Pipes OPan at Zekesbury | Page 8

had my first neckercher on!
Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer
Right now than my parents
was then,
You strike up that song, "Do They Miss Me?"
And I'm
jest a youngster again!--

I'm a-standin' back there in the furries


A-wishin' far evening to come,
And a-whisperin' over and over

Them words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it
The first time I heerd it; and so,

As she was my very first sweetheart,
It reminds of her, don't you
know,--
How her face ust to look, in the twilight,
As I tuck her to
spellin'; and she
Kep' a-hummin' that song 'tel I ast her,
Pine-blank,
ef she ever missed me!
I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it,
And hear her low answerin'
words,
And then the glad chirp of the crickets
As clear as the twitter
of birds;
And the dust in the road is like velvet,
And the ragweed,
and fennel, and grass
Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies
Of Eden
of old, as we pass.
"Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower--
And softer--and sweet
as the breeze
That powdered our path with the snowy
White bloom
of the old locus'-trees!
Let the whippoorwills he'p you to sing it,

And the echoes 'way over the hill,
'Tel the moon boolges out, in a
chorus
Of stars, and our voices is still.
But, oh! "They's a chord in the music
That's missed when her voice is
away!"
Though I listen from midnight 'tel morning,
And dawn, 'tel
the dusk of the day;
And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards

And on through the heavenly dome,
With my longin' soul singin' and
sobbin'
The words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
THE LOST PATH.
Alone they walked--their fingers knit together,
And swaying listlessly
as might a swing
Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather
Of
some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.
Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket
Laughed lightly as they
loitered down the lane,
And from the covert of the hazel-thicket


The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.
The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases
Along the road-side in the
shadows dim,
Went following the blossoms of their faces
As
though their sweets must needs be shared with him.
Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle
Stared wistfully, and
from their mellow bells
Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle

Fell swooningly away in faint farewells.
And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er them,
And folded all
the landscape from their eyes,
They only know the dusky path before
them
Was leading safely on to Paradise.
THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW.
"--And any little tiny kickshaws."--Shakespeare.
O the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me,
'Tis sweeter than
the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree, Wi' denty flavorin's o' spice an'
musky rosemarie,
The little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
'Tis luscious wi' the stalen tang o' fruits frae ower the sea, An' e'en its
fragrance gars we laugh wi' langin' lip an' ee, Till a' its frazen sheen o'
white maun melten hinnie be-- Sae weel I luve the kickshaw that
Mither sent tae me.
O I luve the tiny kickshaw, an' I smack my lips wi' glee, Aye mickle do
I luve the taste o' sic a luxourie,
But maist I luve the luvein' han's that
could the giftie gie O' the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
HIS MOTHER.
DEAD! my wayward boy--my own--
Not the Law's!_ but _mine--the
good
God's free gift to me alone,
Sanctified by motherhood.
"Bad," you say: Well, who is not?
"Brutal"--"with a heart of stone"--


And "red-handed."--Ah! the hot
Blood upon your own!
I come not, with downward eyes,
To plead for him shamedly,--
God
did not apologize
When He gave the boy to me.
Simply, I make ready now
For His_ verdict.--_You prepare--
You
have killed us both--and how
Will you face us There!
KISSING THE ROD.
O heart of mine, we shouldn't
Worry so!
What we've missed of calm we couldn't
Have, you know!
What we've met of stormy pain,
And of sorrow's
driving rain,
We can better meet again,
If it blow!
We have erred in that dark hour
We have known,
When our tears fell with the shower,
All alone!--
Were not shine and shadow blent
As the gracious
Master meant?--
Let us temper our content
With His own.
For, we know, not every morrow
Can be sad;
So, forgetting all the sorrow
We have had,
Let us fold away our fears,
And put by our foolish
tears,
And through all the coming years
Just be glad.

HOW IT HAPPENED.
I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone-- And all her
sisters married off, and none but her and John A-livin' all alone there in
that lonesome sort o' way,
And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder
ev'ry day!
I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the
time He settled in the neighborhood, and had n't ary a dime
Er dollar,
when he married, far to start housekeepin' on!-- So I got to thinkin' of
her--both her parents dead and gone!
I got to thinkin' of her; and