The Lockerbie book; containing poems not in dialect

Introduction

It is something of a literary presumption to introduce to any one that can read, a volume that bears on its title page the name of James Whitcomb Riley. And yet because of its departure from the naturally expected, this collection seems to make an introduction not only pertinent but courteous as well

When we were all some years younger than we are now, "Benj. F. Johnson of Boone" dipped his rosy muse in the melodious waters of The Old Swimmin'-Hole and brought her forth wearing on her shining forehead the homely but imperishable sign of dialect.

The century that was then old has gone to its final reckoning, and ten full years have been recorded against its young successor. During this time it has been given to "Benj. F. Johnson" to write much. In the fourteen volumes that now represent his collected verse, almost every poetic form finds a place, and normal English, in distinction from dialect, holds an equal authority. Yet if you say "Riley" to the man in the street he will reply: "When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock." The poet, 1 am sure, has no grievance with this answer; nor is (here quarrel anywhere with the fixed association of Riley's name with his homelier form of verse. Such an alliance is as worthy as it is inevitable. His destinies are garlanded with old fashioned roses and time will judge him and reward him accordingly.

As a consequence, however, his normal English verse is not, perhaps, fully recognized either for its extent or for its quality. And so in this belief, as well as in answer to an ever-continuing demand, these poems have been brought together and the volume comprising them named for the little street in which their author has long lived and worked.

For permission to reprint certain poems here included grateful acknowledgment is made to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons and the Century Company, of New York.

H. H. H.

AFTERWHILES

i Lockerbie Street

CUCH a dear little street it is, nestled away

^ From the noise of the city and heat of the day,

In cool shady coverts of whispering trees,

With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breeze

Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet

With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie street !

There is such a relief, from the clangor and din

Of the heart of the town, to go loitering in

Through the dim, narrow walks, with the sheltering shade

Of the trees waving over the long promenade,

And littering lightly the ways of our feet

With the gold of the sunshine of Lockerbie street

And the nights that come down the dark pathways of dusk, With the stars in their tresses, and odors of musk In their moon-woven raiments, bespangled with dews, And looped up with lilies for lovers to use In the songs that they sing to the tinkle and beat Of their sweet serenadings through Lockerbie street.

I

O my Lockerbie street! You are fair to be seen — Be it noon of the day, or the rare and serene Afternoon of the night — -you are one to my heart, And I love you above all the phrases of art,. For no language could frame and no lips could repeat My rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie street.

2 A Discouraging Model

JUST the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, And a knot of red roses sown in under there Where the shadows are lost in her hair.

Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faint And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint Round the lips of their favorite saint!

And that lace at her throat — and the fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, The flakes of their touches — first fluttering at The bow — then the roses — the hair — and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.

Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair Nor the gold of her smile — O what artist could dare To expect a result half so fair?

i

Away

CANNOT say, and I will not say That he is dead. — He is just away!

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, He has wandered into an unknown land,

And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you — O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return, —

Think of him faring on, as dear

In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows

Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes-

Mild and gentle, as he was brave, — When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things : — Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to, 3

The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed :

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.—

Think of him still as the same, I say : He is not dead — he is just away!

T

A Life-Lesson

HERE! little girl; don't cry!

They have broken your doll, I know ; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago;

But childish troubles will soon pass by.- There! little girl; don't cry!

There! little girl; don't cry!

They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad, wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by. — There! little girl; don't cry!

There ! little girl ; don't cry !

They have broken your heart, I know ; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But Heaven holds all for which you sigh- There! little girl; don't cry!

5 Herr Weiser

T T ERR WEISER! — Threescore-years-and-ten,-

-■■-■- A hale white rose of his countrymen,

Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam,

And blossomy as his German home —

As blossomy and as pure and sweet

As the cool green glen of his calm retreat,

Far withdrawn from the noisy town

Where trade goes clamoring up and down,

Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife,

May not trouble his tranquil life !

Breath of rest, what a balmy gust ! — Quit of the city's heat and dust, Jostling down by the winding road, Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode. — Tether the horse, as we onward fare Under the pear-trees trailing there, And thumping the wooden bridge at night With lumps of ripeness and lush delight, Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon. 5

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face,

And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace

Of unassuming honesty,

Be there to welcome you and me !

And what though the toil of the farm be stopped

And the tireless plans of the place be dropped,

While the prayerful master's knees are set

In beds of pansy and mignonette

And lily and aster and columbine,

Offered in love, as yours and mine? —

What, but a blessing of kindly thought,

Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not ! —

What, but a spirit of lustrous love

White as the aster he bends above! —

What, but an odorous memory

Of the dear old man, made known to me

In days demanding a help like his, —

As sweet as the life of the lily is —

As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise

Born of a lily in paradise.

6 Out to Old Aunt Mary's

\ li 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?— 6

"Me and you" — And the morning fair, With the dewdrops twinkling everywhere; The scent of the cherry-blossoms blown After us, in the roadway lone, Our capering shadows onward thrown — 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.

The few last houses of the town; Then on, up the high creek-bluffs and down ; Past the squat tollgate, with its well-sweep pole; The bridge, and "The old 'Babtizin'-hole,' " Loitering, awed, o'er pool and shoal, 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.

Or, stayed by the glint of the redbird's wings, Or the glitter of song that the bluebird sings, All hushed we feign to strike strange trails, As the "big braves" do in the Indian talcs. Till again our real quest la^s and fails — Out to old Aunt Mary's. — 7

And the woodland echoes with yells of mirth That make old war-whoops of minor worth! Where such heroes of war as we? — With bows and arrows of fantasy, Chasing each other from tree to tree 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.—

For only, now, at the road's next bend To the right we could make out the gable-end Of the fine old Huston homestead — not Half a mile f fom the sacred spot Where dwelt our Saint in her simple cot — 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?—

The jelly — the jam and the marmalade, And the cherry- and quince-"preserves" she made ! And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare! — And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to Old Aunt Mary's! 8

Ah ! was there, ever, so kind a face And gentle as hers, or such a grace Of welcoming, as she cut the cake Or the juicy pies that she joyed to make Just for the visiting children's sake — Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

The honey, too, in its amber comb One only finds in an old farm-home; And the coffee, fragrant and sweet, and ho ! So hot that we gloried to drink it so, With spangles of tears in our eyes, you know — Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And the romps we took, in our glad unrest ! — Was it the lawn that we loved the best, With its swooping swing in the locust trees, Or was it the grove, with its leafy breeze, Or the dim hay-mow, with its fragrandes — Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

Far fields, bottom-lands, creek-banks — all, We ranged at will. — Where the waterfall Laughed all day as it slowly poured Over the dam by the old mill-ford,

While the tail-race writhed, and. the mill-wheel roared- Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

But home, with Aunty in nearer call, That was the best place, after all ! — The talks on the back-porch, in the low Slanting sun and the evening glow. With the voice of counsel that touched us so. Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And then, in the garden — near the side Where the bee-hives were and the path was wide, — The apple-house — like a fairy cell — With the little square door we knew so well, And the wealth inside but our tongues could tell- Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And the old spring-house, in the cool green gloom Of the willow trees,— and the cooler room Where the swinging shelves and the crocks were kept, Where the cream in a golden languor slept, While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept— Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And as many a time have you and I— Barefoot boys in the days gone by- Knelt, and in tremulous ecstasies Dipped our lips into sweets like these, — Memory now is on her knees

Out to Old Aunt Mary's.—

For, 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.

THE LOCKERBIE BOOK / When June is Here

\ \ 7" HEN June is here — what art have we to sing * * The whiteness of the lilies 'midst the green

Of noon-tranced lawns? or flash of roses seen Like redbirds' wings ? or earliest ripening Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling

Round winey juices oozing down between

The peckings of the robin, while we lean In under-grasses, lost in marvelling;

Or the cool term of morning, and the stir Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks ;

The Bob-white's liquid yodel, and the whir Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks

The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer.

8 A Scrawl

T WANT to sing something — but this is all— -^ I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull As though they were damp, and the echoes fall Limp and unlovable.

Words will not say what I yearn to say —

They will not walk as I want them to, But they stumble and fall in the path of the way Of my telling my love for you.

Simply take what the scrawl is worth —

Knowing I love you as sun the sod On the ripening side of the great round earth That swings in the smile of God.

IT

THE LOCKERBIE BOOK To Santa Clans

TV /T OST tangible of all the gods that be, ■LV *■ O Santa Claus — our own since Infancy! — As first we scampered to thee — now, as then, Take us as children to thy heart again.

Be wholly good to us, just as of old: As a pleased father, let thine arms infold Us, homed within the haven of thy love, And all the cheer and wholesomeness thereof.

Thou lone reality, when O so long Life's unrealities have wrought us wrong: Ambition hath allured us,— fame likewise, And all that promised honor in men's eyes.

Throughout the world's evasions, wiles, and shifts, Thou only bidest stable as thy gifts : — A grateful king re-ruleth from thy lap, Crowned with a little tinselled soldier-cap :

A mighty general — a nation's pride — Thou givest again a rocking-horse to ride, And wildly glad he groweth as the grim Old jurist with the drum thou givest him :

The sculptor's chisel, at thy mirth's command,

Is as a whistle in his boyish hand;

The painter's model fadeth utterly,

And there thou standest, — and he painteth thee : —

Most like a winter pippin, sound and fine And tingling-red that ripe old face of thine,

Set in thy frosty beard of cheek and chin

As midst the snows the thaws of spring set in.

Ho ! Santa Claus — our own since Infancy — Most tangible of all the gods that be ! — As first we scampered to thee — now, as then, Take us as children to thy heart again.

io A Bride

l> (~\ I AM weary !" she sighed, as her billowy

^-^ Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy,

Graceful and fair as a goddess of old : Over her jewels she flung herself drearily,

Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast, Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest. — And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her !

"Weary?" — of what? Could we fathom the mystery? —

Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears And wash with their dews one white face from her history,

Set like a gem in the red rust of years? Nothing will rest her — unless he who died of her

Strayed from his grave, and, in place of the groom, Tipping her face, kneeling there by the side of her, Drained the old kiss to the dregs of his doom.

— And naught but that shadowy form in the mirror To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her ! 13

THE LOCKERBIE BOOK II Dusk

np^lE frightened herds of clouds across the sky -** Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day

Into the dusky forest-lands of gray And sombre twilight. Far, and faint, and high, The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry

Sad as the wail of some poor castaway

Who sees a vessel drifting far astray Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. The children, riotous from school, grow bold

And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold

Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold

Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

12 Das Krist Kindel

I HAD fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December

night : And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my

throne" — The old split-bottomed rocker — and was musing all alone.

I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer

door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza

floor;

But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a

stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.

Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my

cigar, With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded

star ; — And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a

sleigh.

And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair — A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.

He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the

hearth ; And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb, I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium.

And looking there, I marvelled as I saw a mimic stage Alive with little actors of a very tender age ; And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked.

And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest

dew, And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven

through ; And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.

And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with

joy, Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy ; And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee, And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see.

'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chin, And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom

in;..

And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and

reeds, As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh ; And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the

air Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer: —

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, — We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and

gone As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the

dawn; And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We zvould nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon.

You have given us a shepherd — You have given us a guide, And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him

from Your side, — But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will

open wide To welcome his returning when his works are glorified.

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, — We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain,

Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window-pane ;

And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel

Who brings the world good tidings, — "It is Christmas — all is well !"

13 June

f~\ QUEENLY month of indolent repose!

^-^ I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume,

As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom I nestle like a drowsy child and doze The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom Before thy listless feet. The lily blows A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade ;

And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade ;

While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade : — All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year !

14 The South Wind and the Sun

r\ THE South Wind and the Sun ! ^S ) How each loved the other one — Full of fancy— full of folly —

Full of jollity and fun!

How they romped and ran about,

Like two boys when school is out, With glowing face, and lisping lip,

Low laugh, and lifted shout!

And the South Wind — he was dressed With a ribbon round his breast That floated, flapped and fluttered In a riotous unrest, 18

And a drapery of mist From the shoulder and the wrist Flowing backward with the motion Of the waving hand he kissed.

And the Sun had on a crown

Wrought of gilded thistle-down, And a scarf of velvet vapor,

And a ravelled-rainbow gown;

And his tinsel-tangled hair,

Tossed and lost upon the air, Was glossier and flossier

Than any anywhere.

And the South Wind's eyes were two

Little dancing drops of dew, As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips,

And blew and blew and blew !

And the Sun's— like diamond-stone,

Brighter yet than ever known, As he knit his brows and held his breath,

And shone and shone and shone !

And this pair of merry fays

Wandered through the summer days ; Arm-in-arm they went together

Over heights of morning haze —

Over slanting slopes of lawn

They went on and on and on, Where the daisies looked like star-tracks

Trailing up and down the dawn.

