Part 11

S is a Sculpin--you'll wish Very much to have one on your dish, Since all his bones grow On the outside, and so He's a very desirable fish.

T was a Turtle, of wealth Who went round with particular stealth, "Why," said he, "I'm afraid Of being waylaid When I even walk out for my health!"

U was a Unicorn curious, With one horn, of a growth so LUXURIOUS, He could level and stab it-- If you didn't grab it-- Clean through you, he was so blamed furious!

V was a vagabond Vulture Who said: "I don't want to insult yer, But when you intrude Where in lone solitude I'm a-preyin', you're no man o' culture!"

W was a wild WOODchuck, And you just bet that he COULD "chuck"-- He'd eat raw potatoes, Green corn, and tomatoes, And tree roots, and call it all "GOOD chuck!"

X was a kind of X-cuse Of some-sort-o'-thing that got loose Before we could name it, And cage it, and tame it, And bring it in general use.

Y is the Yellowbird,--bright As a petrified lump of starlight, Or a handful of lightning Bugs, squeezed in the tight'ning Pink fist of a boy, at night.

Z is the Zebra, of course!-- A kind of a clown-of-a-horse,-- Each other despising, Yet neither devising A way to obtain a divorce!

& here is the famous--what-is-it? Walk up, Master Billy, and quiz it: You've seen the REST of 'em-- Ain't this the BEST of 'em, Right at the end of your visit?

At last Billy is sent off to bed. It is the prudent mandate of the old folks: But so loathfully the poor child goes, Bob's heart goes, too.--Yes, Bob himself, to keep the little fellow company for a while, and, up there under the old rafters, in the pleasant gloom, lull him to famous dreams with fairy tales. And it is during this brief absence that the youngest Mills girl gives us a surprise. She will read a poem, she says, written by a very dear friend of hers who, fortunately for us, is not present to prevent her. We guard door and window as she reads. Doc says she will not listen; but she does listen, and cries, too-- out of pure vexation, she asserts. The rest of us, however, cry just because of the apparent honesty of the poem of--

BEAUTIFUL HANDS

O your hands--they are strangely fair! Fair--for the jewels that sparkle there,-- Fair--for the witchery of the spell That ivory keys alone can tell; But when their delicate touches rest Here in my own do I love them best As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

Marvelous--wonderful--beautiful hands! They can coax roses to bloom in the strands Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine, Under mysterious touches of thine, Into such knots as entangle the soul And fetter the heart under such a control As only the strength of my love understands-- My passionate love for your beautiful hands.

As I remember the first fair touch Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, Kissing the glove that I found unfilled-- When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!" . . . And dazed and alone in a dream I stand, Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved, in the long ago, And held your hand as I told you so-- Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss And said "I could die for a hand like this!" Little I dreamed love's fullness yet Had to ripen when eyes were wet And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful Hands!--O Beautiful Hands! Could you reach out of the alien lands Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night Only a touch--were it ever so light-- My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again; For there is no solace the world commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

. . . . . . . .

Violently winking at the mist that blurs my sight, I regretfully awaken to the here and now. And is it possible, I sorrowfully muse, that all this glory can have fled away?--that more than twenty long, long years are spread between me and that happy night? And is it possible that all the dear old faces --Oh, quit it! quit it! Gather the old scraps up and wad 'em back into oblivion, where they belong!

Yes, but be calm--be calm! Think of cheerful things. You are not all alone. BILLY'S living yet.

I know--and six feet high--and sag-shouldered-- and owns a tin and stove-store, and can't hear thunder! BILLY!

And the youngest Mills girl--she's alive, too.

S'pose I don't know that? I married her!

And Doc.--

BOB married her. Been in California for more than fifteen years--on some blasted cattle-ranch, or something,--and he's worth a half a million! And am I less prosperous with this gilded roll?

A WILD IRISHMAN

Not very many years ago the writer was for some months stationed at South Bend, a thriving little city of northern Indiana. Its population is mainly on the one side of the St. Joseph River, but quite a respectable fraction thereof takes its industrial way to the opposite shore, and there gains an audience and a hearing in the rather imposing growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories, and the consequent rapid appearance of multitudinous neat cottages, tenement houses and business blocks. A stranger entering South Bend proper on any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for its prosperous appearance--its flagged and bouldered streets--its handsome mercantile blocks, banks, and business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people on the streets throughout the day, and these seeming, for the most part, merely idlers, and in nowise accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of their surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled at the situation. But when evening comes, and the outlying foundries, sewing-machine, wagon, plow, and other "works," together with the paper-mills and all the nameless industries--when the operations of all these are suspended for the day, and the workmen and workwomen loosed from labor--then, as this vast army suddenly invades and overflows bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stranger will fully comprehend the why and wherefore of the city's high prosperity. And, once acquainted with the people there, the fortunate sojourner will find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as certainly, he will meet with a social spirit and a whole-souled heartiness that will make the place a lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of many world-known people, and a host of local celebrities, the chief of which latter class I found, during my stay there, in the person of Tommy Stafford, or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called him.

"Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters," said Major Blowney, my employer, one afternoon, "you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before you say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, cleverest chap in all your travels. What d'ye say, Stockford?" And the Major paused in his work of charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun and turned to await his partner's response.

Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the shield-sign he was lettering, slowly smiling as he dipped and trailed his pencil through the ivory black upon a bit of broken glass and said, in his deliberate, half absent-minded way,--"Is it Tommy you're telling him about?" and then, with a gradual broadening of the smile, he went on, "Well, I should say so. Tommy! What's come of the fellow, anyway? I haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor, on his trial for shakin' up that fast-horse man."