Then the other members said:

"Gott im Himmel! what a head!"

But they marvelled when his speeches they listened to or read; And presently they cried:

"There must be heaps inside.

Of the smooth and shiny cranium his constituents deride!"

Well, when at last he up 'nd died-long past his ninetieth yearThe strangest and the most lugubrious funeral he had,

For women came in multitudes to weep upon his bier

The men all wond'ring why on earth the women had gone mad!

And this wonderment increased

Till the sympathetic priest

Inquired of those same ladies: "Why this fuss about deceased?" Whereupon were they appalled,

For, as one, those women squalled:

"We doted on deceased for being bald-bald-bald!"

He was bald because his genius burnt that shock of hair away
Which, elsewise; clogs one's keenness and activity of mind;
And (barring present company, of course) I'm free to say
That, after all, it 's intellect that captures womankind.
At any rate, since then

(With a precedent in Ben),

The women-folk have been in love with us bald-headed men!

THE DREAMS

Two dreams came down to earth one night
From the realm of mist and dew;

One was a dream of the old, old days,

And one was a dream of the new.

One was a dream of a shady lane
That led to the pickerel pond

Where the willows and rushes bowed themselves
To the brown old hills beyond.

THE DREAMS

And the people that peopled the old-time dream
Were pleasant and fair to see,

And the dreamer he walked with them again
As often of old walked he.

Oh, cool was the wind in the shady lane

That tangled his curly hair!

Oh, sweet was the music the robins made
To the springtime everywhere!

Was it the dew the dream had brought
From yonder midnight skies,

Or was it tears from the dear, dead years
That lay in the dreamer's eyes?

The other dream ran fast and free,
As the moon benignly shed
Her golden grace on the smiling face
In the little trundle-bed.

For 't was a dream of times to come-
Of the glorious noon of day—

Of the summer that follows the careless spring
When the child is done with play.

And 't was a dream of the busy world
Where valorous deeds are done;
Of battles fought in the cause of right,
And of victories nobly won.

It breathed no breath of the dear old home
And the quiet joys of youth;

It gave no glimpse of the good old friends
Or the old-time faith and truth.

But 't was a dream of youthful hopes,

And fast and free it ran,

And it told to a little sleeping child

Of a boy become a man!

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These were the dreams that came one night
To earth from yonder sky;

These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed-
My little boy and and I.

And in our hearts my boy and I

Were glad that it was so;

He loved to dream of days to come,
And I of long ago.

So from our dreams my boy and I
Unwillingly awoke,

But neither of his precious dream.
Unto the other spoke.

Yet of the love we bore those dreams

Gave each his tender sign;

For there was triumph in his eyes—

And there were tears in mine!

IN NEW ORLEANS

"TWAS in the Crescent City not long ago befell
The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell;
So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing
Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-

No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem
Of blowing twenty dollars in by nine o'clock a. m.

Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid,

But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself, Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin

That he doesn't spend his money-he simply blows it in!

IN NEW ORLEANS

In Royal street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop,
And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop;
To stop was hesitation-in a moment I was lost-
That kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost!

I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem—
And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of eight a. m.!

Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green,
Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen;

A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose,
With its curious depression into which the gravy flows;
Two dainty silver salts-oh, there was no resisting them--
And I'd blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a. m.

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With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed,
Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need;
Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps,
A gown-the gown for which his spouse too long has pined, per-
haps!

These and ten thousand other spectres harrow and condemn
The man who's blown in twenty by nine o'clock a. m.

Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!)
In asking one this question: "What did you buy it for?"
Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade before the act,
Before one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact-
Before one 's fallen victim to the Tempter's stratagem
And blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a. m.?

Ah me! now that the deed is done, how penitent I am!

I was a roaring lion-behold a bleating lamb!

I've packed and shipped those precious things to that more pre

cious wife

Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life, While he who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth

Is far away, and means to keep his distance-for his health!

MY PLAYMATES

THE wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool-
Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool;

It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill,
And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill;
So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know
Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checkerberries grow.

What has become of Ezra Marsh, who lived on Baker's hill?
And what's become of Noble Pratt, whose father kept the mill?
And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell,
And of Roxie Root, who 'tended school in Boston for a spell?
They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful
play-

They do not answer to my call! My playmates-where are they?

What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe,

Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago?
I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown,
And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles, who spelled the whole school
down!

And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow, and all
Who I am sure would answer could they only hear my call!

I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again
And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men!
And one- -I shall not name her-could I see her gentle face
And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place!
The flowers and hopes of springtime-they perished long ago,
And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow.

O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise?

O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know

Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago?

You see I'm old and weary, and I've travelled long and far:
I am looking for my playmates-I wonder where they are!