Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse | Page 5

tattered, its cushions are worn,
It's a kind of a ghost
of a carriage, forlorn,
And the dust from the roof settles down like a
pall
On the sorrowin' shape of the old carryall.
It was built long ago, when the world seemed ter be
A heaven, jest
made up for Mary and me,
And my mind wanders back to that first
happy ride
When she sat beside me,--my beauty and bride.
Ah,

them were the days when the village was new
And folks took time to
live, as God meant 'em ter do;
And there's many a huskin' and quiltin'
and ball
That we drove to and back in the old carryall.
And here in the paint are the marks of the feet
Where a little form
climbed ter the high-fashioned seat,
And soft baby fingers them
curtains have swung,
And a curly head's nestled the cushions among;

And then come the gloom of that black, bitter day
When "Thy will
be done" looked so wicked ter say
As we drove to the grave, while
the rain seemed to fall
Like the tears of the sky on the old carryall.
And so it has served us through sunshine and cloud,
Through fun'rals
and weddin's, from bride-wreath ter shroud; It's old and it's rusty, it's
shaky and lame,
But I love every j'int of its rickety frame.
And it's
restin' at last, for its race has been run,
It's lived out its life and its
work has been done,
And I hope, in my soul, at the last trumpet call

I'll have done mine as well as the old carryall.

OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS
O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me In
that lazy little village down beside the tumblin' sea,
When yer sniff
the burnin' powder, when yer see the banners fly, Don't yer thoughts,
like mine, go driftin' back to Fourths long since
gone by?
And, amongst them days of gladness, ain't there one that
stands alone, When yer had yer first fire-crackers--jest one bunch, but
all yer own?
Don't yer 'member how yer envied bigger chaps their fuss and noise,
'Cause yer Ma had said that crackers wasn't good fer little boys? Do yer
'member how yer teased her, morn and eve and noon and night, And
how all the world yelled "Glory!" when at last she said yer might?

Do yer 'member how yer bought 'em, weeks and weeks ahead of time,
After savin' all yer pennies till they footed up a dime?
Do yer
'member what they looked like? I can see 'em plain as plain, With a
dragon on the package, grinnin' through a fiery rain.
[Illustration]
Do yer 'member how yer fired 'em, slow and careful, one by one? Do'n't
it seem like each was louder than the grandest sort of gun? Can't yer see
the big, red flashes, if yer only shut yer eyes, And jest smell the burnin'
powder, sweeter'n breaths from paradise?
O you boys, gray-haired and bearded. O you youngsters grown ter men,
We can't buy them kind of crackers now, nor never shall again! Fer the
joys thet used ter glitter through the fizz and puff and crash, Has, ter
most of us, been deadened by the grindin' chink of cash; But I'd like ter
ask yer, fellers, how much of yer hoarded gold Would yer give if it
could buy yer one glad Fourth like them of old? How much would yer
spend ter gain it--that light-hearted, joyous glow That come with yer
fust fire-crackers, when yer bought 'em long ago?

WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR
I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me
Religion isn't
nigh so good as what it used ter be!
I go ter meetin' every week and
rent my reg'lar pew,
But hain't a mite uplifted when the sarvices are
through;
I take my orthodoxy straight, like Gran'pop did his rum,
(It
never hurt him, neither, and a deacon, too, by gum!)
But now the
preachin' 's mushy and the singin' 's lost its fire: I 'd like ter hear old
Parson Day, with Nathan leadin' choir.
I'd like ter know who told these folks that all was perfect peace, And
glidin' inter heaven was as slick as meltin' grease;
Old Parson Day, I
tell yer what, his sermons made yer think! He'd shake yer over Tophet
till yer heard the cinders clink. And then, when he'd gin out the tune
and Nate would take his stand Afore the chosen singers, with the

tuning-fork in hand,
The meetin'-house jest held its breath, from
cellar plum ter spire, And then bu'st forth in thunder-tones with Nathan
leadin' choir.
They didn't chime so pretty, p'r'aps, as does our new quartette, But all
them folks was there ter sing, and done it, too, you bet! The basses they
'd be rollin' on, with faces swelled and red, And racin' the supraners,
who was p'r'aps a bar ahead;
While Nate beat time