•9

And where'er they found the top

Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop They chucked it underneath the chin

And praised the lavish crop,

Till it lifted with the pride

Of the heads it grew beside, And then the South Wind and the Sun

Went onward satisfied.

Over meadow-lands they tripped,

Where the dandelions dipped In crimson foam of clover-bloom,

And dripped and dripped and dripped ;

And they clinched the bumble-stings,

Gauming honey on their wings, And bundling them in lily-bells,

With maudlin murmurings.

And the humming-bird, that hung

Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle-horns,

They mesmerized, and swung

In the palpitating air,

Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And, with whispered laughter, slipped away,

And left him hanging there.

And they braided blades of grass Where the truant had to pass; And they wriggled through the rushes And the reeds of the morass,

Where they danced, in rapture sweet, O'er the leaves that laid a street Of undulant mosaic for The touches of their feet.

By the brook with mossy brink Where the cattle came to drink,

They trilled and piped and whistled With the thrush and bobolink, Till the kine, in listless pause, Switched their tails in mute applause,

With lifted heads, and dreamy eyes, And bubble-dripping jaws.

And where the melons grew, Streaked with yellow, green and blue,

These jolly sprites went wandering Through spangled paths of dew ; And the melons, here and there, They made love to, everywhere,

Turning their pink souls to crimson With caresses fond and fair.

Over orchard walls they went,

Where the fruited boughs were bent Till they brushed the sward beneath them

Where the shine and shadow blent ;

And the great green pear they shook

Till the sallow hue forsook Its features, and the gleam of gold

Laughed out in every look.

And they stroked the downy cheek Of the peach, and smoothed it sleek,

And flushed it into splendor; And, with many an elfish freak, Gave the russet's rust a wipe — Prankt the rambo with a stripe,

And the wine-sap blushed its reddest As they spanked the pippins ripe.

Through the woven ambuscade That the twining vines had made,

They found the grapes, in clusters, Drinking up the shine and shade— Plumpt, like tiny skins of wine, With a vintage so divine

That the tongue of fancy tingled With the tang of muscadine.

And the golden-banded bees, Dfoning o'er the flowery leas,

They bridled, reined, and rode away Across the fragrant breeze, Till in hollow oak and elm They had groomed and stabled them

In waxen stalls that oozed with dews Of rose and lily-stem.

Where the dusty highway leads, High above the wayside weeds They sowed the air with butterflies Like blooming flower-seeds,

Till the dull grasshopper sprung Half a man's height up, and hung Tranced in the heat, with whirring wings, And sung and sung and sung !

And they loitered, hand in hand, Where the snipe along the sand

Of the river ran to meet them As the ripple meets the land, Till the dragon-fly, in light Gauzy armor, burnished bright,

Came tilting down the waters In a wild, bewildered flight.

And they heard the killdee's call,

And afar, the waterfall, But the rustle of a falling leaf

They heard above it all;

And the trailing willow crept

Deeper in the tide that swept The leafy shallop to the shore,

And wept and wept and wept !

And the fairy vessel veered

From its moorings — tacked and steered

For the centre of the current — Sailed away and disappeared : And the burthen that it bore From the long-enchanted shore —

"Alas! the South Wind and the Sun!" I murmur evermore.

For the South Wind and the Sun, Each so loves the other one,

For all his jolly folly And frivolity and fun, That our love for them they weigh As their fickle fancies may,

And when at last we love them most, They laugh and sail away.

15 The Ripest Peach

r I ^HE ripest peach is highest on the tree —

-*- And so her love, beyond the reach of me, Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow Her heart down to me where I worship now!

She looms aloft where every eye may see The ripest peach is highest on the tree. Such fruitage as her love I know, alas ! I may not reach here from the orchard grass.

I drink the sunshine showered past her lips As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips. The ripest peach is highest on the tree, And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.

Why — why do I not turn away in wrath And pluck some heart here hanging in my path ? — Love's lower boughs bend with them — but, ah me! The ripest peach is highest on the tree ! 24

16 Time

i

r I ^HE ticking — ticking — ticking of the clock! — -*■ That vexed me so last night ! — "For though Time •keeps

Such drowsy watch," I moaned, "he never sleeps, But only nods above the world to mock Its restless occupant, then rudely rock