The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches

IN THE HEART OF JUNE

In the heart of June, love,You and I together,On from dawn till noon, love,Laughing with the weather;Blending both our souls, love,In the selfsame tune,Drinking all life holds, love,In the heart of June.In the heart of June, love,With its golden weather,Underneath the moon, love,You and I together.Ah! how sweet to seem, love,Drugged and half aswoonWith this luscious dream, love,In the heart of June.

DREAMS

"Do I sleep, do I dream,Do I wonder and doubt —Are things what they seemOr is visions about?"

There has always been an inclination, or desire, rather, on my part to believe in the mystic – even as far back as stretches the gum-elastic remembrance of my first "taffy-pullin'" given in honor of my fifth birthday; and the ghost-stories, served by way of ghastly dessert, by our hired girl. In fancy I again live over all the scenes of that eventful night: —

The dingy kitchen, with its haunting odors of a thousand feasts and wash-days; the old bench-legged stove, with its happy family of skillets, stewpans and round-bellied kettles crooning and blubbering about it. And how we children clustered round the genial hearth, with the warm smiles dying from our faces just as the embers dimmed and died out in the open grate, as with bated breath we listened to how some one's grandmother had said that her first man went through a graveyard once, one stormy night, "jest to show the neighbors that he wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and how when he was just passing the grave of his first wife "something kind o' big and white-like, with great big eyes like fire, raised up from behind the headboard, and kind o' re'ched out for him"; and how he turned and fled, "with that air white thing after him as tight as it could jump, and a hollerin' 'wough-yough-yough!' till you could hear it furder'n you could a bullgine," and how, at last, just as the brave and daring intruder was clearing two graves and the fence at one despairing leap, the "white thing," had made a grab at him with its iron claws, and had nicked him so close his second wife was occasioned the onerous duty of affixing another patch in his pantaloons. And in conclusion, our hired girl went on to state that this blood-curdling incident had so wrought upon the feelings of "the man that wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and had given him such a distaste for that particular graveyard, that he never visited it again, and even entered a clause in his will to the effect that he would ever remain an unhappy corpse should his remains be interred in said graveyard.

I forgot my pop-corn that night; I forgot my taffy; I forgot all earthly things; and I tossed about so feverishly in my little bed, and withal so restlessly, that more than once my father's admonition above the footboard of the big bed, of "Drat you! go to sleep, there!" foreshadowed my impending doom. And once he leaned over and made a vicious snatch at me, and holding me out at arm's length by one leg, demanded in thunder-tones, "what in the name o' flames and flashes I meant, anyhow!"

I was afraid to stir a muscle from that on, in consequence of which I at length straggled off in fitful dreams – and heavens! what dreams! – A very long and lank, and slim and slender old woman in white knocked at the door of my vision, and I let her in. She patted me on the head – and oh! how cold her hands were! And they were very hard hands, too, and very heavy – and, horror of horrors! – they were not hands – they were claws! – they were iron! – they were like the things I had seen the hardware man yank nails out of a keg with. I quailed and shivered till the long and slim and slender old woman jerked my head up and snarled spitefully, "What's the matter with you, bub," and I said, "Nawthin'!" and she said, "Don't you dare to lie to me!" I moaned.

"Don't you like me?" she asked.

I hesitated.

"And lie if you dare!" she said – "Don't you like me?"

"Oomh-oomh!" said I.

"Why?" said she.

"Cos, you're too long – and slim – an'" —

"Go on!" said she.

" – And tall!" said I.

"Ah, ha!" said she, – "and that's it, hey?"

And then she began to grow shorter and thicker, and fatter and squattier.

"And how do I suit you now?" she wheezed at length, when she had wilted down to about the size of a large loaf of bread.

I shook more violently than ever at the fearful spectacle.

"How do you like me now?" she yelped again, – "And don't you lie to me neither, or I'll swaller you whole!"

I writhed and hid my face.

"Do you like me?"

"No-o-oh!" I moaned.

She made another snatch at my hair. I felt her jagged claws sink into my very brain. I struggled and she laughed hideously.

"You don't, hey?"

"Yes, yes, I do. I love you!" said I.

"You lie! You lie!" She shrieked derisively. "You know you lie!" and as I felt the iron talons sinking and gritting in my very brain, with one wild, despairing effort, I awoke.

I saw the fire gleaming in the grate, and by the light it made I dimly saw the outline of the old mantelpiece that straddled it, holding the old clock high upon its shoulders. I was awake then, and the little squatty woman with her iron talons was a dream! I felt an oily gladness stealing over me, and yet I shuddered to be all alone.

