Part 24

There's a chapter in this story I'd be happy to destroy; I could burn it up before you with a mighty sight of joy; But I'll go ahead and give it--not in detail, no, my friend, For it takes five years of reading before you find the end.

My Annie's folks relented--at least, in some degree; They sent one time for Annie, but they didn't send for me. The old man wrote the message with a heart as hot and dry As a furnace--"Annie Mullen, come and see your mother die."

I saw the slur intended--why I fancied I could see The old man shoot the insult like a poison dart at me; And in that heat of passion I swore an inward oath That if Annie pleased her father she could never please us both.

I watched her--dark and sullen--as she hurried on her shawl; I watched her--calm and cruel, though I saw her tear-drops fall; I watched her--cold and heartless, though I heard her moaning, call For mercy from high Heaven--and I smiled throughout it all.

Why even when she kissed me, and her tears were on my brow, As she murmured, "George, forgive me--I must go to mother now!" Such hate there was within me that I answered not at all, But calm, and cold and cruel, I smiled throughout it all.

But a shadow in the doorway caught my eye, and then the face Full of innocence and sunshine of little baby Grace. And I snatched her up and kissed her, and I softened through and through For a minute when she told me "I must kiss her muvver too."

I remember, at the starting, how I tried to freeze again As I watched them slowly driving down the little crooked lane-- When Annie shouted something that ended in a cry, And how I tried to whistle and it fizzled in a sigh.

I remember running after, with a glimmer in my sight-- Pretending I'd discovered that the traces wasn't right; And the last that I remember, as they disappeared from view, Was little Grace a-calling, "I see papa! Howdy-do!"

And left alone to ponder, I again took up my hate For the old man who would chuckle that I was desolate; And I mouthed my wrongs in mutters till my pride called up the pain His last insult had given me--until I smiled again

Till the wild beast in my nature was raging in the den-- With no one now to quell it, and I wrote a letter then Full of hissing things, and heated with so hot a heat of hate That my pen flashed out black lightning at a most terrific rate.

I wrote that "she had wronged me when she went away from me-- Though to see her dying mother 'twas her father's victory, And a woman that could waver when her husband's pride was rent Was no longer worthy of it." And I shut the house and went.

To tell of my long exile would be of little good-- Though I couldn't half-way tell it, and I wouldn't if I could! I could tell of California--of a wild and vicious life; Of trackless plains, and mountains, and the Indian's scalping-knife.

I could tell of gloomy forests howling wild with threats of death; I could tell of fiery deserts that have scorched me with their breath; I could tell of wretched outcasts by the hundreds, great and small, And could claim the nasty honor of the greatest of them all.

I could tell of toil and hardship; and of sickness and disease, And hollow-eyed starvation, but I tell you, friend, that these Are trifles in comparison with what a fellow feels With that bloodhound, Remorsefulness, forever at his heels.

I remember--worn and weary of the long, long years of care, When the frost of time was making early harvest of my hair-- I remember, wrecked and hopeless of a rest beneath the sky, My resolve to quit the country, and to seek the East, and die.

I remember my long journey, like a dull, oppressive dream, Across the empty prairies till I caught the distant gleam Of a city in the beauty of its broad and shining stream On whose bosom, flocked together, float the mighty swans of steam.

I remember drifting with them till I found myself again In the rush and roar and rattle of the engine and the train; And when from my surroundings something spoke of child and wife, It seemed the train was rumbling through a tunnel in my life.

Then I remember something--like a sudden burst of light-- That don't exactly tell it, but I couldn't tell it right-- A something clinging to me with its arms around my neck-- A little girl, for instance--or an angel, I expect--

For she kissed me, cried and called me "her dear papa," and I felt My heart was pure virgin gold, and just about to melt-- And so it did--it melted in a mist of gleaming rain When she took my hand and whispered, "My mama's on the train."

There's some things I can dwell on, and get off pretty well, But the balance of this story I know I couldn't tell; So I ain't going to try it, for to tell the reason why-- I'm so chicken-hearted lately I'd be certain 'most to cry.

"TIRED OUT"

"tired out!" Yet face and brow Do not look aweary now, And the eyelids lie like two Pure, white rose-leaves washed with dew. Was her life so hard a task?-- Strange that we forget to ask What the lips now dumb for aye Could have told us yesterday!

"Tired out!" A faded scrawl Pinned upon the ragged shawl-- Nothing else to leave a clue Even of a friend or two, Who might come to fold the hands, Or smooth back the dripping strands Of her tresses, or to wet Them anew with fond regret.

"Tired out!" We can but guess Of her little happiness-- Long ago, in some fair land, When a lover held her hand In the dream that frees us all, Soon or later, from its thrall-- Be it either false or true, We, at last, must tire, too.

HARLIE

Fold the little waxen hands Lightly. Let your warmest tears Speak regrets, but never fears,-- Heaven understands! Let the sad heart, o'er the tomb, Lift again and burst in bloom Fragrant with a prayer as sweet As the lily at your feet.

Bend and kiss the folded eyes-- They are only feigning sleep While their truant glances peep Into Paradise. See, the face, though cold and white, Holds a hint of some delight E'en with Death, whose finger-tips Rest upon the frozen lips.

When, within the years to come, Vanished echoes live once more-- Pattering footsteps on the floor, And the sounds of home,-- Let your arms in fancy fold Little Harlie as of old-- As of old and as he waits At the City's golden gates.