"Darned if we know; but all the same
Happy as larks are we;

And happier still we 're going to be!"
Said Lyman

And Frederick

And Jim.

The people laughed “Aha, oho!
Oho, aha!" laughed they;
And while those three went sailing so
Some pirates steered that way.
The pirates they were laughing, too-
The prospect made them glad;
But by the time the job was through
Each of them pirates, bold and bad,
Had been done out of all he had
By Lyman

And Frederick

And Jim.

Days and weeks and months they sped,
Painting that foreign clime

A beautiful, bright vermilion red—

"T was all so gaudy a lark, it seemed

As if it could not be,

And some folks thought it a dream they dreamed

Of sailing that foreign sea,

But I'll identify you these three

Lyman

And Frederick

And Jim.

Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sich

And Jim is an editor kind;

The first two named are awfully rich

And Jim ain't far behind!

So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks,
Or

you are like to be

In quite as much of a Tartar fix

BE MY SWEETHEART

As the pirates that sailed the sea

And monkeyed with the pardners three,

Lyman

And Frederick

And Jim!

BE MY SWEETHEART

SWEETHEART, be my sweetheart
When birds are on the wing,
When bee and bud and babbling flood
Bespeak the birth of spring,
Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
And wear this posy-ring!

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
In the mellow golden glow

Of earth aflush with the gracious blush
Which the ripening fields foreshow;
Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
As into the noon we go!

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When falls the bounteous year,
When fruit and wine of tree and vine
Give us their harvest cheer;
Oh, sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
For winter it draweth near.

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart

When the year is white and old,
When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth,
And the hand of age is cold;

Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
Till the year of our love be told!

177

THE PETER-BIRD

OUT of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.

So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened,
And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky

One that was reckoned a witch-full of strange spells and devices; Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic

Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains! Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders

These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest.

Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;

And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley Sweltered in swathes as of mist-"Look!" they would whisper in

terror

"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!" Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the

vapor,

Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,

Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;

Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble. "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"

"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"

So it was "Peter!" all day-calling, reminding, and chidingPeter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

THE PETER-BIRD

179

Peter got hold of some books-how, I'm unable to tell you; Some have suspected the witch-this is no place for suspicions! It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.

Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; What thing soever it was-done with a pen and a pencil,

Wrought with a brain, not a hoe-surely 't was hostile to farming! "Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin of Peter!"

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blos

soms,

Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating, Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a' ready for churning!"

"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"

"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day-calling, reminding, and chiding-
Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him-
Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys"See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on woodland and meadow! Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron!

She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish magical nostrums; Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires, and spiders,

Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salamanders and toadstools; Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!"

Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, Scouted at magic and charins, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos

Thinking and reading of books must have unsettled his reason! "There ain't no witches," he cried; "it is n't smoky, but foggy! I will go out in the wet-you all can't hender me, nuther!"

Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning,
Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow,
Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley.
Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor;
Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened,
Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had done gone and done it!
Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason-
Soddened his callow young brain with semipubescent paresis,
And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition.

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter,
Up from the spring house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper,
Over the meadows that call is aye and for ever repeated.
Such were the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter
Decades and decades ago down in the State of Kentucky-
Such are the voices that cry now from the woodland and meadow,
"Peter-O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding-
Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it!
These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse
When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and
sockless,

Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather,
Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil,
Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge!

Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. "Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"

Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smoke-house proceeded; Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping,

Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor