Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse | Page 4

fades before my tear-dimmed eyes, But my wistful fancy, listening, hears the night-wind hum the tunes That we sang there in the parlor on those Sunday afternoons.

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THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES
Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest,?Where the flowered gowns lie folded, which once were brave as the best; And like the queer old jackets and the waistcoats gay with stripes, They tell of a worn-out fashion--these old daguerreotypes.?Quaint little folding cases fastened with tiny hook,?Seemingly made to tempt one to lift up the latch and look;?Linings of purple velvet, odd little frames of gold,?Circling the faded faces brought from the days of old.
Grandpa and grandma, taken ever so long ago,?Grandma's bonnet a marvel, grandpa's collar a show,?Mother, a tiny toddler, with rings on her baby hands?Painted--lest none should notice--in glittering, gilded bands.
Aunts and uncles and cousins, a starchy and stiff array,?Lovers and brides, then blooming,--now so wrinkled and gray: Out through the misty glasses they gaze at me, sitting here Opening the quaint old cases with a smile that is half a tear.
I will smile no more, little pictures, for heartless it was, in truth, To drag to the cruel daylight these ghosts of a vanished youth; Go back to your cedar chamber, your gowns and your lavender, And dream, 'mid their bygone graces, of the wonderful days that were.

THE BEST SPARE ROOM
I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent?When to visit Uncle Hiram in the country oft I went;?And the pleasant recollection still in memory has a charm?Of my boyish romps and rambles round the dear old-fashioned farm. But at night all joyous fancies from my youthful bosom crept, For I knew they'd surely put me where the "comp'ny" always slept, And my spirit sank within me, as upon it fell the gloom?And the vast and lonely grandeur of the best spare room.
Ah, the weary waste of pillow where I laid my lonely head!?Sinking, like a shipwrecked sailor, in a patchwork sea of bed, While the moonlight through the casement cast a grim and ghastly glare O'er the stiff and stately presence of each dismal haircloth chair; And it touched the mantel's splendor, where the wax fruit used to be, And the alabaster image Uncle Josh brought home from sea;?While the breeze that shook the curtains spread a musty, faint perfume And a subtle scent of camphor through the best spare room.
Round the walls were hung the pictures of the dear ones passed away, "Uncle Si and A'nt Lurany," taken on their wedding day;?Cousin Ruth, who died at twenty, in the corner had a place?Near the wreath from Eben's coffin, dipped in wax and in a case; Grandpa Wilkins, done in color by some artist of the town,?Ears askew and somewhat cross-eyed, but with fixed and awful frown, Seeming somehow to be waiting to enjoy the dreadful doom?Of the frightened little sleeper in the best spare room.
Every rustle of the corn-husks in the mattress underneath?Was to me a ghostly whisper muttered through a phantom's teeth, And the mice behind the wainscot, as they scampered round about, Filled my soul with speechless horror when I'd put the candle out. So I'm deeply sympathetic when some story I have read?Of a victim buried living by his friends who thought him dead; And I think I know his feelings in the cold and silent tomb, For I've slept at Uncle Hiram's in the best spare room.

THE OLD CARRYALL
It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed,?Where the spider-webs swing from the beams overhead,?And the sun, siftin' in through the dirt and the mold?Of the winder's dim pane, specks it over with gold.?Its curtains are 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