The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches

by W. W. Jacobs

  SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY

  I

  Soldiers and saviours of the homes we love; Heroes and patriots who marched away, And who marched back, and who marched on above-- All--all are here to-day!

  By the dear cause you fought for--you are here; At summons of bugle, and the drum Whose palpitating syllables were ne'er More musical, you come!

  Here--by the stars that bloom in fields of blue, And by the bird above with shielding wings; And by the flag that floats out over you, With silken beckonings--

  Ay, here beneath its folds are gathered all Who warred unscathed for blessings that it gave-- Still blessed its champion, though it but fall A shadow on his grave!

  II

  We greet you, Victors, as in vast array You gather from the scenes of strife and death-- From spectral fortress walls where curls away The cannon's latest breath.

  We greet you--from the crumbling battlements Where once again the old flag feels the breeze Stroke out its tattered stripes and smooth its rents With rippling ecstasies.

  From living tombs where every hope seemed lost-- With famine quarantined by bristling guns-- The prison pens--the guards--the "dead-line" crossed By--riddled skeletons!

  From furrowed plains, sown thick with bursting shells-- From mountain gorge, and toppling crags o'erhead-- From wards of pestilential hospitals, And trenches of the dead.

  III

  In fancy all are here. The night is o'er, And through dissolving mists the morning gleams; And clustered round their hearths we see once more The heroes of our dreams.

  Strong, tawny faces, some, and some are fair, And some are marked with age's latest prime, And, seer-like, browed and aureoled with hair As hoar as winter-time.

  The faces of fond lovers, glorified-- The faces of the husband and the wife-- The babe's face nestled at the mother's side, And smiling back at life;

  A bloom of happiness in every cheek-- A thrill of tingling joy in every vein-- In every soul a rapture they will seek In Heaven, and find again!

  IV

  'Tis not a vision only--we who pay But the poor tribute of our praises here Are equal sharers in the guerdon they Purchased at price so dear.

  The angel, Peace, o'er all uplifts her hand, Waving the olive, and with heavenly eyes Shedding a light of love o'er sea and land As sunshine from the skies--

  Her figure pedestalled on Freedom's soil-- Her sandals kissed with seas of golden grain-- Queen of a realm of joy-requited toil That glories in her reign.

  O blessed land of labor and reward! O gracious Ruler, let Thy reign endure; In pruning-hook and ploughshare beat the sword, And reap the harvest sure!

  SHADOW AND SHINE

  Storms of the winter, and deepening snows, When will you end? I said, For the soul within me was numb with woes, And my heart uncomforted. When will you cease, O dismal days? When will you set me free? For the frozen world and its desolate ways Are all unloved of me!

  I waited long, but the answer came-- The kiss of the sunshine lay Warm as a flame on the lips that frame The song in my heart to-day. Blossoms of summer-time waved in the air, Glimmers of sun in the sea; Fair thoughts followed me everywhere, And the world was dear to me.

  THAT NIGHT

  You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory!-- The scent of the locusts--the light of the moon; And the violin weaving the waltzers a story, Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune, Till their shadows uncertain Reeled round on the curtain, While under the trellis we drank in the June.

  Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were sleeping, Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, leaping Forever, forever burst, full with delight; And its lisp on my spirit Fell faint as that near it Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night.

  O your love was an odorous sachet of blisses! The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay! And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses!-- And the music!--in fancy I hear it to-day, As I sit here, confessing Our secret, and blessing My rival who found us, and waltzed you away.

  AUGUST

  O mellow month and merry month, Let me make love to you, And follow you around the world As knights their ladies do. I thought your sisters beautiful, Both May and April, too, But April she had rainy eyes, And May had eyes of blue.

  And June--I liked the singing Of her lips--and liked her smile-- But all her songs were promises Of something, after while; And July's face--the lights and shades That may not long beguile With alterations o'er the wheat The dreamer at the stile.

  But you!--ah, you are tropical, Your beauty is so rare; Your eyes are clearer, deeper eyes Than any, anywhere; Mysterious, imperious, Deliriously fair, O listless Andalusian maid, With bangles in your hair!

