highly-flavored pleasure,

Such intoxicating pleasure,

That I drank of it like wine;

And my mortal soul engages

That no spider on the pages

Of the history of ages

Felt a rapture more divine.

I careened around and capered—

Madly, mystically capered—

For three days and nights I capered

Round my web in wild delight;

Till with fierce ambition burning,

And an inward thirst and yearning

I hastened my returning

With a fiendish appetite.

And I found my victims dying,

“Ha!” they whispered, “we are dying!”

Faintly whispered, “we are dying,

And our earthly course is run.”

And the scene was so impressing

That I breathed a special blessing,

As I killed them with caressing

And devoured them one by one.

Table of Contents

- When the Frost is on the Punkin
- When the Green Gits Back in the Trees
- The Brook-Song
- Little Orphant Annie
- The Raggedy Man
- The Funny Little Fellow
- Down Around the River
- At Aunty’s House
- The Days Gone By
- The Bumblebee
- The Tree-Toad
- The Boy Lives on Our Farm
- The Squirtgun Uncle Maked Me
- The Old Tramp
- Old Aunt Mary’s
- Winter Fancies
- The Runaway Boy
- Granny
- Our Hired Girl
- A Barefoot Boy
- The Old Swimmin’-Hole
- There Was a Cherry-Tree
- The First Bluebird
- The Pixy People
- Pansies
- The Prayer Perfect
- When Early March Seems Middle May
- The Funniest Thing in the World
- Naughty Claude
- An Impetuous Resolve
- The Old Hay-Mow
- On the Sunny Side
- A Sudden Shower
- A Home-Made Fairy-Tale
- The Man in the Moon
- Prior to Miss Belle’s Appearance
- The Nine Little Goblins
- The Lugubrious Whing-Whang
- Craqueodoom
- A Dream