Part 23

What makes you come HERE fer, Mister, So much to our house?--SAY? Come to see our big sister!-- An' Charley he says 'at you kissed her An' he ketched you, th'uther day!-- Didn' you, Charley?--But we p'omised Belle An' crossed our heart to never to tell-- 'Cause SHE gived us some o' them-er Chawk'lut-drops 'at you bringed to her!

Charley he's my little b'uther-- An' we has a-mostest fun, Don't we, Charley?--Our Muther, Whenever we whips one anuther, Tries to whip US--an' we RUN-- Don't we, Charley?--An' nen, bime-by, Nen she gives us cake--an' pie-- Don't she, Charley?--when we come in An' pomise never to do it ag'in!

HE'S named Charley.--I'm WILLIE-- An' I'm got the purtiest name! But Uncle Bob HE calls me "Billy"-- Don't he, Charley?--'N' our filly We named "Billy," the same Ist like me! An' our Ma said 'At "Bob puts foolishnuss into our head!"-- Didn' she, Charley?--An' SHE don't know Much about BOYS!--'Cause Bob said so!

Baby's a funniest feller! Nain't no hair on his head-- IS they, Charley?--It's meller Wite up there! An' ef Belle er Us ask wuz WE that way, Ma said,-- "Yes; an' yer PA'S head wuz soft as that, An' it's that way yet!"--An' Pa grabs his hat An' says, "Yes, childern, she's right about Pa-- 'Cause that's the reason he married yer Ma!"

An' our Ma says 'at "Belle couldn' Ketch nothin' at all but ist 'BOWS!"-- An' PA says 'at "you're soft as puddun!"-- An' UNCLE BOB says "you're a good-un-- 'Cause he can tell by yer nose!"- Didn' he, Charley?--An' when Belle'll play In the poller on th' pianer, some day, Bob makes up funny songs about you, Till she gits mad-like he wants her to!

Our sister FANNY she's 'LEVEN Years old! 'At's mucher 'an I-- Ain't it, Charley? . . . I'm seven!-- But our sister Fanny's in HEAVEN! Nere's where you go ef you die!-- Don't you, Charley?--Nen you has WINGS-- IST LIKE FANNY!--an' PURTIEST THINGS!-- Don't you, Charley?--An' nen you can FLY-- Ist fly-an' EVER'thing! . . . I Wisht I'D die!

WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR

When Memory, with gentle hand, Has led me to that foreign land Of childhood days, I long to be Again the boy on bended knee, With head a-bow, and drowsy smile Hid in a mother's lap the while, With tender touch and kindly care, She bends above and combs my hair.

Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares Had paled it to the hue it wears, Its tangled threads of amber light Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white, That only knew the light caress Of loving hands, or sudden press Of kisses that were sifted there The times when mother combed my hair.

But its last gleams of gold have slipped Away; and Sorrow's manuscript Is fashioned of the snowy brow-- So lined and underscored now That you, to see it, scarce would guess It e'er had felt the fond caress Of loving lips, or known the care Of those dear hands that combed my hair.

. . . . . . . .

I am so tired! Let me be A moment at my mother's knee; One moment--that I may forget The trials waiting for me yet: One moment free from every pain-- O! Mother! Comb my hair again! And I will, oh, so humbly bow, For I've a wife that combs it now.

A WRANGDILLION

Dexery-tethery! down in the dike, Under the ooze and the slime, Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke, Blubbering bubbles of rhyme: Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth-- Though the Graigroll and the Cheest Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath, Nothing affects him the least.

He sinks to the dregs in the dead o' the night, And he shuffles the shadows about As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight And sets there and hatches them out: The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine In scorn with the Will-o'-the-wisp, As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine That ends in a luminous lisp.

The Morning is born like a baby of gold, And it lies in a spasm of pink, And rallies the Cheest for the horrible cold He has dragged to the willowy brink, The Gryke blots his tears with a scrap of his grief, And growls at the wary Graigroll As he twunkers a tune on a Tiljicum leaf And hums like a telegraph pole.

GEORGE MULLEN'S CONFESSION

For the sake of guilty conscience, and the heart that ticks the time Of the clockworks of my nature, I desire to say that I'm A weak and sinful creature, as regards my daily walk The last five years and better. It ain't worth while to talk--

I've been too mean to tell it! I've been so hard, you see, And full of pride, and--onry--now there's the word for me-- Just onry--and to show you, I'll give my history With vital points in question, and I think you'll all agree.

I was always stiff and stubborn since I could recollect, And had an awful temper, and never would reflect; And always into trouble--I remember once at school The teacher tried to flog me, and I reversed that rule.

O I was bad I tell you! And it's a funny move That a fellow wild as I was could ever fall in love; And it's a funny notion that an animal like me, Under a girl's weak fingers was as tame as tame could be!

But it's so, and sets me thinking of the easy way she had Of cooling down my temper--though I'd be fighting mad. "My Lion Queen" I called her--when a spell of mine occurred She'd come in a den of feelings and quell them with a word.

I'll tell you how she loved me--and what her people thought: When I asked to marry Annie they said "they reckoned not-- That I cut too many didoes and monkey-shines to suit Their idea of a son-in-law, and I could go, to boot!"

I tell you that thing riled me! Why, I felt my face turn white, And my teeth shut like a steel trap, and the fingers of my right Hand pained me with their pressure--all the rest's a mystery Till I heard my Annie saying--"I'm going, too, you see."

We were coming through the gateway, and she wavered for a spell When she heard her mother crying and her raving father yell That she wa'n't no child of his'n--like an actor in a play We saw at Independence, coming through the other day.

Well! that's the way we started. And for days and weeks and months And even years we journeyed on, regretting never once Of starting out together upon the path of life-- Akind o' sort o' husband, but a mighty loving wife,--

And the cutest little baby--little Grace--I see her now A-standin' on the pig-pen as her mother milked the cow-- And I can hear her shouting--as I stood unloading straw,-- "I'm ain't as big as papa, but I'm biggerest'n ma."

Now folks that never married don't seem to understand That a little baby's language is the sweetest ever planned-- Why, I tell you it's pure music, and I'll just go on to say That I sometimes have a notion that the angels talk that way!