Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse Part 8

I have ter smile ter hear how quick their chairs are shoved apart.

They think us old folks don't "catch on" a single mite; but, sho!

I reckon they fergit I was Matildy's mother's beau.

"SISTER'S BEST FELLER"

My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three, And handsome and strong as a feller can be; And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small, You never would think she could boss him at all; But, my jing!

She do'n't do a thing But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string!

It jest makes me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know, To think that he'll let a girl bully him so.

He goes to walk with her and carries her m.u.f.f And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; And, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun!

And, oh, say!

When they go to a play, He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, And then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late.

He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; And all he's got for 'em 's a handkerchief case-- A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; But, my land!

He thinks it's just grand, "'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; He calls her "an angel"--I heard him--and "saint,"

And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't.

'Fore _I_ go an errand for her any time I jest make her coax me, and give me a dime; But that great, big silly--why, honest and true-- He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to.

Oh, gee whiz!

I tell you what 'tis!

I jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his.

_I_ won't fall in love, when I'm grown--no sir-ee!

My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me!

"THE WIDDER CLARK"

It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill, The wind comes down the chimbly with a whistle sharp and shrill, The dead leaves rasp and rustle in the corner by the shed, And the branches scratch and rattle on the skylight overhead.

The cracklin' blaze is climbin' up around the old backlog, As we set by the fireplace here, myself and cat and dog; And as fer me, I'm thinkin', as the fire burns clear and bright, That it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.

It's bad enough fer me, b'gosh, a-pokin' round the place, With jest these two dumb critters here, and nary human face To make the house a home agin, same as it used ter be While mother lived, for she was 'bout the hull wide world ter me.

My bein' all the son she had, we loved each other more-- That's why, I guess, I'm what they call a "bach" at forty-four.

It's hard fer _me_ to set alone, but women folks--'t ain't right, And it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.

I see her t' other mornin', and, I swan, 't wa'n't later 'n six, And there she was, out in the cold, a-choppin' up the sticks To kindle fire fer breakfast, and she smiled so bright and gay, By gee, I simply couldn't bear ter see her work that way!

Well, I went in and chopped, I guess, enough ter last a year, And she said "Thanks," so pretty, gos.h.!.+ it done me good ter hear!

She do'n't look over twenty-five, no, not a single mite; Ah, hum! it must be lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.

I sez ter her, "Our breakfasts ain't much fun fer me or you; Seems's if two lonesome meals might make one social one fer two."

She blushed so red that I did, too, and I got sorter 'fraid That she was mad, and, like a fool, come home; I wish I'd stayed!

I'd like ter know, now, if she thinks that Clark's a pretty name-- 'Cause, if she do'n't, and fancies mine, we'll make 'em both the same.

I think I'll go and ask her, 'cause 't would ease my mind a sight Ter know 't wa'n't quite so lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.

FRIDAY EVENING MEETINGS

Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago, When the prayers were long and fervent and the anthems staid and slow, Where the creed was like the pewbacks, of a pattern straight and stiff, And the congregation took it with no doubting "but" or "if,"

Where the girls sat, fresh and blooming, with the old folks down before, And the boys, who came in later, took the benches near the door.

Oh, the Friday evening meetings, how the ransomed sinners told Of their weary toils and trials ere they reached the blessed fold; How we trembled when the Deacon, with a saintly relish, spoke Of the fiery place of torment till we seemed to smell the smoke; And we all joined in "Old Hundred" till the rafters seemed to ring When the preacher said, "Now, brethren: Hallelujah! Let us sing."

Oh, the Friday evening meetings, and the waiting 'round about, 'Neath the lamplight, at the portal, just to see when _she_ came out, And the whispered, anxious question, and the faintly murmured "Yes,"

And the soft hand on your coat-sleeve, and the perfumed, rustling dress,-- Oh, the Paradise of Heaven somehow seemed to show its worth When you walked home with an angel through a Paradise on earth.

Oh, the Friday evening meetings, and the happy homeward stroll, While the moonlight softly mingled with the love-light in your soul; Then the lingering 'neath the lattice where the roses hung above, And the "good-night" kiss at parting, and the whispered word of love,-- Ah, they lighted Life's dark highway with a sweet and sacred glow From the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago.

THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER

Little foot, whose lightest pat Seems to glorify the mat, Waving hair and picture hat, Grace the nymphs have taught her; Gown the pink of fit and style, Lips that ravish when they smile,-- Like a vision, down the aisle Comes the parson's daughter.

As she pa.s.ses, like a dart To each luckless fellow's heart Leaps a throbbing thrill and smart, When his eye has sought her; Tries he then his sight to bless With one glimpse of face or tress-- Does she know it?--well, I guess!

Parson's pretty daughter.

Leans she now upon her glove Cheeks whose dimples tempt to love, And, with saintly look above, Hears her "Pa" exhort her; But, within those upturned eyes, Fair as sunny summer skies, Just a hint of mischief lies,-- Parson's roguish daughter.

From their azure depths askance, When the hymn-book gave the chance, Did I get one laughing glance?

I was sure I caught her.

Are her thoughts so far amiss As to stray, like mine, to bliss?

For, last night, I stole a kiss From the parson's daughter.

[Ill.u.s.tration: man feeding horse]

MY OLD GRAY NAG

When the farm work's done, at the set of sun, And the supper's cleared away, And Ma, she sits on the porch and knits, And Dad, he puffs his clay; Then out I go ter the barn, yer know, With never a word ner sign, In the twilight dim I harness him-- That old gray nag of mine.

He's used ter me, and he knows, yer see, Down jest which lane ter turn; Fact is--well, yes--he's been, I guess, Quite times enough ter learn; And he knows the hedge by the brook's damp edge, Where the twinklin' fireflies s.h.i.+ne, And he knows who waits by the pastur' gates-- That old gray nag of mine.

So he stops, yer see, fer he thinks, like me, That a buggy's made fer two; Then along the lane, with a lazy rein, He jogs in the s.h.i.+nin' dew; And he do'n't fergit he can loaf a bit In the shade of the birch and pine; Oh, he knows his road, and he knows his load-- That old gray nag of mine.

No, he ain't the sort that the big-bugs sport, Docked up in the latest style, But he suits us two, clean through and through, And, after a little while, When the cash I've saved brings the home we've craved, So snug, and our own design, He'll take us straight ter the parson's gate-- That old gray nag of mine.

THROUGH THE FOG

The fog was so thick yer could cut it 'Thout reachin' a foot over-side, The dory she'd nose up ter b.u.t.t it, And then git discouraged an' slide; No noise but the thole-pins a-squeakin', Or, maybe, the swash of a wave, No feller ter cheer yer by speakin'-- 'Twas lonesomer, lots, than the grave.

I set there an' thought of my trouble, I thought how I'd worked fer the cash That bust and went up like a bubble The day that the bank went ter smash.

I thought how the fis.h.i.+n' was failin', How little this season I'd made, I thought of the child that was ailin', I thought of the bills ter be paid.