  THE GUIDE

  IMITATED

  We rode across the level plain-- We--my sagacious guide and I.-- He knew the earth--the air--the sky; He knew when it would blow or rain, And when the weather would be dry: The blended blades of grass spake out To him when Redskins were about; The wagon tracks would tell him too, The very day that they rolled through: He knew their burden--whence they came-- If any horse along were lame, And what its owner ought to do; He knew when it would snow; he knew, By some strange intuition, when The buffalo would overflow The prairies like a flood, and then Recede in their stampede again. He knew all things--yea, he did know The brand of liquor in my flask, And many times did tilt it up, Nor halt or hesitate one whit, Nor pause to slip the silver cup From off its crystal base, nor ask Why I preferred to drink from it. And more and more I plied him, and Did query of him o'er and o'er, And seek to lure from him the lore By which the man did understand These hidden things of sky and land: And, wrought upon, he sudden drew His bridle--wheeled, and caught my hand-- Pressed it, as one that loved me true, And bade me listen. ................... There be few Like tales as strange to listen to! He told me all--How, when a child, The Indians stole him--there he laughed-- "They stole me, and I stole their craft!" Then slowly winked both eyes, and smiled, And went on ramblingly,--"And they-- They reared me, and I ran away-- 'Twas winter, and the weather wild; And, caught up in the awful snows That bury wilderness and plain, I struggled on until I froze My feet ere human hands again Were reached to me in my distress,-- And lo, since then not any rain May fall upon me anywhere, Nor any cyclone's cussedness Slip up behind me unaware,-- Nor any change of cold, or heat, Or blow, or snow, but I do know It's coming, days and days before;-- I know it by my frozen feet-- I know it by my itching heels, And by the agony one feels Who knows that scratching nevermore Will bring to him the old and sweet Relief he knew ere thus endowed With knowledge that a certain cloud Will burst with storm on such a day, And when a snow will fall, and--nay, I speak not falsely when I say That by my tingling heels and toes I measure time, and can disclose The date of month--the week--and lo, The very day and minute--yea-- Look at your watch!--An hour ago And twenty minutes I did say Unto myself with bitter laugh, 'In less than one hour and a half Will I be drunken!' Is it so?"

  SUTTER'S CLAIM

  IMITATED

  Say! _you_ feller! _You_-- With that spade and the pick!-- What do you 'pose to do On this side o' the crick? Goin' to tackle this claim? Well, I reckon You'll let up ag'in, purty quick!

 
No bluff, understand,-- But the same has been tried, And the claim never panned-- Or the fellers has lied,-- For they tell of a dozen that tried it, And quit it most onsatisfied.

  The luck's dead ag'in it!-- The first man I see That stuck a pick in it Proved _that_ thing to me,-- For he sort o' took down, and got homesick, And went back whar he'd orto be!

  Then others they worked it Some--more or less, But finally shirked it, In grades of distress,-- With an eye out--a jaw or skull busted, Or some sort o' seriousness.

  The _last_ one was plucky-- He wasn't afeerd, And bragged he was "lucky," And said that "he'd heerd A heap of bluff-talk," and swore awkard He'd work any claim that he keered!

  Don't you strike nary lick With that pick till I'm through; This-here feller talked slick And as peart-like as you! And he says: "I'll abide here As long as I please!" But he didn't.... He died here-- And I'm his disease!

  HER LIGHT GUITAR

  She twankled a tune on her light guitar-- A low, sweet jangle of tangled sounds, As blurred as the voices of the fairies are, Dancing in moondawn dales and downs; And the tinkling drip of the strange refrain Ran over the rim of my soul like rain.

  The great blond moon in the midnight skies Paused and poised o'er the trellis eaves, And the stars, in the light of her upturned eyes, Sifted their love through the rifted leaves, Glittered and splintered in crystal mist Down the glittering strings that her fingers kissed.

  O the melody mad! O the tinkle and thrill Of the ecstasy of the exquisite thing! The red rose dropped from the window-sill And lay in a long swoon quivering; While the dying notes of the strain divine Rippled in glee up my spellbound spine.

  WHILE CIGARETTES TO ASHES TURN

  I

  "He smokes--and that's enough," says Ma-- "And cigarettes, at that!" says Pa.

  "He must not call again," says she-- "He _shall_ not call again!" says he.

  They both glare at me as before-- Then quit the room and bang the door.--

  While I, their wilful daughter, say, "I guess I'll love him, anyway!"

  II

  At twilight, in his room, alone, His careless feet inertly thrown

  Across a chair, my fancy can But worship this most worthless man!

  I dream what joy it is to set His slow lips round a cigarette,

  With idle-humored whiff and puff-- Ah! this is innocent enough!

  To mark the slender fingers raise The waxen match's dainty blaze,

  Whose chastened light an instant glows On drooping lids and arching nose,

  Then, in the sudden gloom, instead, A tiny ember, dim and red,

  Blooms languidly to ripeness, then Fades slowly, and grows ripe again.

  III

  I lean back, in my own boudoir-- The door is fast, the sash ajar;

  And in the dark, I smiling stare At one wide window over there,

  Where some one, smoking, pinks the gloom, The darling darkness of his room!

  I push my shutters wider yet, And lo! I light a cigarette;

  And gleam for gleam, and glow for glow, Each pulse of light a word we know,

  We talk of love that still will burn While cigarettes to ashes turn.

  TWO SONNETS TO THE JUNE-BUG

  I

  You make me jes' a little nervouser Than any dog-gone bug I ever see! And you know night's the time to pester me-- When any tetch at all 'll rub the fur Of all my patience back'ards! You're the myrrh And ruburb of my life! A bumblebee Cain't hold a candle to you; and a he Bald hornet, with a laminated spur In his hip pocket, daresent even cheep When you're around! And, dern ye! you have made Me lose whole ricks and stacks and piles of sleep,-- And many of a livelong night I've laid And never shut an eye, hearin' you keep Up that eternal buzzin' serenade!

  II

  And I've got up and lit the lamp, and clum On cheers and trunks and wash-stands and bureaus, And all such dangerous articles as those, And biffed at you with brooms, and never come 'In two feet of you,--maybe skeered you some,-- But what does that amount to when it throws A feller out o' balance, and his nose Gits barked ag'inst the mantel, while you hum Fer joy around the room, and churn your head Ag'inst the ceilin', and draw back and butt The plasterin' loose, and drop--behind the bed, Where never human-bein' ever putt Harm's hand on you, er ever truthful said He'd choked yer dern infernal wizzen shut!

  AUTOGRAPHIC

  _For an Album_

  I feel, if aught I ought to rhyme, I ought 'a' thought a longer time, And ought 'a' caught a higher sense, Of autocratic eloquence. I ought 'a' sought each haughty Muse That taught a thought I ought to use, And fought and fraught, and so devised A poem _unmonotonized_.-- But since all this was vain, I thought I ought to simply say,--I ought To thank you, as I ought to do, And ought to bow my best to you; And ought to trust not to intrude A rudely wrought-up gratitude, But ought to smile, and ought to laugh, And ought to write--an autograph.

  AN IMPROMPTU ON ROLLER SKATES

  Rumble, tumble, growl, and grate! Skip, and trip, and gravitate! Lunge, and plunge, and thrash the planks With your blameless, shameless shanks: In excruciating pain, Stand upon your head again, And, uncoiling kink by kink, Kick the roof out of the rink!

  In derisive bursts of mirth, Drop ka-whop and jar the earth! Jolt your lungs down in your socks, Oh! tempestuous equinox Of dismembered legs and arms! Strew your ways with wild alarms; Fameward skoot and ricochet On your glittering vertebrae!

  WRITTEN IN BUNNER'S "AIRS FROM ARCADY"

  O ever gracious Airs from Arcady! What lack is there of any jocund thing In glancing wit or glad imagining Capricious fancy may not find in thee?-- The laugh of Momus, tempered daintily To lull the ear and lure its listening; The whistled syllables the birds of spring Flaunt ever at our guessings what they be; The wood, the seashore, and the clanging town; The pets of fashion, and the ways of such; The _robe de chambre_, and the russet gown; The lordling's carriage, and the pilgrim's crutch-- From hale old Chaucer's wholesomeness, clean down To our artistic Dobson's deftest touch!

  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.

  You in the hammock. The book we'd brought From the parlor--to read in the open air,-- Something of love and of Launcelot And Guinevere, I believe, was there-- But the afternoon, it was far more fair Than the poem was, I thought.

  You in the hammock; and on and on I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff-- But, with always a half of my vision gone Over the top of the page--enough To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff Of your hair and your odorous "lawn."

  You in the hammock--and that was a year-- Fully a year ago, I guess-- And what do we care for their Guinevere And her Launcelot and their lordliness!-- You in the hammock still, and--Yes-- Kiss me again, my dear!

  AT MADAME MANICURE'S

  Daintiest of Manicures! What a cunning hand is yours; And how awkward, rude and great Mine, as you manipulate! Wonderfully cool and calm Are the touches of your palm To my fingers, as they rest In their rosy, cosey nest, While your own, with deftest skill, Dance and caper as they will,-- Armed with instruments that seem Gathered from some fairy dream-- Tiny spears, and simitars Such as pixy armorers
Might have made for jocund fays To parade on holidays, And flash round in dewy dells, Lopping down the lily-bells; Or in tilting, o'er the leas, At the clumsy bumblebees, Splintering their stings, perchance, As the knights in old romance Snapped the spears of foes that fought In the jousts at Camelot! Smiling? Dainty Manicure?-- 'Twould delight me, but that you're Simply smiling, as I see, At my nails and not at me! Haply this is why they glow And light up and twinkle so!

  A CALLER FROM BOONE

  BENJ. F. JOHNSON VISITS THE EDITOR

  It was a dim and chill and loveless afternoon in the late fall ofeighty-three when I first saw the genial subject of this hasty sketch.From time to time the daily paper on which I worked had beenreceiving, among the general literary driftage of amateur essayists,poets and sketch-writers, some conceits in verse that struck theeditorial head as decidedly novel; and, as they were evidently theproduction of an unlettered man, and an _old_ man, and a farmer at that,they were usually spared the waste-basket, and preserved--not forpublication, but to pass from hand to hand among the members of thestaff as simply quaint and mirth-provoking specimens of the verdancyof both the venerable author and the Muse inspiring him. Letters asquaint as were the poems invariably accompanied them, and the oddityof these, in fact, had first called attention to the verses. I wellremember the general merriment of the office when the first of the oldman's letters was read aloud, and I recall, too, some of his commentson his own verse, verbatim. In one place he said: "I make no doubt youwill find some purty _sad_ spots in my poetry, considerin'; but I hopeyou will bear in mind that I am a great sufferer with rheumatizum, andhave been, off and on, sence the cold New Year's. In the main,however," he continued, "I allus aim to write in a cheerful,comfortin' sperit, so's ef the stuff hangs fire, and don't do no good,it hain't a-goin' to do no harm,--and them's my honest views onpoetry."