Riley Songs of Friendship Part 10

OLD JOHN HENRY

Old John's jes' made o' the commonest stuff-- Old John Henry-- He's tough, I reckon,--but none too tough-- Too tough though's better than not enough!

Says old John Henry.

He does his best, and when his best's bad, He don't fret none, ner he don't git sad-- He simply 'lows it's the best he had: Old John Henry!

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[Ill.u.s.tration: A smilin' face and hearty hand]

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His doctern's jes' o' the plainest brand-- Old John Henry-- A smilin' face and a hearty hand 'S religen 'at all folks understand, Says old John Henry.

He's stove up some with the rhumatiz, And they hain't no s.h.i.+ne on them shoes o' his, And his hair hain't cut--but his eye-teeth is: Old John Henry!

He feeds hisse'f when the stock's all fed-- Old John Henry-- And sleeps like a babe when he goes to bed-- And dreams o' Heaven and home-made bread, Says old John Henry.

He hain't refined as he'd ort to be To fit the statutes o' poetry, Ner his clothes don't fit him--but _he_ fits _me_: Old John Henry!

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HER VALENTINE

Somebody's sent a funny little valentine to me.

It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree, And hovering above them--just as cute as he can be-- Is a fairy Cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.

And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in his glee, With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most unerringly At a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and see That one is meant for "One Who Loves," and one is meant for me.

But I know the lad who sent it! It's as plain as A-B-C!-- For the roses they are _blus.h.i.+ng_, and the vase stands _awkwardly_, And the little G.o.d above it--though as cute as he can be-- Can not breathe the lightest whisper of his burning love for me.

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[Ill.u.s.tration: Christmas greeting--headpiece]

CHRISTMAS GREETING

A word of G.o.dspeed and good cheer To all on earth, or far or near, Or friend or foe, or thine or mine-- In echo of the voice divine, Heard when the star bloomed forth and lit The world's face, with G.o.d's smile on it.

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[Ill.u.s.tration: Abe Martin--headpiece]

ABE MARTIN

Abe Martin!--dad-burn his old picture!

P'tends he's a Brown County fixture-- A kind of a comical mixture Of hoss-sense and no sense at all!

His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin', And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin', And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'-- From Genesis clean to baseball!

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[Ill.u.s.tration: His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin']

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The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless He draws Abe 'most eyeless and earless, But he's never yet pictured him cheerless Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal,-- Whuther on to the fence er clean over A-rootin' up ragweed er clover, Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover"

Er newfangled automo_beel_!

It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in; And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled That it was a pleasure to die.

But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at Both me and you lays back and shakes at His comic, miraculous cracks Which makes him--clean back of the power Of genius itse'f in its flower-- This Notable Man of the Hour, Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.

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[Ill.u.s.tration: The little old poem that n.o.body reads--headpiece]

THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT n.o.bODY READS

The little old poem that n.o.body reads Blooms in a crowded s.p.a.ce, Like a ground-vine blossom, so low in the weeds That n.o.body sees its face-- Unless, perchance, the reader's eye Stares through a yawn, and hurries by, For no one wants, or loves, or heeds, The little old poem that n.o.body reads.

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The little old poem that n.o.body reads Was written--where?--and when?

Maybe a hand of goodly deeds Thrilled as it held the pen: Maybe the fountain whence it came Was a heart brimmed o'er with tears of shame, And maybe its creed is the worst of creeds-- The little old poem that n.o.body reads.

But, little old poem that n.o.body reads, Holding you here above The wound of a heart that warmly bleeds For all that knows not love, I well believe if the old World knew As dear a friend as I find in you, That friend would tell it that all it needs Is the little old poem that n.o.body reads.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The little old poem that n.o.body reads--tailpiece]

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[Ill.u.s.tration: In the afternoon--headpiece]

IN THE AFTERNOON

You in the hammock; and I, near by, Was trying to read, and to swing you, too; And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye, And the shade of the maples so cool and blue, That often I looked from the book to you To say as much, with a sigh.