THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood That now but in mem'ry I sadly review; The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood, The rail fence, and horses all tethered thereto;

The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple, The doves that came fluttering out overhead As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.

The old-fashioned Bible — The dust-covered Bible — The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. The blessed old volume! The face bent above it —

As now I recall it — is gravely severe, Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear, And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,

The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. The old-fashioned Bible —

The dust-covered Bible — The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derision And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies

In the dust of the past, while this newer revision Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies? Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven? Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,

When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven To hear the old Bible my grandfather read? The old-fashioned Bible — The dust-covered Bible —

The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. Say good-by er howdy-do — What's the odds betwixt the two? Comin’ — goin’, ev'ry day —

Best friends first to go away — Grasp of hands you'd ruther hold Than their weight in solid gold Slips their grip while greetin’ you.—

Say good-by er howdy-do! Howdy-do, and then, good-by — Mixes jes’ like laugh and cry; Deaths and births, and worst and best,

Tangled their contrariest; Ev'ry jinglin’ weddin’ -bell Skeerin’ up some funer'l knell.— Here's my song, and there's your sigh.—

Howdy-do, and then, good-by! Say good-by er howdy-do — Jes’ the same to me and you; ‘ Taint worth while to make no fuss,

‘ Cause the job's put up on us! Some One's runnin’ this concern That's got nothin’ else to learn: Ef He's willin’, we'll pull through —

Say good-by er howdy-do! When we three meet? Ah! friend of mine Whose verses well and flow as wine,— My thirsting fancy thou dost fill

With draughts delicious, sweeter still Since tasted by those lips of thine. I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine Of autumn, with a warmth divine,

Thrilled through as only I shall thrill When we three meet. I pledge thee, if we fast or dine, We yet shall loosen, line by line,

Old ballads, and the blither trill Of our-time singers — for there will Be with us all the Muses nine When we three meet.

“THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP” When I was a little boy, long ago, And spoke of the theater as the “show,” The first one that I went to see,

Mother's brother it was took me — ( My uncle, of course, though he seemed to be Only a boy — I loved him so! ) And ah, how pleasant he made it all!

And the things he knew that I should know!— The stage, the “drop,” and the frescoed wall; The sudden flash of the lights; and oh, The orchestra, with its melody,

And the lilt and jingle and jubilee Of “The Little Man in the Tinshop”! For Uncle showed me the “Leader” there, With his pale, bleak forehead and long, black hair;

Showed me the “Second,” and “‘ Cello,” and “Bass,” And the “B-Flat,” pouting and puffing his face At the little end of the horn he blew Silvery bubbles of music through;

And he coined me names of them, each in turn, Some comical name that I laughed to learn, Clean on down to the last and best,— The lively little man, never at rest,

Who hides away at the end of the string, And tinkers and plays on everything,— That's “The Little Man in the Tinshop”! Raking a drum like a rattle of hail,

Clinking a cymbal or castanet; Chirping a twitter or sending a wail Through a piccolo that thrills me yet; Reeling ripples of riotous bells,

And tipsy tinkles of triangles — Wrangled and tangled in skeins of sound Till it seemed that my very soul spun round, As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my

Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye And said, with the courtliest wave of his hand, “Why, that little master of all the band Is‘ The Little Man in the Tinshop’!

“And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful, And Paganini, and Ole Bull, Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn, And fair Parepa, whose matchless tone

Karl, her master, with magic bow, Blent with the angels’, and held her so Tranced till the rapturous Infinite — And I've heard arias, faint and low,

From many an operatic light Glimmering on my swimming sight Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last, I still sit, holding my roses fast

For‘ The Little Man in the Tinshop.’” Oho! my Little Man, joy to you — And yours — and theirs — your lifetime through! Though I've heard melodies, boy and man,

Since first “the show” of my life began, Never yet have I listened to Sadder, madder, or gladder glees Than your unharmonied harmonies;

For yours is the music that appeals To all the fervor the boy's heart feels — All his glories, his wildest cheers, His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears;

And so, with his first bouquet, he kneels To “The Little Man in the Tinshop.” Dimple-cheeked and rosy-lipped, With his cap-rim backward tipped,

Still in fancy I can see Little Tommy smile on me — Little Tommy Smith. Little unsung Tommy Smith —

Scarce a name to rhyme it with; Yet most tenderly to me Something sings unceasingly — Little Tommy Smith.

On the verge of some far land Still forever does he stand, With his cap-rim rakishly Tilted; so he smiles on me —

Little Tommy Smith. Elder-blooms contrast the grace Of the rover's radiant face — Whistling back, in mimicry,

“Old — Bob — White!” all liquidly — Little Tommy Smith. O my jaunty statuette Of first love, I see you yet.

Though you smile so mistily, It is but through tears I see, Little Tommy Smith. But, with crown tipped back behind,

And the glad hand of the wind Smoothing back your hair, I see Heaven's best angel smile on me,— Little Tommy Smith.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun:

Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast;

And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own —

Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour: Fill your pipe, and taste the wine — Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine;

If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it — I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we “lucky dogs,” indeed? Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?—

Bachelors, we must confess, Boast of “single blessedness” To the world, but not alone — Man's best sorrow is his own!

And the saddest truth is this,— Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved:

Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them:

Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summer-time.

When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth, We look back on it to-day

Through our tears, nor dare to boast,— “Better to have loved and lost!” Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the glasses while I bend To prod up the failing fire....

You are restless:— I presume There's a dampness in the room.— Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs!...

Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance,

And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers’ balls.— Feats of mountebanks, depend!— Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the firelight leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,—

I propose a health to those Who have homes, and home's repose, Wife- and child-love without end! ... Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

O it's good to ketch a relative‘ at's richer and do n't run When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun; It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not, Er strike some chap they call lukewarm‘ at's really red-hot;

It's good to know the Devil's painted jes’ a leetle black, And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;— But jes’ the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay, And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway; I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall, That did n't git elected, was a scoundrel after all;

I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps‘ em when he can; I like to meet a ragged tramp‘ at's still a gentleman; But most I like — with you, my boy — our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

A corpulent man is my bachelor chum, With a neck apoplectic and thick — An abdomen on him as big as a drum, And a fist big enough for the stick;

With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case, And a wobble uncertain — as though His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace That in youth used to favor him so.

He is forty, at least; and the top of his head Is a bald and a glittering thing; And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red As three rival roses in spring;

His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in, And his laugh is so breezy and bright That it ripples his features and dimples his chin With a billowy look of delight.

He is fond of declaring he “do n't care a straw” — That “the ills of a bachelor's life Are blisses, compared with a mother-in-law And a boarding-school miss for a wife!”

So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks, And he dines and he wines, all alone, With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks Of the comforts he never has known.

But up in his den — ( Ah, my bachelor chum! ) — I have sat with him there in the gloom, When the laugh of his lips died away to become But a phantom of mirth in the room.

And to look on him there you would love him, for all His ridiculous ways, and be dumb As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall On the tears of my bachelor chum.