If only some one were awake, I thought, whose blessed company would drown all recollections of that fearful dream; but I dared not stir or make a noise. I could only hear the ticking of the clock, and my father's sullen snore. I tried to compose my thoughts to pleasant themes, but that telescopic old woman in white would rise up and mock my vain appeals, until in fancy I again saw her altitudinous proportions dwindling into that repulsive and revengeful figure with the iron claws, and I grew restless and attempted to sit up. Heavens! something yet held me by the hair. The chill sweat that betokens speedy dissolution gathered on my brow. I made another effort and arose, that deadly clutch yet fastened in my hair. Could it be possible! The short, white woman still held me in her vengeful grasp! I could see her white dress showing from behind either of my ears. She still clung to me, and with one wild, unearthly cry of "Pap!" I started round the room.

I remember nothing further, until as the glowing morn sifted through the maple at the window, powdering with gold the drear old room, and baptizing with its radiance the anxious group of old home-faces leaning over my bed, I heard my father's voice once more rasping on my senses – "Now get the booby up, and wash that infernal wax out of his hair!"

BECAUSE

Why did we meet long years of yore?And why did we strike hands and say:"We will be friends, and nothing more";Why are we musing thus to-day?Because because was just because,And no one knew just why it was.Why did I say good-by to you?Why did I sail across the main?Why did I love not heaven's own blueUntil I touched these shores again?Because because was just because,And you nor I knew why it was.Why are my arms about you now,And happy tears upon your cheek?And why my kisses on your brow?Look up in thankfulness and speak!Because because was just because,And only God knew why it was.

TO THE CRICKET

The chiming seas may clang; and Tubal CainMay clink his tinkling metals as he may;Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away;Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strainTill not a note of melody remain! —But thou, O cricket, with thy roundelay,Shalt laugh them all to scorn! So wilt thou, pray,Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again:I shall not weary; there is purest worthIn thy sweet prattle, since it sings the loneHeart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearthOf childish memories – no harsher toneThan we might listen to in gentlest mirth,Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth.

THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhoodThat now but in mem'ry I sadly review;The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood,The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto;The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple,The doves that came fluttering out overheadAs it solemnly gathered the God-fearing peopleTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible —The dust-covered Bible —The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.The blessed old volume! The face bent above it —As now I recall it – is gravely severe,Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love itMakes grander the text through the lens of a tear,And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his headLike a haloéd patriarch's leans as he listensTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible —The dust-covered Bible —The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derisionAnd scoff the old book though it uselessly liesIn the dust of the past, while this newer revisionLisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,When so long He has, listening, leaned out of HeavenTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read?The old-fashioned Bible —The dust-covered Bible —The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

UNCOMFORTED

Lelloine! Lelloine! Don't you hear me calling?Calling through the night for you, and calling through the day;Calling when the dawn is here, and when the dusk is falling —Calling for my Lelloine the angels lured away!Lelloine! I call and listen, starting from my pillow —In the hush of midnight, Lelloine! I cry,And o'er the rainy window-pane I hear the weeping willowTrail its dripping leaves like baby-fingers in reply.Lelloine, I miss the glimmer of your glossy tresses,I miss the dainty velvet palms that nestled in my own;And all my mother-soul went out in answerless caresses,And a storm of tears and kisses when you left me here alone.I have prayed, O Lelloine, but Heaven will not hear me,I can not gain one sign from Him who leads you by the hand;And O it seems that ne'er again His mercy will come near me —That He will never see my need, nor ever understand.Won't you listen, Lelloine? – just a little leaningO'er the walls of Paradise – lean and hear my prayer,And interpret death to Him in all its awful meaning,And tell Him you are lonely without your mother there.

WHAT THEY SAID

Whispering to themselves apart,They who knew her said of her,"Dying of a broken heart —Death her only comforter —For the man she loved is dead —She will follow soon!" they said.Beautiful? Ah! brush the dustFrom Raphael's fairest face,And restore it, as it mustFirst have smiled back from its placeOn his easel as he leantWrapt in awe and wonderment!Why, to kiss the very hemOf the mourning-weeds she wore,Like the winds that rustled them,I had gone the round world o'er;And to touch her hand I swearAll things dareless I would dare!But unto themselves apart,Whispering, they said of her,"Dying of a broken heart —Death her only comforter —For the man she loved is dead —She will follow soon!" they said.So I mutely turned away,Turned with sorrow and despair,Yearning still from day to dayFor that woman dying there,Till at last, by longing led,I returned to find her – dead?"Dead?" – I know that word would tellRhyming there – but in this case"Wed" rhymes equally as wellIn the very selfsame place —And, in fact, the latter wordIs the one she had preferred.Yet unto themselves apart,Whisp'ring they had said of her —"Dying of a broken heart —Death her only comforter —For the man she loved is dead —She will follow soon!" they said.

AFTER THE FROST

After the frost! O the rose is dead,And the weeds lie pied in the garden-bed,And the peach tree's shade in the wan sunshine,Faint as the veins in these hands of mine,Streaks the gray of the orchard wallWhere the vine rasps loose, and the last leaves fall,And the bare boughs writhe, and the winds are lost —After the frost – the frost!After the frost! O the weary headAnd the hands and the heart are quietéd;And the lips we loved are locked at last,And kiss not back, though the rain falls fast

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