others, but these few have been selected rather arbitrarily, to round out this collection.] THE PEWEE In the hush of the drowsy afternoon, When the very wind on the breast of June Lies settled, and hot white tracery Of the shattered sunlight filters free Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward; And the sun went down and the moon came up, And down the reporter dropped to sleep And flat on the floor he lay; And the last he heard was the great man's words, "I have nothing at all to say." THE MURDERER "I push my boat among the reeds; I sit and stare about; Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds, I paddle under cypress trees; All fearfully I peer Through oozy channels when the breeze Comes rustling at my ear. "The long moss hangs perpetually; Blue crabs steal out and stare at me, I start to hear the eel swim by; Strikes at his prey; I turn to fly "In every little cry of bir I hear a tracking shout; From every sodden leaf that's stirred My soul shakes when the water rat Black knots from tree holes glimmer at "Through all the murky silence rings An endless, deep, unechoing thing I see no colors in the sky Save red, as blood is red; I pray to God to still that cry "One spot in all that stagnant waste And turn my prow to make all haste A poisonous mound hid from the sun, The Thing that once was He. "At night I steal along the shore; But awful stars blink through the door, The river gurgles like his throat, In little choking coves, And loudly dins that phantom note "I shout with laughter through the night: I rage in greatest glee; My fears all vanish with the light I see her weep; she calls his name; I laugh, and laugh, and thrill. "I count her teardrops as they fall; I flout my daytime fears; I mumble thanks to God for all These gibes and happy jeers. But, when the warning dawn awakes, Begins my wandering; With stealthy strokes through tangled brakes, A wasted, frightened thing." SOME POSTSCRIPTS TWO PORTRAITS Wild hair flying, in a matted maze, Wild hair flying, in a matted maze, A CONTRIBUTION There came unto ye editor A poct, pale and wan, And at the table sate him down, A roll within his hand. Ye editor accepted it, And thanked his lucky fates; THE OLD FARM Just now when the whitening blossoms flare To see the bright sun beaming And when I think how we milked the cows, And hauled the hay from the meadows low; And smiling, only seeming VANITY A Poet sang so wondrous sweet That toiling thousands paused and listened long; So lofty, strong and noble were his themes, It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song. He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man, The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound, Raised o'er the clay of one he'd fondly loved; And cursed the world, and drenched the soď with tears And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved. THE LULLABY BOY The lullaby boy to the same old tune But, just for a change, please sing us a song, And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad, CHANSON DE BOHEME Lives of great men all remind us 'Cause the lamb loved Mary too. -Robert Burns' "Hocht Time in the aud Town." I'd rather write this, as bad as it is I'd rather count ties from Denver to Troy I'd rather be special for the New York World For there's stuff in the can, there's Dolly and Fan There's a kiss in the ring, and every old thing I'd rather fight flies in a boarding house And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed I'd rather distribute a coat of red On the town with a wad of dough For a small live man, if he's prompt on hand While the world's on tap has a better snap HARD TO FORGET I'm thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned, As I think of the days that by have fled There rises before me each spot I know The fields, and woods, and meadows below The city is pleasant and lively, Ned, To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead, I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned, For to-morrow at four we'll be jerked out of bed |