Part 3

Wandering ever with tireless feet Through scenes of silence, and jubilee Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet Were thronging the shadowy side of the street As far as the eye could see; Dreaming again, in anticipation, The same old dreams of our boyhood's days That never come true, from the vague sensation Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born! And there was the selfsame clock that ticked From the close of dusk to the burst of morn, When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn And helped when the apples were picked. And the "chany dog" on the mantel-shelf, With the gilded collar and yellow eyes, Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

And down to the swing in the locust-tree, Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground, And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three Or four such other boys used to be "Doin' sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round": And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest, And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed, The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

And again I gazed from the old schoolroom With a wistful look, of a long June day, When on my cheek was the hectic bloom Caught of Mischief, as I presume-- He had such a "partial" way, It seemed, toward me.--And again I thought Of a probable likelihood to be Kept in after school--for a girl was caught Catching a note from me.

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole-- Where the big, white, hollow old sycamore grows,-- And we never cared when the water was cold, And always "ducked" the boy that told On the fellow that tied the clothes.-- When life went so like a dreamy rhyme, That it seems to me now that then The world was having a jollier time Than it ever will have again.

PHILIPER FLASH

Young Philiper Flash was a promising lad, His intentions were good--but oh, how sad For a person to think How the veriest pink And bloom of perfection may turn out bad. Old Flash himself was a moral man, And prided himself on a moral plan, Of a maxim as old As the calf of gold, Of making that boy do what he was told.

And such a good mother had Philiper Flash; Her voice was as soft as the creamy plash Of the milky wave With its musical lave That gushed through the holes of her patent churn-dash;-- And the excellent woman loved Philiper so, She could cry sometimes when he stumped his toe,-- And she stroked his hair With such motherly care When the dear little angel learned to swear.

Old Flash himself would sometimes say That his wife had "such a ridiculous way,-- She'd, humor that child Till he'd soon be sp'iled, And then there'd be the devil to pay!" And the excellent wife, with a martyr's look, Would tell old Flash himself "he took No notice at all Of the bright-eyed doll Unless when he spanked him for getting a fall!"

Young Philiper Flash, as time passed by, Grew into "a boy with a roguish eye": He could smoke a cigar, And seemed by far The most promising youth.--"He's powerful sly, Old Flash himself once told a friend, "Every copper he gets he's sure to spend-- And," said he, "don't you know If he keeps on so What a crop of wild oats the boy will grow!"

But his dear good mother knew Philiper's ways So--well, she managed the money to raise; And old Flash himself Was "laid on the shelf," (In the manner of speaking we have nowadays). For "gracious knows, her darling child, If he went without money he'd soon grow wild." So Philiper Flash With a regular dash "Swung on to the reins," and went "slingin' the cash."

As old Flash himself, in his office one day, Was shaving notes in a barberous way, At the hour of four Death entered the door And shaved the note on his life, they say. And he had for his grave a magnificent tomb, Though the venturous finger that pointed "Gone Home," Looked white and cold From being so bold, As it feared that a popular lie was told.

Young Philiper Flash was a man of style When he first began unpacking the pile Of the dollars and dimes Whose jingling chimes Had clinked to the tune of his father's smile; And he strewed his wealth with such lavish hand, His rakish ways were the talk of the land, And gossipers wise Sat winking their eyes (A certain foreboding of fresh surprise).

A "fast young man" was Philiper Flash, And wore "loud clothes" and a weak mustache, And "done the Park," For an "afternoon lark," With a very fast horse of "remarkable dash." And Philiper handled a billiard-cue About as well as the best he knew, And used to say "He could make it pay By playing two or three games a day."

And Philiper Flash was his mother's joy, He seemed to her the magic alloy That made her glad, When her heart was sad, With the thought that "she lived for her darling boy." His dear good mother wasn't aware How her darling boy relished a "tare."-- She said "one night He gave her a fright By coming home late and ACTING tight."

Young Philiper Flash, on a winterish day, Was published a bankrupt, so they say-- And as far as I know I suppose it was so, For matters went on in a singular way; His excellent mother, I think I was told, Died from exposure and want and cold; And Philiper Flash, With a horrible slash, Whacked his jugular open and went to smash.

THE SAME OLD STORY

The same old story told again-- The maiden droops her head, The ripening glow of her crimson cheek Is answering in her stead. The pleading tone of a trembling voice Is telling her the way He loved her when his heart was young In Youth's sunshiny day: The trembling tongue, the longing tone, Imploringly ask why They can not be as happy now As in the days gone by. And two more hearts, tumultuous With overflowing joy, Are dancing to the music Which that dear, provoking boy Is twanging on his bowstring, As, fluttering his wings, He sends his love-charged arrows While merrily be sings: "Ho! ho! my dainty maiden, It surely can not be You are thinking you are master Of your heart, when it is me." And another gleaming arrow Does the little god's behest, And the dainty little maiden Falls upon her lover's breast. "The same old story told again," And listened o'er and o'er, Will still be new, and pleasing, too, Till "Time shall be no more."

TO A BOY WHISTLING

The smiling face of a happy boy With its enchanted key Is now unlocking in memory My store of heartiest joy.

And my lost life again to-day, In pleasant colors all aglow, From rainbow tints, to pure white snow, Is a panorama sliding away.

The whistled air of a simple tune Eddies and whirls my thoughts around, As fairy balloons of thistle-down Sail through the air of June.

O happy boy with untaught grace! What is there in the world to give That can buy one hour of the life you live Or the trivial cause of your smiling face!

AN OLD FRIEND

Hey, Old Midsummer! are you here again, With all your harvest-store of olden joys,-- Vast overhanging meadow-lands of rain, And drowsy dawns, and noons when golden grain Nods in the sun, and lazy truant boys Drift ever listlessly adown the day, Too full of joy to rest, and dreams to play.

The same old Summer, with the same old smile Beaming upon us in the same old way We knew in childhood! Though a weary while Since that far time, yet memories reconcile The heart with odorous breaths of clover hay; And again I hear the doves, and the sun streams through The old barn door just as it used to do.

And so it seems like welcoming a friend-- An old, OLD friend, upon his coming home From some far country--coming home to spend Long, loitering days with me: And I extend My hand in rapturous glee:--And so you've come!-- Ho, I'm so glad! Come in and take a chair: Well, this is just like OLD times, I declare!

WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING