LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Chap. , _ CopjTiglit No. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. PANAMA PATCHWORK PROEM. There's no excuse to offer for this book Save that, perhaps, of one man's vanity; And that's a thing at which you ought to look With calm and undisturbed urbanity. A favor, though, the bard would ask of you : When his conclusions you're disposed to doubt, Believe that as he wrote he thought 'twas true — He thought he knew the things he wrote about. He does not, dares not ask for charity. For that would be requesting overmuch ; He knows the Grace's worth — and rarity : His work's a freak; just write him down as such! Panama Patchwork PjrCHWORK: Something irregularly or clumsily composed —IVEBSTER NEW YORK: The Burr Printing House 1901 SiK>20 L itn'-arv oC Conflrei»8] j ) wu Coetes Received DEC 171900 - Copynght entry ^oi^.xnu SECOND COPY Oeliv«red to OROES DIVISION DEC 20 1900 7S 3X13 Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1900, by J. S. Gilbert, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. J. M. H. To him who strives to find in every man Some kindly impulse or some noble trait; Who knows his own, and hence doth mildly scan His brothers' faults, this book I dedicate. EXPLANATORY. To those who have resided on the Isthmus of Panama for any length of time, and especially to those whose associations with the country extend over a period of fifteen or twenty years, no word of explanation as to the occasional seeming dis- paragement of it as a place of residence in these pages is considered necessary. It is only to those whose stay has not been sufficiently long, or who have lacked the insight to discover the '' true in- wardness" of the place and people, that it is thought best to say here that no one more freely and grate- fully acknowledges the charm of the former and the unvarying courtesy of the latter than the author of the following rhymes. Contents CONTENTS. Proem, The Land of the Cocoanut-Tree, In the Roar of the Ocean, Sunset, Beyond the Chagres, The Isthmian Way, . The Funeral Train, A Frijoles Washer-Girl, John Aspinwall, '' CiNCO Centavos?" . To the Southern Cross, The Sea-Grape Tree, Woodbine Sally, Isthmian Hymn, The Trade- Wind, A Song of Dry Weather, Yellow Eyes, . He Has Gone, . The Paradise of Fools, The Busiest Man, . While We're Still Living On The Naked Brown Babies of Bolivar Street, That Excellent Heart, PAGE ii I 3 5 6 7 9 lO 12 14 i6 17 19 21 22 23 24 25 27 28 31 33 34 X Contents PAGE The Man Who Is Always Right, . . 35 A Panama Lullaby, 37 A Tropic Nocturne, 38 San Lorenzo, 39 Our Little Landscape, .... 40 The Waning Moon, 41 The Never-Failing Friend, ... 42 King Fever, 43 The Song of the Mosquito, ... 44 " No Ice," 46 The Sand-Fly, 47 The Song of the Prickly Heat, . . 48 The Song of the Misanthrope, . . 50 A Marvel, 51 Geographical, 52 He'll Never Die, 53 When the Trade-Wind Blows Again, . 53 ^'To Blame?" 55 On Roncador, 57 The Visit, 58 A New Year's Rainbow, .... 59 The Comrades of the Pleasant Past, . 60 Chiarini and His Elephant, ... 61 In Memoriam, 63 The Epitaph, 64 Saints' Rest, 65 Two Words, 68 Then and Now, 70 FiDus Achates, 72 Contents XI PAGE Warned, • 7Z Transmigration, • 7S A Toast, . 77 Saint Patrick, . . 78 Malachi, . ' 79 Me Too, . 81 Little Jamaica Man 83 Beneath the Rose, 84 Only a Weed, . 85 Simple Ave, 87 The Old Familiar Faces, 88 Prayer of a Timid Man, 90 If Ye Weep, 91 Memory, 92 The Wave, 94 Job and Another, 95 Let Me Alone, . 96 Au Revoir, . 97 Victoria the Woman, 99 A Sprig of Sage-Brush, lOI Maranatha, 103 The Minority, . 104 Charity, . . . . 105 The Portal and the Doo R, . 106 To John Payne, 107 A Ship of Mist, 108 We Linger Still, 109 When I Am Dead, no To Him Who Waits, III Xll Contents PAGE My Wicker Jug, 112 The Sweet Old Story, 113 The Fall of Old Panama, 114 The Land of the Cacique, 122 On the Brow of the Hill, 128 "Old Comrade," 132 Curtain, .... 134 PANAMA PATCHWORK THE LAND OF THE COCOANUT-TREE. Away down south in the Torrid Zone, North latitude nearly nine, Where the eight months' pour once past and o'er, The sun four months doth shine; Where 'tis eighty-six the year around. And people rarely agree; Where the plaintain grows and the hot wind blows. Lies the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree. 'Tis the land where all the insects breed That live by bite and sting; Where the birds are quite winged rainbows bright, Tho' seldom one doth sing! Here radiant flowers and orchids thrive And bloom perennially — All beauteous, yes — but odorless! In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree. 2 Panama Patchwork 'Tis a land profusely rich, 'tis said, In mines of yellow gold, That, of claims bereft, the Spaniards left In the cruel days of old ! And many a man hath lost his life That treasure-trove to see, Or doth agonize with streaming eyes In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree ! 'Tis a land wdiere work from morn to night The greatest comfort gives; Where luxuries are necessities — Where the Prince of Tempters lives! Where one's wealth is spent before 'tis made- \\^here fortune's yet to be ; Yet men leave home and gaily roam To the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree. 'Tis a land that still with potent charm And W'Ondrous, lasting spell With mighty thrall enchaineth all Who long within it dwell; 'Tis a land w^here the Pale Destroyer waits And watches eagerly; 'Tis, in truth, but a breath from life to death, In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree. Then, go away if you have to — Then, go away if you wnll! To again return you will always yearn Panama Patchwork 3 While the lamp is burning still! You've drank the Chagres water, And the mango eaten free, And, strange tho' it seems, 'twill haunt your dreams — This Land of the Cocoanut-Tree ! IN THE ROAR OF THE OCEAN. Come closer, stranger, closer to the shore. And listen, listen, listen to that roar ! Do you know what that means to us, my man ? Ah, no ! not you — not anybody can. Unless he's lived for years upon this beach. And learned the lessons that old sea doth teach. To him whose daily lot from year to year Has been its never-ceasing voice to hear; To him whose keen-trained ear at once detects Each modulation that its pitch affects ; To him who hears when others cannot hear The far, faint plash so like a falling tear. That tells of hours of torrid heat and calm, When fever lingers underneath the palm — It means that Mistress Reef, the Malapert, 4 Panama Patchwork For three grand months shall hide her draggled skirt Beneath a gown of foam-laced, gleaming green, Beside which pales the wardrobe of a queen ! It means that yonder sibilant lagoon Its pools of stagnant slime shall banish soon! That suns, the brightest that were ever known, That stars, the clearest that have ever shone, Shall guide the day, direct the smiling night Thro' tropic paths of unalloyed delight ! It means that for these months a breeze shall blow That hath its source in caves of Arctic snow! That beareth on its ozone-laden breath The Balm of Life : the Antidote of Death ! It means all this ! Aye, infinitely more ! So closer, stranger, closer to the shore, And listen, listen, listen to that roar ! Panama Patchwork SUNSET. I SIT on my lofty piazza, O'erlooking the restless sea; (And a spider glides over my forehead, A cockroach runs over my knee!) The god of the day is preparing His bed for another night ; (But a swarm of pestiferous sand-flies Is obscuring the glorious sight!) He's piling his cloud-blankets round him, Of crimson embroidered with gold; (That ant crawling under my collar, Down my spine sends a shiver of cold ! ) He's nodding — but with eye still half open Tips a distant sail with his fire; {Dios mio! another mosquito Is twanging his dissonant lyre!) He's sleeping — the night-lamps are twinkling All around his limitless bed; (And a bat, darting hither and thither. Has just missed hitting my head!) Farewell till to-morrow, old fellow ! Thou warmest, most tropical friend! (A centipede's slowly approaching — 'Tis time for my reverie to end!) Panama Patchwork BEYOND THE CHAGRES. Beyond the Chagres River Are paths that lead to death — To the fever's deadly breezes, To malaria's poisonous breath! Beyond the tropic foliage, Where the alligator waits. Are the mansions of the Devil — His original estates! Beyond the Chagres River Are paths fore'er unknown. With a spider 'neath each pebble, A scorpion 'neath each stone. 'Tis here the boa-constrictor His fatal banquet holds, And to his slimy bosom His hapless guest enfolds! Beyond the Chagres River Lurks the cougar in his lair. And ten hundred thousand dangers Hide in the noxious air. Behind the trembling leaflets, Beneath the fallen reeds, Are ever-present perils Of a million different breeds! Panama Patchwork Beyond the Chagres River 'Tis said — the story's old — Are paths that lead to mountains Of purest virgin gold; But 'tis my firm conviction, Whatever tales they tell, That beyond the Chagres River All paths lead straight to hell ! THE ISTHMIAN WAY. To bow and scrape and shake your hand, To greet you with a smile so bland That you will think no other friend Can toward you half the good intend; But still to cherish in one's heart Enough rank hate to fill a cart — This is the Isthmian way. To buy for gold and silver pay; To answer yea while thinking nay, To borrow some one's little wealth, And leave the country for one's health; To plot and scheme and slyly seek To make some decent man a sneak— This is the Isthmian way. Panama Patchwork To kiss the man who wins success, And kick the man whose luck is less ; To make of vice beatitude, And virtue of ingratitude! Accept all favors, but omit To e'er return the benefit — This is the Isthmian way. To curry favor with the great, And pander to one's meanest trait; To smash the Decalogue to bits. But give your neighbor's weakness fits ! Oppress the weak, uphold the strong — In short, do everything that's wrong — This is the Isthmian way. To wage a miasmatic strife. And suffer all the ills of life ; To eat and drink one's self to death. And curse God with one's latest breath And then a ''heavenly mansion" fill Prepared for one on Monkey Hill — This is the Isthmian way. God grant that haply some of us Escape the general animus. And travel, though but falteringly, The nobler path of charity : Tho' stumbling often, still to find More cleanly records left behind Than by the Isthmian way. Panama Patchwork THE FUNERAL TRAIN. Thrust her in the dead-car box! Jump aboard — let's have a ride ! Ring the merry engine bell : Death has claimed another bride! Pass the gin to every one, Pull the throttle open wide — Pobrc de solemnidad! Now we start — we round the curve — Down the busy street we go ! There is Gardner's circus-tent, And to-night we'll see the show ! Through the window stick your head- Wave your hat to all you know — Pobre de solemnidad! Here Fox River is at last — See those men and women fight! Sal, old gal, give me a smoke — Bless my skin, that sun is bright! Here we are at Monkey Hill; Lend a hand — the corpse is light: Pobre de solemnidad! Up the weedy slope we climb : Billy Black, you're drunk, I swear! And so are you ! and you ! and you ! lo Panama Patchwork And so am I, I do declare ! Now you've dropped her! Pick her up! Leave the Hd — we're almost there! Pobre de solemnidad! Dump her in the common grave ! Aren't those lilies mighty sweet? In she goes! Now heap the earth — Never mind to be so neat! There's no need to make it deep — No frost here to nip her feet : Pobre de solemnidad! A FRIJOLES WASHER-GIRL. A DREAM in living bronze is she, A dusky goddess full revealed; Clad but in Nature's modesty — Her wondrous beauty unconcealed. Half to her knee, the rushing stream An instant pauses on its way; The ripples in the sunshine gleam, And tiny rainbows round her play. Lithe as the bamboo growing near Within the tangled, tropic glade; Panama Patchwork 1 1 As graceful as the startled deer Half hidden in the distant shade. The limbs, the hips, the swelling bust Of famed Olympus' fairest queen, Ne'er modelled yet on lines more just Was ever sculptured marble seen! Her curl-fringed eyes, now black, now brown, Are depths of passion unexplored ; Her teeth, a glistening, pearly crown A Rajah would delight to hoard. A dream, a dream in bronze is she, A dusky goddess full revealed! Clad but in Nature's modesty — Her wondrous beauty unconcealed! 1 2 Panama Patchwork JOHN ASPINWALL. A QUAINT old moke is John Aspinwall, Who Hves by the Dead-House gate, And quaint are his thoughts, if thoughts at all Ever lurk in his woolly pate. For he's old as the hills, is this old black man — Thrice doubled with age is he; And the days when his wanderings first began Are shrouded in mystery. Perhaps he was living when Morgan's crew Came lusting for Spanish gold, And drenched the Isthmus with bloody dew In the brave, bold days of old. Perhaps he was here when the pioneers Of the days almost forgot Made a trail o'er the land with their bitter tears And the bones they left to rot. Perhaps he was here when Totten came And Baldwin and all the rest, To build thro' the swamps their pathway to fame From Chagres to Ancon's crest. And many a night he has lain, no doubt, By the side of some comrade ill. Whose corpse, in the morn, he has carried out To its rest on Monkey Hill. Panama Patchwork 13 For years upon years he has seen the tide Of adventurers ebb and flow — Success and improvidence, side by side, Seen ceaselessly come and go. He has seen the gamut of passion run. Oh, thousands and thousands of times! And witnessed the brightest, purest sun Uncover the darkest of crimes. Yet never a word will he answer me Whenever he passes by, Though often a curious light I see In his fathomless, coal-black eye. Oh, a quaint old moke is John Aspinwall, Who lives by the Dead-House gate; And quaint are his thoughts, if thoughts at all Ever lurk in his woolly pate! 14 Panama Patchwork "CINCO CENTAVOS?" I WONDER 'neath what ban His worthless Hfe began, And where he learned to say, As I hear him every day: *'*' Cinco centavosf " No one has ever heard Him say another word; He may know more, 'tis true. But he'll only answer you : '*" Cinco centavosf " He's such a queer old boy, With his pants of corduroy And his faded velvet coat, While he says, as if by rote: '*' Cinco centavosf " His shirt is ancient, too, He wears one boot, one shoe. And he twirls a shabby cane As he chants the old refrain : " Cinco centavosf '' His hair has not been cut Since he washed his face of smut Panama Patchwork 1 5 Years ago, when he was neat And knew not to repeat: '' Cinco centavos? " Each day he tramps the town, Tho' the rain is pouring down, With the mud up to his knees. Greeting every one he sees : " Cinco centavos? " He sleeps beneath the pier — If you Hsten, you can hear The echoes grumbhng deep As he murmurs in his sleep: " Cinco centavos? " The fate in store for him Must be a synonym Of the woful wretchedness His only words express : '' Cinco centavos? " 1 6 Panama Patchwork TO THE SOUTHERN CROSS. When evening drapes her filmy robe O'er distant hill and drooping palm, And, save soft echoes, naught disturbs The purple twilight's drowsy calm — Soft echoes from the coral reef; The waves' low greeting to the stars, That, answering across the sea, Send fellowship on shining bars — 'Tis then, while earth is slumbering, Its w^oes forgot in restful dreams, That thou, Christ's love-test symbolling, Shed'st o'er the blue thy sacred beams. 'Tis then by him who, listening, waits, The still, small voice is heard again In song — the sweetest ever sung — '' Upon earth peace: good-will to men! Panama Patchwork 1 7 THE SEA-GRAPE TREE. Long, long ago, in the faded past, A breeze from the Indigo Hills — Where every morn the sun is born 'Mid fair Santa Rita's rills — On its fragrant breath a seedling bore Across the arm of the sea, And on the shore where the breakers roar It planted the sea-grape tree. And old Mother Carib nursed it long, And chanted it lullabies; And over each leaf from out on the reef She watched with vigilant eyes. And the rain and the mist and the gentle dew Brought strength to its lengthening roots; And the sun with his light and the moon with her light, Both nourished its tender shoots. And so the tree grew to a wondrous size, And in wondrous shape as well ; Yet weird tho' its look, there never was book That could weirder stories tell ! 1 8 Panama Patchwork For within the memory of man 'tis known That, under its spreading shade, Full many a one, his travail done, His bed of death hath made. And below its branches men have sat And plotted a nation's wrong; While lovers have met, as they sit there yet, To murmur the world-sweet song. And many a fateful duel there Have lifelong comrades fought; And near to its seat have children's feet For the branching coral sought. Around its trunk the mummers have danced To the clicking castinet, And beneath its boughs the gay carouse And funeral train have met! Yet all undisturbed by Nature's hand. On the shores of the changeful sea, Oblivious still to the good or the ill, Standeth the sea-grape tree! Panama Patchwork 19 WOODBINE SALLY. (a memory of eighty-six.) In a low and rambling shanty Outside the stable gate, Where woolly-headed " aunty" With wash-bills used to wait, All the boys were wont to rally For cocktails every night; And 'twas there I first saw Sally, Poor Sally — almost white. By day or night she took delight In greeting every guest That came her way, and made him pay For the glass she'd quaff with zest ! But she left us one dry season To glut her appetite With a mixture called Ambrosia — Poor Sally — almost white ! Her hair was like dried seaweed. Her eyes were faded blue; Her limbs, they say, were knock-kneed, Her skin was saffron hue ! Her features were not classic. But her teeth were snowy bright, And her speech was somewhat drastic — Poor Sally — almost white! 20 Panama Patchwork Much drink she'd try to sell you With manner frank and free, And any one will tell you She was quick at repartee ! For her own or for the bar's sake She never shirked a fight ! She was handy with a car-stake — Poor Sally — almost white! But, oh, one hot December, Things snapped inside her head! Some old folks may remember How she looked when she was dead! And they've torn the " woodbine" roots up Till there's not a sprig in sight, Yet sometimes a memory shoots up Of Sally — almost white! Panama Patchwork 1 1 ISTHMIAN HYMN. Come, all ye children of the soil, Ye offspring of the sun ! Aid me to praise these later days Of glory just begun! Aid me to praise in fitting phrase Your land of liberty — By Heaven's grace the sacred place Of your nativity! O land of palm and mountain peak. Of never-fading green! Of oceans twain and storied main, The undisputed queen! O land whose fond enchantments bind The stranger's heart to thee; Here be it known, we frankly own Thy gracious sovereignty! Thy broad savanna vies in wealth With golden-pebbled stream! Thy tableland and pearly strand With untold riches teem! Thy precious forests spread their arms O'er fruitage lush and wild : In all and part, thou surely art Fair Nature's darling child! 22 Panama Patchwork Forever shall thy pathway trend Toward glory's gleaming goal! Eternally shall loyalty Inspire each Isthmian soul ! Forever shall thy sons maintain Their noble sires' renown; For aye, through them, thy fame shall gem Colombia's priceless crown! THE TRADE-WIND. Blow, thou brave old trade-wind, blow ! Send the mighty billows flashing In the radiant sunlight dashing, O'er the reef like thunder crashing ! Blow, thou brave old trade-wind, blow! Blow, thou grand old trade- wind, blow! Oh, for caves in which to store thee! See the palm-trees bow before thee— Yea, like them, we do adore thee. Blow, thou grand old trade- wind, blow! Blow, thou kind old trade-wind, blow! Blow, oh, blow with fierce endeavor! Blow the fever far, forever! Let the mists return, oh, never! Blow, thou kind old trade-wind, blow! Panama Patchwork 23 Blow, thou good old trade- wind, blow! Blow away our tropic madness! Blow away our untold sadness! Blow us lasting peace and gladness! Blow, thou kind old trade-wind, blow ! A SONG OF DRY WEATHER. When the rains at last cease falling, And the bracing trade- wind blows; When the reef no stagnant waters Or festering seaweed knows; 'Tis a crime to mope within doors In an atmosphere impure — Come out, and drink deep, eager draughts Of God's sure fever cure! Every breath is full of gladness, Each inspiration joy! Every sparkle of the sunshine A gem without alloy ! Every tumble of the billows Maketh music far more sweet Than ever great composer wrought A world's applause to greet! 24 Panama Patchwork Not a cloud bedims the heavens, That are smiHng with dehght; Not a memory of sorrow Approaching blurs the sight ! Of all pleasures that life giveth, None ever can compare With the bliss dry weather bringeth In its pure, health-giving air! YELLOW EYES. You are going to have the fever, Yellow eyes ! In about ten days from now Iron bands will clamp your brow ; Your tongue resemble curdled cream, A rusty streak the centre seam; Your mouth will taste of untold things, With claws and horns and fins and wings ; Your head will weigh a ton or more, And forty gales within it roar ! In about ten days from now You will feebly wonder how All your bones can break in twain And so quickly knit again! Panama Patchwork 25 You will feel a score of Jaels In your temples driving nails! You will wonder if you're shot Through the liver-case, or what ! You will wonder if such heat Isn't Hades — and repeat! Then you'll sweat until, at length. You — won't — have — a — kitten's — strength! In about ten days from now Make to health a parting bow; For you're going to have the fever, Yellow eyes ! HE HAS GONE. Close the door — across the river He has gone! With an abscess on his liver He has gone! Many years of rainy seasons, And malaria's countless treasons, Are among the many reasons Why he's gone! 26 Panama Patchwork Bind the wasted jaw up Hghtly — He has gone! Close the sunken eyehds tightly — He has gone! Chinese gin from Bottle Alley Could not give him strength to rally — Lone to wander in Death Valley He has gone! In a wooden box we've laid him, In his best clothes we've arrayed him — He has gone! Bogus Hennessey and sherry With his system both made merry — Very hard he fought them — very ! Yet he's gone! Down the hill we tramp once more, friends, He has gone! Once again we've seen all o'er, friends, He has gone! Let us hope we may endure, or, At least, our taste be surer — Let us pray the liquor's purer Where he's gone ! Panama Patchwork 27 THE PARADISE OF FOOLS. Nineteen hundred miles from home We have crossed the ocean's foam ; Left our kin and comrades dear, Shed the customary tear; Left whatever hfe is worth For the rummest place on earth — For the Paradise of Fools. All good things to eat and drink, Left for what ? You'd never think ! Tough old bull-beef, mud-fed swine. Store-made liquors, logwood wine' Every blessed day the same: Change is nothing but a name In the Paradise of Fools. Recreation? There is none; If there were, 'twould weary one! Innocence and sportiveness ? Bitter foes and nothing less ! Cards and cocktails, yes; galore! Only these, and nothing more In the Paradise of Fools. Hold ! There's one thing I forget : Scandal peddling's left us yet! God knows, there's enough of that To make a shrunken mummy fat! 28 Panama Patchwork Be the subject low or high, We must gossip — or we die In the Paradise of Fools. Yet we're happy, blithe, and gay ; Else we'd go away and stay! How we kick and squirm and shout O'er attempts to drive us out ! We are all content to dwell In this suburb of — ah, well ! In the Paradise of Fools. THE BUSIEST MAN. Oh, don't disturb the gentleman, He's as busy as can be! You might attract his notice from Something that he should see. Just touch your hat, and quickly say. Good-morning or, Ta-ta, For he's got to run the universe — Colon and Panama! Pray, think of what he's got to do, This very busy man ! He's got the biggest kind of job. Just match it if you can. Panama Patchwork 29 He's got to note the time when we Arise to start the day, And he's got to Hsten carefully To every word we say. He's got to watch us labor, and He's got to watch us play; He's got to know what debts we owe. And why we cannot pay ; He's got to know what cost the clothes In which we look so neat — The necktie and the hat w^e w^ar. And the shoes upon our feet. He's got to see us at our meals. Know what we eat and drink; He's got to know what books we read, As well as what we think. If we sit down awhile to chat With friends of many years. He's got to join the party with His all-absorbing ears. If we to town go for a walk When sunset ends our work, He's got to sneak round corners bleak, Or in dark alleys lurk, To see what we are doing here. Or what we're doing there. And run the risk of fever in The evening's heavy air. 30 Panama Patchwork He's got to know the '' female" that " Does up" our weekly shirt; (She may wear diamonds in her ears, Or lace upon her skirt ! ) Or, if one has that wondrous thing (That doubtful joy of life), He's got to know each time that one Has a squabble with his wife. He's got to listen to the tale Of every injured soul; Of every row between two friends. He's got to know the whole. Of what most folks talk sparingly, He's got to glibly shout. And run like lightning up and down To spread it all about. He's got to watch the Government, Each corporation, too; And every private enterprise He's got to carry through. He's got to keep a-moving, and Must never blink his eye. For he's got to have his finger in Each individual pie! So don't disturb the gentleman — I'm sure, you plainly see That, as Mister Gossip is his name. He's as busy as can be. Panama Patchwork 3^ Just nod your head, and quickly say, Good-morning or, Ta-ta, For he's got to run the universe — Colon and Panama! WHILE WE'RE STILL LIVING ON. There's a gospel that I fain would preach as to the manner born, To all ye sons of wretchedness from temperate regions torn; As upon the torrid isthmus, heat-oppressed and fever-worn. We still are living on ! 'Tis an oft-repeated message, will ye never give it heed ? Ninety times and nine tho' it hath failed, the hun- dredth may succeed ; So let's print and post and blazon it, that he who runs may read, While we're still living on! Speak lightly not of any man, and guard your neighbor's fame; 32 Panama Patchwork For others prize as you may prize a fair, unsulhed name ; And while criticising others' gaits, you may your- self be lame! While W'C're still living on! An honest man's an honest man until he's proved a thief; Never yet was lasting happiness built on another's grief; Let us bear in mind of Graces three that Charity is chief. While we're still living on! Thus, in our brief existence in this land of sudden death. We may breathe, perchance, when day is done, a self-contented breath; And more calmly view the angel w^hen toward us he wandereth! While we're still living on ! Panama Patchwork 33 THE NAKED BROWN BABIES OF BOLIVAR STREET. Tho' Destiny holds in her shadowy hands Adventure and incident for us to meet, We'll never forget, tho' we may not regret. The naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. The crash of the breakers, the lash of the gale, The thrash of the rain and the sun's awful heat. May pass from us all, but we'll ever recall The naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. The idiom local— that shuffle of speech We learn ere our isthmus instruction's complete— We'll lose it— we ought— yet we'll cling to the thought Of the naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. The pleasures and pains of the present and past Our sojourn here making so sad or so sweet; Tho' all fade away, thro' the memory will stray The naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. They wade in the puddles, they roll in the dust. No weather can ever their pleasure defeat; All days are the same ! Life is only a game To the naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. 34 Panama Patchwork THAT EXCELLENT HEART. How often wt hear some kind critic inveigh Against some one — not present, you know ! How he'd have done this thing a far different way, And that thing have done so and so. He will analyze closely each venial sin, Each motive or speech tear apart; Then, suddenly conscious, will deftly slip in The cant of the excellent heart ! The absent one's clothes he will oft criticise — They are either too coarse or too fine; Profoundly he'll gabble and look very wise O'er some fellow's fondness for wine. Like a Guayaquil parrot, he'll chatter all day, Down Ruin's road every one start; Then, rememb'ring himself, have something to say Of the undoubtedly excellent heart ! The absent one thinks that the critic's his friend. For he's eaten his bread and his salt. And will lend him his money if he has it to lend — For he's generous, is he, to a fault. But the critic is blind to all virtues, be sure. Save when they add gall to his dart; But one balm does he offer his back-wounds to cure : Oh, I am sick of that excellent heart ! Panama Patchwork 35 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS RIGHT. 'Tis oh, for the might of a master mind And the grace of a gifted pen ! That Apollo's lyre and Sappho's fire Might be awaked again, To suggest the choicest thoughts and words, To assist, direct, indite. And to make the song remembered long Of the man who is always right ! Oh, beloved of all the gods is he. The most fortunate of men ! And many of us are envious. In spite of Commandment Ten, As we see him glance serenely down From his moral, mental height. And note the smile, so free from guile. Of the man who is always right ! His virtue, like Saint Anthony's, Is ninety above proof ! From cards and drink he wisely shrinks, And holds himself aloof! He has no venial weaknesses, His soul is spotless, white; Vice leaves no trace on the tranquil face Of the man who is always right ! ^6 Panama Patchwork There is nothing that he does not know All, everything about! O'er questions vexed he is ne'er perplexed, Nor troubled with a doubt ! His ipse dixits clouds dispel As the day o'ercomes the night; Oh, the happiest man since the world began Is the man who is always right! There is hope of a tree if it be cut down. There is hope for the withered grass ! There is hope on the deck of a storm-toss'd wreck, But no hope for us, alas ! We are doomed to be always in the wrong, And to linger 'neath the blight Of the chilly air and frosty glare Of the man who is always right ! Panama Patchwork 37 A PANAMA LULLABY. Lullaby, lullaby, child of the morning, List to the matin bells hailing the day ; See the sun blithely the cloudlets adorning. Ere beginning his journey from far down the bay. Lovingly, tenderly, each cloud caressing With glances of love-light and fingers of gold, For each one doth hold for my darling a blessmg, That each hour of the day shall gently unfold. Lullaby, lullaby, child of the even. List to the vesper bells closing the day; See the moon marshal the star-hosts of heaven Ere beginning her journey from far down the bay. Lovingly, tenderly, each star caressing With glances of love-light and fingers of gold; For each one doth hold for my darling a blessmg That each hour of the night shall gently unfold. Oh, child of the dawning, child of the gloaming, Light of my spirit and pride of my heart! Down into dreamland go fearlessly roammg: Thy heart from my bosom shall ne'er be apart. By day and by night I will guard thee securely- Thy life is my life, my glorious boy— 3 8 Panama Patchwork In my arms slumbering — guilelessly, purely, Thou'rt God's choicest gift and man's greatest joy! A TROPIC NOCTURNE. Now the waves are softly murmuring their evening hymn of praise, And the fleecy clouds are listening in the stars' prismatic rays; All the palms are gently nodding in the moon's argental light, And the tireless loom of Time fast weaves the royal robe of Night. Out upon the sheeny waters rides a snowy sailed canoe, And the boatman chants an Ave, bidding vanished day adieu; Crooning cradle-songs of Ocean weary souls to rest invite. And the drowsy Evening falls asleep upon the breast of Night. Deep and deeper grows the purple of the distant mountain range; Panama Patchwork 39 Stars and waters, palms and moonbeams loving benisons exchange; In the hush of drooping silence, with resistless, tender might, Reigns, serene in her omnipotence, the goddess- empress Night. SAN LORENZO. Cloud-crested San Lorenzo guards The Chagres' entrance still, Tho' o'er each stone dense moss hath grown. And earth his moat doth fill. His bastions, feeble with decay. Steadfastly view the sea. And sternly wait the certain fate The ages shall decree. His reservoir is filled with slime, Where noxious insects breed ; Corroding rust its greedy lust On shot and gun doth feed ; The moaning wind sobs dismally Thro' crumbling port and hold ; The staring owl and reptile foul Thrive on his donjon's mold. 40 Panama Patchwork Left there, a sentry lone to strive Against some Morgan's crew — To guard our wives' and children's lives Should the past itself renew; To breast and buffet every storm, To falter not nor fail; His charge to keep ; nor toil nor sleep Against him to prevail. Still standeth San Lorenzo there, Aye faithful at his post, Tho' scoffing trees in every breeze Their prime and vigor boast. His garrison is but the shades Of soldiers of the past, But it pleaseth him, alone and grim, To watch until the last! OUR LITTLE LANDSCAPE. Across the little landscape of our lives The shadows of the whole world seem to flit ; Ere one departs another one arrives. So limited, so very small is it. The passions of the universe crowd here — Here gather Love and Joy and Hate and Pain ; Panama Patchwork The first fall ill, soon leave us with a tear ; The last, at once acclimatized, remain. From East to West 'tis scarce a tenth degree, This parallelogram whereon we dwell ; 'Tis only fifty miles from sea to sea, But far from heaven, far too close to hell ! THE WANING MOON. Here's a health to the waning moon, my boys, To the waning tropical moon ! She smiles us her blessing, tho' faint, 'tis sincere, 'Twill be nearer and clearer soon! So gather around me, your glasses fill high! Anger and worry ! Come, let them go by ! Here's hoping you never, no, never may die I And a health to the waning moon ! She leaves us a time, but returns soon again In fresh and more gorgeous array! And so will our sorrows, in far different guise, As joys gladden some coming day! Then stand to me steady, and smile thro' your tears ! Pluck up your courage, and banish your fears ! Here's hoping all happiness thousands of years, And a health to the waning moon! 42 Panama Patchwork THE NEVER-FAILING FRIEND. You have days, yes, weeks of lonehness that never seem to end, When you're sure the world's against you, and you haven't got a friend; You are weary and discouraged, and you wish the fight w^as o'er, For your heart is almost bursting, and your soul is sick and sore. There's no music in the billows, there's no balm upon the breeze; There's no gladness in the sunlight— only sadness in the trees! Life has grown to be a burden that you can no longer bear, Or an ever-changing puzzle that you give up in despair. Then it is some fellow tells you that he's always been your friend; Swears you know it — that he's proved it on occa- sions without end! That once more he's going to do so — if you'll never breathe a word — Then repeats some nasty gossip that about you he has heard! Panama Patchwork 43 Lord preserve us, or we perish ! We can't stand it very long! We are growing weak and weaker, and the pres- sure's growing strong! Order up thy mightiest cannons, and the trembhng walls defend. For they're tottering 'neath the onslaughts of the never-failing friend. KING FEVER. He's ruler of rulers o'er all the earth. King Fever is his name! From the monarch grown gray to the prince at his birth, King Fever is his name! Before him, emperor, sultan, and czar, President, pontiff, mikado, and shah. Caliph and mandarin powerless are. King Fever is his name! All, all must approach him with sceptreless hands, King Fever is his name! For his are their subjects, their crowns and their lands. King Fever is his name! 44 Panama Patchwork His are their diadems, jewels and wealth ; Naught can they hide from him, sly tho' their stealth ; Heirs or inheritance, beauty or health. King Fever is his name! Then hail! All hail, to the Great Socialist! King Fever is his name ! Whose levelling power none can resist, King Fever is his name! Whose might can demolish the whole Chinese Wall, And round our poor craniums rebuild it all — Whose flames burn alike the great and the small — King Fever is his name! THE SONG OF THE MOSQUITO. In Hades' blackest corner A murky river flows; No imp knows whence it cometh, No devil where it goes. 'Twas in its noisome vapor That Satan watched my birth. And just through simple kindness I winged my way to earth. Panama Patchwork 45 I'm a very small mosquito, In Aspinwall I dwell; By days I'm inoffensive, But nights I'm merry — well, I tune my tiny fiddle, I sound my tiny gong, And make folks' lives a burden With the burden of my song! My touch is light and downy — They know not I am there Till 2im! what howls and curses! 'Tis laughable, I swear! I draw my little dagger, I cock my little eye. And make the meekest Christian Hate God, and wish to die! 46 Panama Patchwork ''NO ICE." (a litany of thirst.) From a lowly latitude, Seeking Thy beatitude; From a long-forgotten spot, From creation's darkest blot, Comes a sound of rushing tears. Doth no other reach Thine ears? Listen, Lord! Turn Thy head ! Look West— look South ! Canst Thou see the Chagres' mouth? Yes! Look there — below it — there! Thro' the mist that fouls the air, Thro' malaria's noisome veil, Hear'st Thou not the frenzied wail? Listen, Lord! There, beneath the starry cross — Emblem of Thy self-planned loss! There, where in his burning hand, Satan clutches sea and land, Pilgrims, fainting with despair, Hoarsely iterate one prayer: Listen, Lord! Panama Patchwork 47 Cringing, shrinking, kneehng there, Thro' scorching night and midday glare; Craving only that Thy grace May assign their plea a place ; Of Thy largess asking naught Save the boon that Dives sought: Listen, Lord! THE SAND-FLY. Oh, Lord ! Oh, Nature ! Oh, whatever be The power properly addressed, I pray thee humbly — pray on bended knee — Grant this one plea, deny the rest ! Tis little that I ask from out the store Of blessings in thy right to give ; And surely thou dost daily waste much more On folks less fit than I to live ! I crave but this : That from the different kinds Of insects cursing night and day — (The entomologist claims that he finds Five hundred thousand, so they say) — 48 Panama Patchwork Thou wilt at once destroy, annihilate, Permit no longer to exist — Efface, cut off, rub out, obliterate The pesky sand-fly from the list! THE SONG OF THE PRICKLY HEAT. With face drawn into a scowl, With teeth well into his tongue. Perspiring, like any old leaky pump, Squirmed a man no longer young. Scratch, scratch, scratch. From forehead down to feet! And still tho' his voice with anger rang, 'Mid grunts and curses he hoarsely sang This song of the prickly heat! Itch, itch, itch. Till night drives the day away! Itch, itch, itch. Till day drives the night away! Arms and stomach and legs. Neck and ankles and back, Digging them all till they scorch and bleed. From one to the other with lightning speed, Like a demented jumping- jack! Panama Patchwork 49 Oh, 'tis off with your coat and vest! 'Tis off with your shoes and pants ! Till, naked and bare, your skin you tear In a wild Saint Vitus dance ! Scratch, scratch, scratch. With ever- waxing ire! While into each pore a needle darts. And the cuticle burns and shrivels and smarts, Like blisters of hell's own fire ! Itch, itch, itch. While the months a- whirling go! Itch, itch, itch, As the years to decades grow! Oh, God, for a moment's rest! Or, if I can't be granted that, In one spot quench the teasing flame, Or blot that spot from my tortured frame — The spot that I can't get at. With face drawn into a scowl, With teeth well into his tongue. Perspiring, like any old leaky pump. Squirmed a man no longer young. Scratch, scratch, scratch. From forehead down to feet! And still tho' his voice with anger rang (I wonder himself he doesn't hang!) 'Mid grunts and curses he hoarsely sang This song of the prickly heat! 50 Panama Patchwork SONG OF THE MISANTHROPE. Oh, I'm a sullen misanthrope, A hater of my kind ; Man's faults, as thro' a microscope. Wax large within my mind. Each sin that others trifling think To me is great, indeed; And crimes from which most people shrink My taste for misery feed. In every eye I plainly see The evil lurking there ; Beneath each gentle voice to me Appears a guileful snare. In hand-clasps smooth hypocrisy I always can detect, And e'en a hat doffed courteously But envy doth reflect. All tenderness is selfishness, That veils some low desire; And purity to me is less Than vileness in the mire. And lofty thoughts, he, he, ho, ho. What sport they give to me ! Their sire is Vanity, I know ! Still lives the Pharisee! Panama Patchwork 51 Each weakness human nature shows Is meat and drink for me, And o'er man's many wrongs and woes I laugh in hearty glee ! 'Twas Malice who wrote Friendship's laws, With Spite, her sister elf! I hate my fellow-man because I'm hateful to myself! A MARVEL. " The body of a man weighing one hundred and fifty-four pounds contains forty-six quarts of water." — Curious Facts. What? Forty-six quarts of water To eleven stone of man ? You're wrong in your figures, Mister, If you talk of an Isthmian ! Come down and live in the tropics, And perspire a year or two ; Then alter your calculations Till they're somewhat nearer true ! Instead of quarts say gallons — And even then you'll be Full many a cask found lacking Of the proper quantity! 52 Panama Patchwork Why, bless your soul and body, When the sun shines after a show'r, Most men will sweat a hogshead Of water in an hour ! And therein lies the marvel, If one stops to think awhile ; 'Tis a puzzle where it comes from In such a liquid pile ! Is't the dampness of the climate, Or something far more queer? One thing is mighty certain : Folks don't drink water here! GEOGRAPHICAL. Where the longitude's mean and the latitude's low, Where the hot winds of summer perennially blow, Where the mercury chokes the thermometer's throat. And the dust is as thick as the hair on a goat. Where one's mouth is as dry as a mummy accurst — There lieth the Land of Perpetual Thirst. Panama Patchwork S3 HE'LL NEVER DIE. On gloomy Styx's banks I stand, Great crowds are passing over ; And patiently I watch and wait One party to discover. The ferry daily busier grows— Old Charon shakes with laughter- Yet vainly do I seek the face Of the man whose luck I'm after ! WHEN THE TRADE-WIND BLOWS AGAIN. Many suns will lag and loiter from the Blue Hills to the sea, Dragging lengthening days behind them to the vague eternity; Many moons will arch their crescents over forest, field, and fen Ere the storm-clouds cease to lower and the trade- wind blows again. 54 Panama Patchwork But he's coming, oh, he's coming, tho* he's long upon the way! We'll forget the weary waiting when he bounds across the bay ! He's been trafficking with Boreas within his chilly den, And we'll profit by his bargains when the trade- wind blows again. He is roaming thro' the piney woods, and storing up the scent! He is bottling for us perfumes that no chemist can invent ! He's exploring vale and mountain, lilied lake and mossy glen For the presents he will bring us when the trade- wind blows again. He is scouring round for ozone — simply cramming all his trunks With the precious stuff to heave at us in large and luscious chunks! Talk about the gifts of Sheba to the luckiest of men, Why, they won't be in it, brother, when the trade- wind blows again! Panama Patchwork 55 "TO BLAME?" He was to blame, you say, sir? Now, just look here, my friend, Don't you think your criticisms The ears of Christ offend? 'Twas He who once said, Judge not ! And He alone can tell Whose " negligence" occasioned The loss of the Moselle. " Neglect ? " Oh, yes, 'tis easy For lubbers just like you To spin out yarns in fathoms. And for fools to think 'em true! Who taught you navigation? How long have you been to sea? You don't know port from starboard. Or weather side from lee! The facts are these: Our captain Was new upon this coast. But a better man nor braver The whole line couldn't boast! He knew his business, too, sir, As well as it could be known. But he couldn't run the currents Or storms of the Torrid Zone ! 56 Panama Patchwork The course he set 's been sailed on For more than a hundred trips By a hundred different captains, Who haven't lost their ships! Who sent the gale that swept us With lightning speed ahead? Who sent the sea like mountains And the darkness of the dead? I'll bet my next month's wages You've lost your way on shore ! At sea, and in a tempest. Is a damned sight different score! How's man to sight his headlands When God obscures the view? I'd like to have an answer — Who'll tell me, sir — can youf He's dead ! — a hero, too, sir, If ever there was one! He died to do his duty — What more could he have done? '' To blame ? " He paid the forfeit ! And Jesus always lets The punishment fall lightly On a man who pays his debts ! Panama Patchwork 57 ON RONCADOR. No more the boatswain's pipe shall call To quarters on her deck ! On Roncador, on Roncador She lies— a lonely wreck ! No more shall bugler colors sound, Nor tuneful taps shall play ! On Roncador, on Roncador, In silence ends the day! No more shall curious visitor Be shown her famous gun ! On Roncador, on Roncador, Her guerdon she hath won ! Haul down the flag left flying there- No record let there be Of how we lost on Roncador Our veteran of the sea ! Tis better thus to lay away A memory of the past, Whose strife hath ended in a peace Forevermore to last ! Rest on, thou brave old Kearsargc, rest! The waves that round thee surge Shall on the shore of Roncador For ages chant thy dirge ! 58 Panama Patchwork THE VISIT. While the planets sang together At this old world's birth, Beauty loosed her golden fetters — Winged her way to earth. Hither, thither, free she rambled Over sea and land; Aimlessly she gaily wandered To far Carib's strand. On the laughing trade-wind's bosom Came she to entrance Into brightness all things gloomy Simply by her glance. She draped the palm, festooned the lily, Gave the sky its hue — Santa Rita looming distant. Robed in wondrous blue. Kissed the pear, smiled on the mango, Decked the pine with fringe. Dyed the orange and banana With the sunlight's tinge. Flitted thro' the tangled forest, Strewing fragrance rare, And where'er she paused a moment, Placed an orchid there. Panama Patchwork 59 Graced the slender, swaying bamboo, Crowned the cottonwood; Ferns and crotons sprang around her As she smiUng stood. Birds and blossoms dressed in prisms Her handiwork caressed — » Then sped on her journey, leaving Man alone unblessed! A NEW YEAR'S RAINBOW. It rose this morning out of the sea. Just as the sun was peeping. With glances bright at the distant night That still in the West was sleeping. The rain that in the sombre dawn Like tears from the clouds was falling Had passed away while the god of day The darkness was enthralling. And it said, " Faint heart, take cheer! Take cheer, And behold the sign and token I bring to thee from over the sea. Of the promise never broken! The grief I follow shall ne'er return : Oh, list to my joyous message! Dost thou not know that my gleaming bow Of a glad New Year is presage? " 6o Panama Patchwork THE COMRADES OF THE PLEASANT PAST. The comi*ades of the pleasant past, The cronies of our halcyon days, Aside frail friendship's ties have cast, And journeyed their appointed ways. Some in the land that gave them birth Our very names have long forgot; Some, wanderers upon the earth, 'Mid other scenes recall us not. Out yonder on the fateful hill, Where erst we laid them down to rest. Some, unremembered, slumber still. In earth's embrace more surely blest. And some, although they linger here, Have sought and found environment. Where, to our hearts tho' ever near. Far from our homes they woo content. The welcome chain, the willing bond. We fondly forged in passion's glow. Their fancied strength could not maintain ; We thought them steel : we find them tow ! Panama Patchwork 6i Thus ever ends the pretty play We act on hfe's capricious stage; Once learned, we fling old parts away, And con new roles from fresher page. All love, like filmiest gossamer. Is transient as the clouds above : Soon lost among the things that were, Save love of self and mother-love I CHIARINI AND HIS ELEPHANT. Chiarini and his elephant have been here a week or more, ^ Giving us an object-lesson every evenmg o er and o'er; t r . And he's left us now as ignorant as when he first began To illustrate to the public the most frequent fate of man. What a stupid crowd we must have been to watch him every night, Grinning grimly at the tragedy enacted m our sight ! 1 1 1 • Grinning grimly as the mighty beast obeyed his beck and nod — 62 Panama Patchwork Scowling darkly as he used his goad or shining silver prod! I say, what fools w^e must have been when, the poor brute's labor done. We smiled to see its pleasure o'er the insufficient bun, To have never gazed upon the glass Chiarini held on high. And beheld the truth reflected — and turned away to cry! For there's many men and women w^e can quickly call to mind Who have left both home and country, left even hope behind. Who are acting out life's ghastly farce before us every day. Who are shambling thro' their petty parts as best they can or may, Who forget the goad of avarice in the pat upon the head, And forgive the prod of silver for the needful loaf of bread ! All hail, then, Chiarini! Teach your lesson all about ! You may, sometime, meet people who have sense to find it out! Panama Patchwork 6;^ IN MEMORIAM. He's dead! He's dead! Poor Jack is dead, And gone to the monkey heaven ; He was very young w^hen he was born, And he died at the age of seven. I state this age for the sake of rhyme. Yet, wase ones, do not laugh, For truth is oft thus sacrificed To write an epitaph. He hved a strictly moral life, Though at heart a sybarite ; His mind a mine of wisdom was. And nature his delight. Though all the sciences he loved, First came anatomy ; And that is how he came to be An expert in phlebotomy. He passed his life examining All the insects he could get ; And all life's secrets were to him An open book, you bet ! And, thoughtless stranger, if you knew The things he must have known. We'd have to move to another world, For you'd claim this as your own. 64 Panama Patchwork So, dear old Jack, pray think of us As you eat your pease and rice, And swing contented by your tail On the trees of Paradise! THE EPITAPH. Here lies — although he told the truth, Or so to do did always try — A hybrid — neither man nor youth. I pray thee, stranger, let him lie ! His failings, his and his alone, Tho' possibly inherited. He only wished upon the stone Above his bones, to have it said : He sought with zeal the narrow way Of virtue and sobriety ; He found it — but the selfsame day Grew tired of the society! So chose he then, in bride bedecked. To build a pathway of his own ; He failed — he was no architect! His sins were his — let him atone ! Panama Patchwork 65 SAINTS' REST. One day quite recently a knock At heaven's brazen gates Ascended to the lofty post Where the warder, listening, waits; Who, summoning his shining host, Came down his private stair To question, as his custom is, The suppliant waiting there. He touched the mystic spring that throws The mighty bolts aside, And with a twist of his saintly wrist The portals opened wide. Before him stood a ghastly wreck Of manhood's promise fair, W^ho bore the gaze of all the throng With a damn-if-I-care air. He was, in truth, a broken man — Malaria's cankering hand Had stamped wan face and drooping form With her enduring brand. His joints were swollen, shoulders bent, x\nd as his shrivelled bones Contorted 'neath his shrunken skin, He gasped between his groans : 66 Panama Patchwork *' Oh, I'm the greatest sinner that Has e'er been here before, For each commandment of the law I've broken o'er and o'er ! I've taken God's great name in vain A milHon times, I think; And caused the good, with horror struck. From my foul words to shrink! I've worshipped idols countless times — In fact, these later days I've broken that express command A thousand different ways! " Since childhood's long-gone, happy hours The Sabbath I've ignored ; If ever I have gone to church, I've been supremely bored; And I've dishonored parents dear, Oh, time and time again ! I killed while running on the road I'm sure full fifty men! I've coveted each separate thing My neighbors have possessed. And to adultery's kindly crime I've frequently confessed! " False witness I have freely borne — I've lied my whole life long ; And taken, doubtless, many things That did not to me belong ! Panama Patchwork 67 In short, there's not a single vice That I've not wallowed in: I am a very monument Of reeking, hideous sin! But — " Here that dreadful, loathsome thing Approached Saint Peter's ear, And murmured something that alone The stooping guard could hear. And then before that startled throng Saint Peter grasped his hand; And motioning his shining host Each side the gate to stand. He led him to the golden stairs, And pointing straight ahead, In clarion, far-reaching voice To the wretched pilgrim said : *' Climb up, O weary one, climb up ! Climb high ! Climb higher yet, Until you reach the plush-lined seats That only martyrs get ! Then sit you down and rest yourself While years of bliss roll on ! " Then to the angels he remarked ''He's been living in Colon! 68 Panama Patchwork TWO WORDS. There are many things I love, my friends, and many things I hate; There are things I simply reverence, things I abominate ! And I'd like to tell them all to you, outspoken, frank, and fair; But 'twould take more time and patience than we've either got to spare. So we'll drop externals totally, for Nature drew the plan ; We can't change it one iota, nor no other power can! She placed thorns among the roses, gave the peach its bloom and fuzz. Some of us made straight, some crooked : *' Hand- some is that handsome does." There are faces that are beautiful — as fair as angels' wings! There are faces so repulsive that their flaws a shudder brings! But the loveliest face you ever saw may veil a leper's taint, And the face that's most repellent may disguise a very saint! Panama Patchwork 69 'Tis in deed and motive we must look for all our loves and loathes, For appearances of good and ill are masquerading clothes ! There's no man or woman either that forever can deceive ; There's a warp or woof that's rotten in each fahric that they weave! So to come right down to business, all I love and all I hate Just two words describe completely — just two words most fully state! They are easy words to think of, they are hard words to forget: They hold all the good and evil that the world's discovered yet! I love gentlemen in thought and act who to them- selves are true! I love women who are faithful, whose devotion's ever new! I love people whose ambition is the wreath of verity — These I love, and these I find in this one word: Sincerity ! I hate meanness, hate deception, and I hate a pander — cur! I hate arrogance and treachery, I hate a slanderer! 70 Panama Patchwork Hate a liar, hate the " codfish" in our aristocracy ! — These I hate, and these I find in this one word: Hypocrisy ! You will pardon me these platitudes — I wasn't '' called" to preach, And I'm struggling for a higher plane than I fear I'll ever reach; But I'd be very happy if, in spite of frowning fate, I could make some people love and hate the things I love and hate ! THEN AND NOW. Spake the Lord to His suffering servant, The mild-mannered martyr of Uz, From the midst of the turbulent tempest — As the Lord most generally does: " Who is this that darkeneth counsel By words without knowledge or sense? Where wert thou when I laid the foundations Of earth in the darkness intense? " When the morning stars chanted together, And my sons shouted loudly for glee? Panama Patchwork 71 When I made the cloud-garment of ocean, And his hmits did fix and decree? " Hast thou ever commanded the dawning By the hght of thy signified grace? Didst thou cause by thy precepts and teaching The dayspring to know his own place? " Unto thee have the gates of death opened ? Hast thou seen the door's shadow thereof ? And the dwellings of light and of darkness — Their places, dost know aught whereof? *' Who gendered the hoar-frost of heaven ? Out of whose womb cometh the ice? Will the waters pour forth their abundance From the clouds at the sound of thy voice? " Canst thou bind the sweet power of Pleiad ? The bands of Orion unhand? Canst thou send forth the thunder and lightning, Or hold them sedate in thy hand ? " Shall he that contendeth instruct Me? His duty to God shall he tell? Let him that reproves the Almighty Make answer — and answer it well ! " Thus spake the Lord out of the whirlwind To the mild-mannered martyr of Uz ; 72 Panama Patchwork But the Lord asked too many questions, As, somehow, the Lord always does! Yet now, if He'd speak in a zephyr, The mildest that blows o'er the bay. He'd get answers to all of His queries Ere the sound of His voice died away ! FIDUS ACHATES. O FAITHFUL friend! Companion Of many Isthmian years! Through dry and rainy season, Through happiness and tears, I've never known thee falter. Whatever chance might bring: Thy faith's an open psalter, From which thy praise I sing! Thy love each year increaseth By never act of mine; My conduct ever pleaseth That wondrous heart of thine! Tho' oft neglected, slighted. On days of selfish gloom, Thy fondness ne'er is blighted, But e'er in fuller bloom ! Panama Patchwork 73 Should Time decree us parting — Oh, may this never be! — I'll curse the fate disheart'ning That severs me from thee ! May Death unbarb his arrow Whene'er toward thee he shoots, And spare my soul to harrow, For I love thee, " Mr. Toots ! " WARNED. There is, so old Mohammed said Some little time ago (It was, if memory serves me well, Twelve hundred years or so!), A wondrous bridge across the space 'Twixt Earth and Paradise, Of marvellous construction and Most curious device. Not wider is its footpath than A famished spider's web; The knife-edge of the guillotine Is wider, so 'tis said ! And far beneath its dizzy height Lies Hell's appalling gloom, 74 Panama Patchwork Where tortured souls forevermore Work out their awful doom. And o'er this gruesome bridge must pass The spirits of the dead, With no less speed and no less weight Than Thought and Lightning wed! The soul that travels safely here Must sort its sins with care, Nor e'er attempt a heavy one Upon the span to bear. Of all the sins that falls have caused To those upon the trip, That bulky load, hypocrisy. Has made the most to slip. If this is really so, dear friends, Disastrously, I fear. Will end the parlous journey when We on the bridge appear! Panama Patchwork 75 TRANSMIGRATION. Ah, ha, I know you now at last! I've traced you thro' the ghostly past!. Down from the far Azoic Age I know your each succeeding stage ! I mind you well ! When I was stone You could not then leave me alone. For you were fungus — choked my breath With your putrescent, mouldy death! When I a megatherum — The last surviving — had become, You were the scale upon my eyes. You were the itch upon my thighs ! And then when I was pachyderm And ruminant, each in their turn, You were the poison in the mud — The bitter herb that spoiled the cud! I was a monkey, then a man; You first a louse, then saurian. I know! 'Tis scarce a thousand years Since you, a crocodile in tears. Swam up the Ganges, ate my child, And with your slime the stream defiled! And then when I in Lisbon town Incurred the Inquisition's frown. You were the fiend in red and black Who pressed the levers of the rack ! 76 Panama Patchwork I died for liberty ; you were The tyrant's executioner! Your presence then became a joy — You lost your power to annoy ! You saw my smile and your mistake, And quickly did that sphere forsake. Since then you haven't been a man ; To retrograde you then began, And now, tho' still with me you stay, You're that to-morrow, this to-day. The cur that howls the whole night through, The fever lurking in the dew. The sand-fly on my blood intent. The sly mosquito, pestilent ! The ant that o'er the sugar crawls. The spider on my head that falls ! You've found your office once again — Your sharpest tool is petty pain ! Your greater efforts lose their wings — You're potent but in little things ! Ah, yes, I know you thoroughly ! You'll cling to me eternally ; And reincarnate though I be Thro' century on century. You'll dog my footsteps night and day Till sense and matter pass away ! To happiness superlative You are the prefix negative! The qualification Evil sent — Your name is dis and mine content! Panama Patchwork 77 A TOAST. I DRINK to him who when he knows he's wrong Has manhness enough to say so; Whose Yes,, when others dodge, is clear and strong, Who when he thinks No will but say No. I drink to him whose spoken Yea and Nay No skilkers shelter just behind them ; Whose sentiments are open as the day, So when one needs them one can find them. I drink to him who to his own affairs Pays sole and strict attention purely ; Who deals not in his neighbor's wares — For he's a i^ara avis surely ! (Originally published in New York Life.) 78 Panama Patchwork SAINT PATRICK. Here's to you, dear old Patrick, In tuns of Irish wine, That tastes of bog and peat-fire, And that merry heart of thine ! A thousand heahhs I've pledged you, A thousand more I'll drink ! God keeps you. His pet crony, Near His right hand, I think! You, doubtless, sit there musing O'er the life that had to pass; Why don't you come and join me In one last fragrant glass ! In body 'tis not possible — You've cast flesh-pots away; But aid me with your spirit To drink your natal day ! You won't? 'Tis not your fault, then You've had your little fling. And now you're sublimated — Wear halo, robe, and wing! But know, my dear old fellow^ I've kindly thoughts of thee As I quaff this nightcap, dreaming Of Seventeenths to be! Panama Patchwork 79 MALACHL The last of the prophets — old Malachi — Way up on the great coping-stone Of the loftiest tower of Paradise, Sat pensively musing alone As, weary of walking the golden streets. And inspecting the palaces fair, In my dream I ascended the battlements, And discovered him sitting there. I knew him at once, and I hastily climbed Over many a huge parapet. Till I reached him at last, and sat by his side On the top of the tall minaret. He seemed down in the mouth — dejected, in fact. And I marvelled profoundly thereat; But, laconic as ever, he gave me Good-day, And told me to take off my hat. He'd a halo round his head that wouldn't come off. Or he'd shed it, at least so he said; He remarked that he'd worn it for two thousand years. And 'twas getting as heavy as lead. '' In fact," said he, " stranger, I'm awfully tired Of — well, nearly everything here; The things that once seemed to me wondrously fine Are becoming unbearably drear. 8o Panama Patchwork '' I am tired of the sunHght that never grows dim, And I long for a shower of rain; A regular flood would be welcomed by me Could I see but a rainbow again ! I am tired of metallic, glittering streets. And I long for an old country road ; I long for the mountains, the valleys, the fields — To ride with the hay on the load ! '' I long for the trees, for the flowers, and ferns, And I long to hear birds sing again ; I am tired of the sound of hosanna and harp — Stringed instruments give me a pain! The jaspery sea is quite beautiful, yes, But of late it is rather a bore ; I am perfectly crazy to plunge in the surf, And to smell the salt water once more ! " I am tired of the summer — I wish it would snow! I'd like to see hoar-frost and ice ! I'd like to build forts, and slide down the hills — '■ Oh, zvouldn't that be mighty nice! I'd like to be out in a howling old gale — To buffet and battle the storm ! I wouldn't mind getting completely chilled through For the bliss of again getting warm ! " And, say ! — never breathe it ! — I once knew a girl When I sojourned in Palestine there, Panama Patchwork 8i Whose shoulders were guiUless of feathers or wings, Who wore sandals, and ' did up' her hair! " Right here I awoke, and I think it was time, Tho' I lost what the seer meant to say. Last night I retired, somewhat sick of this world, But I'm feeling more cheerful to-day ! ME TOO. Thar are these six things ez the Lord doth hate- Yes, seven ez make Him sick ! I wuz thinkin' 'em over myself last night. And they're enough tew make enny one kick! Ye kin find the hull list, ef ye don't believe me. In Proverbs, along to'rds the fust ; And uv all the sins uv humanity, I guess they are clus tew the wust. A proud look on the face uv a man Ez hain't got no pride at all ; Who don't even know the sense uv the word — Who thinks it means nothin' but gall ! A lyin' tongue thet wags, b'gosh. Like the clack uv an old grist-mill— 82 Panama Patchwork Thet is hung in the middle and works both ends, Thet death alone kin keep still ! Hands thet shed innercent blood comes next, And I calkerlate ye'll agree Thet thar's nothin' more pizon in enny one Than deliberet krewelty! And then thar's the heart thet's busy all day And purty near all the night, A-devizin' all kinds uv wickedness. And tryin* tew make black look white ! Nur He don't like the feet thet be so swift Ter run inter mischef and sich : The path thet they make don't run very straight. And like ez not leads tew a ditch ! A crooked witness ez can't speak the trewth Don't cut enny hgger with Him ! A perjerer's chances uv gittin' thar, I reckon, are all-fired slim ! Then the feller thet's allers a-raizin' a row 'Twixt people ez wanter be friends : He's the last on the list, but he wun't be the least When He declars His dividends! These are the things ez the Lord jest hates And abomernets all the way threw; I wuz thinkin' 'em over myself last night, And ril he durned ef I don't tew! / Panama Patchwork 83 LITTLE JAMAICA MAN. A COOLIE TOWN LULLABY. De sun's hangin' ovah de aidge of de worl', Li' I man, Wl man; An' de clouds in him breat' all frizzle an' curl, Li'l Jamaica man. Hit's gwine be dahk fe come bimeby, Li' I man, li'l man; So light up de tawch in you tail, firefly, Li'l Jamaica man. De stahs got ta swing low down dis night, Li'l man, li'l man; De fool-vahgin moon feegit hile fe light, Li'l Jamaica man. But hit meks no diff 'unce to dis sugah chile, Li'l man, li'l man; Hi fin' light 'nuff in him mummah smile, Li'l Jamaica man. De win* blow hahd, but him no git sleer, Li'l man, li'l man; De tunnah crack, but him mummah here, Li'l Jamaica man. 84 Panama Patchwork De Lahd got him safe in Him 'evingly keep, Li' I man, li'l man; So sleep along, honey, sleep — sleep — sleep, Li'l Jamaica man. BENEATH THE ROSE. Beneath the rose, who knows ? Perchance a serpent lurketh there. Safe-screened within that bosom fair; And passion's lightest breath that blows May all the turpitude disclose Clandestine there, beneath the rose ! — Who knows? Beneath the rose, who knows? Perchance a wrong is burning there A brand upon that bosom fair, That wider, deeper, hourly grows — A brand that ever flames and glows, Suspected not, beneath the rose! — Who knows? Beneath the rose, who knows? Perchance a love is dying there, Enfamished on that bosom fair — Panama Patchwork 85 A starveling, whose expiring throes Are witnessed not by friends or foes Who cannot see beneath the rose! — Who knows? Beneath the rose, who knows? Perchance a joy is hiding there, And madly thrills that bosom fair! Whate'er there be, it never shows ; She still doth smile and calmly pose! Can there be naught beneath the rose ? — Who knows? ONLY A WEED. I DISCOVERED a flowcr yesterday In a rubbish barrel growing; It smilingly nodded its head at me, In the gentle zephyr blowing. Its petals were beaten from elfin gold By a fairy as day was breaking; She daintily fashioned them all alike. From a heart her pattern taking. She joined them together in matchless grace. With a star each pendant gripping, 86 Panama Patchwork And enamelled them all with velvet gloss, Her brush in the sunshine dipping. From her diadem then, a tiny pearl She loosed from its sheeny setting, And fastened it down in a stellar zone With tethers of filmy netting. It was only a weed, when all is said, In a rubbish barrel growing, That smilingly nodded its head at me, In the gentle zephyr blowing; But I plucked it, and bring it here to you With never a word of preaching : Should it bear no lesson within itself, Why, you're past the power of teaching! Panama Patchwork ^7 SIMPLE AVE, Evening dons her starry robe, All the world's asleep ; Luna, pale and cold, looks down, Shadows sweep the deep. Yet, dear heart, thy presence seems Brightness full for me; Sleeping, thou art all my dreams. Awake, I dream of thee I List, oh, listen! Hear my vow As I longing plead: Faith and truth I pledge thee now, Love in thought and deed! Gently folds the wings of night. Darkness falls apace ; Yet my soul is full of light- Light from thy dear face. Night can ne'er of life be part; Darkness never be ! Day is ever in my heart While I think of thee! Gentle lady, of thy grace Tell me thou art mine ; Then shall neither time nor place All my love confine ! 88 Panama Patchwork Banish every doubt and fear, Grant my earnest plea; Bless the suppliant waiting here Thinking still of thee ! THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. Come, let us sit together while Old friends are round us falling. And memory doth our tears beguile — Departed days recalling. Hold thou my hand, and I'll hold thine, Thou friend of many graces. While we drink a cup of salty wine To the old familiar faces. Long years have we together dwelt, Thro' dry and rainy season; Fve felt with thee, as thou hast felt With me, o'er Fortune's treason. We've seen our comrades sail away To earth's far-distant places, And 'tis salty wine we drink to-day To the old familiar faces. Panama Patchwork 89 Together we have fought the fight — Each other always aiding — Together we have watched the hght 'Neath each other's eyehds fading. So put thy brave old hand in mine While we count the empty spaces, And drink a cup of salty wine To the old familiar faces. Full many a one we've borne to rest, Our hearts with sorrow breaking; Full many a friend on earth's cold breast His last repose is taking. Then let us drain death's loving-cup. And dash away the traces : 'Tis salty, yet we'll drink it up To the old familiar faces. There's still an arrow left for us In that exhaustless quiver; Right soon, with Charon's pall o'er us, We'll cross the inky river; But put thy brave old hand in mine. Thou friend of many graces, And pledge with me in salty wine The old familiar faces. 90 Panama Patchwork THE PRAYER OF A TIMID MAN. Oh, answer me, Lord, from the whirlwind. As Thou didst Thy servant of old! Oh, tell me in speech without figures The things I long to be told ! Cast into my heart's darkened chamber One ray of Thine infinite light! Drive out from my soul but an instant The deepening shadow of night ! Give heed to my ceaseless petitions As prostrate I lie at Thy feet ! Reply to my unspoken questions — The questions I dare not repeat! Panama Patchwork 91 IF YE WEEP. If ye weep, ah, then weep least for him Who mourns some loved one lost, For tender Time smoothes finally The brow with pain o'ercrost; The wound will heal that seemeth now E'er open to the touch: And forgiven much — 'tis written so — Is he that loveth much. If ye weep, ah, weep far more for him Who sheds no outward tear, But whose very soul the unshed tears Of disappointment sear! Who tries and fails and tries again, And faileth o'er and o'er — For him whose life naught visiteth Save failure evermore! If ye weep, ah, yes; weep most for him, The unsuccessful man, Whose weakness of each dear design Leaves but the barren plan; Who fails and, as a forest leaf. Unheeded, falls to rot: All charm unknown, all grace unseen, For to him hope cometh not ! 92 Panama Patchwork MEMORY. " There is no progress in the life which feeds on memory, only stagnation and death." — Elements of Theosophy. On memory's progressless sea Then let me, stagnant, He And rot with my remembrances Until I, stagnant, die! No gospel preach to me, I pray, That robs me of the bliss — Still sweetly tasted on my lips — Of a sainted mother's kiss ! That teaches that the childish prayer I prattled at her knee Was silly nonsense, and unfit To be recalled by me ! That teaches that a father's care, The precepts that it taught, Are wisdomless, devoid of truth. And hence, accounted naught! That sees in youth and love's first dream No lessons that the mind On Karma set, on progress bent, Some benefit may find ! Panama Patchwork 93 That would ignore the consciousness Of Hfe's maturer sins; That teaches that with every day Another Hfe begins! That dims the blush, that blunts the sting Of an unworthy deed; That teaches that of memory's whip No mortal hath a need! Ah, no, I'll suffer for my faults Each wretched night and day; And in kind acts small comfort find In the old, old-fashioned way. So, then, on memory's changeless sea Pray, let me, stagnant, lie And rot with my remembrances Until I, stagnant, die! 94 Panama Patchwork THE WAVE. Behold, far out upon the heaving sea That dim, faint shadow-hne that momently Grows deeper, wider, longer till, at length It gathers form and ocean's awful strength. And rushing onward o'er the hidden reef, With one prolonged and thundrous sob of grief Relinquishes its might ; and on the shore Becomes a pool — a giant wave no more ! And what of this? Why, this is human life. Impelled, we know not how, we join a strife. The purpose and design of which we are As far from knowing as yon frozen star. Whose wickless lamp a million years hath lit. We rise, we fall, and that's the end of it! Panama Patchwork 95 JOB AND ANOTHER. ANOTHER. A MOAN for the hapless dying, A moan for the helpless dead, A moan for the thousands lying On yonder hillock dread. A moan for the passed and passing Let us, the living, give; And then, our voices massing, A groan for those that live. JOB. If Thou to a grave would'st guide me, And over me darkness cast, In secrecy would'st hide me Till Thy day of wrath be past, An appointed time, oh, set me To wait Thy welcome call; Nor, hidden, do Thou forget me. Lest I, like the mountain, fall ! For now while e'en I slumber Thou watchest o'er my sin; My footsteps Thou dost number. And the shrinking fears therein. Desire with desire Thou cloyest; The race ends ere 'tis ran: Serenely Thou destroyest The dearest hope of man! 96 Panama Patchwork ANOTHER. A moan for the hapless dying, A moan for the helpless dead, A moan for the thousands lying On yonder hillock dread. A moan for the passed and passing Let us, the living, give; And then, our voices massing, A groan for those that live. LET ME ALONE. I CARE not who the cup celestial wins. Let me alone ! I've lost my grip, I'm wedded to my sins, Let me alone ! Within my hand I hold no stone to throw ; Let that suffice : it is enough to know. Fare straight ahead, oh, ye the sanctified! Let me alone! I pray ye, race upon the other side. Let me alone! I stumbled early, fell, and here I lie Contented, so ye do but pass me by ! Panama Patchwork 97 For me no visions of the Promised Land, Let me alone! For me ? Not much ! I would not with ye stand, Let me alone ! For me nor sun, nor moon, nor star shall bow ; 'Tis Reuben, 'tis not Joseph, dreaming now ! AU REVOIR. I WANDERED last night to the mystical mountain Where the Muses recline 'neath the evergreen trees ; And deeply I drank at the crystalline fountain, While flowers of poesy perfumed the breeze. And this was my object : To see if I could not Imbibe or absorb of the gentlest of arts Some aid to express — pray, tell me who would not? — The thoughts that this evening lie deep in our hearts. I deemed it my right and my privileged duty To gather a garland of messages sweet ; A wreath of good wishes in blossoming beauty As an earnest of friendship to place at thy feet. 98 Panama Patchwork Alas, for my dreams! With daybreak they van- ished, Leaving never a trace of their fragrance behind ; And I from Parnassus am evermore banished With soul over-full, but with vacuous mind. So, tremblingly, haltingly, timidly, weakly, Yet voicing the feeling that governs us all ; Unworthily, doubtless, but humbly and meekly, I pray for all blessings upon thee to fall. I drink to the virtues that cause us to love thee, I drink to the graces so purely thine own; I drink to kind skies — may they long smile above thee — And the tenderest twilight that ever was known ! A health to thy journey! God grant us to lead it, And on it the favors of fortune compel! A health to the morning — God grant us to speed it— When the word shall be Welcome instead of Farewell ! Panama Patchwork 99 VICTORIA THE WOMAN. (C. C. M.) Down thro' a glorious century she treads, Each step an added glory to the years; Her fame the halo round a myriad heads, Her name a name a willing world reveres : A queen whose power naught hath long withstood, A queen whose chiefest grace is womanhood. Let others sing her grandeur on the throne ; In ode and epic let the psean swell ; Her arms and state-craft chant in thrilling tone, In deathless words her brilliant triumphs tell : 'Tis ours in humble verse — crude, incomplete — To lay our tribute at the woman's feet. All pride and pomp and circumstance aside Flung with the trappings of the civic life, We see her stand, a simple, modest bride — Lamented Albert's true and loyal wife: His love her crown, all other crowns apart, His love the sceptre of her woman's heart. In all the beauty of maternity Example sweet and admonition mild. Forgetting regal place that she may be The guide and playmate of a little child : TOO Panama Patchwork Still steadfast as the crowding cycles fly, In woman's realm her greatest majesty. Handmaiden of the virtues, all and each, Swift to reward, swift to rebuke as well ; The love of home her happiness to teach, 'Mid social purity her joy to dwell: A censor of society, whose aim Hath ever been to honor woman's name. We hail her, then; and as the earth resounds With soaring song and martial blare and blast. While Glory leads her on her dazzling rounds, We in her path would our poor offering cast : The flower of our reverence for one Whose queenly soul hath woman's duty done. Panama Patchwork ^oi A SPRIG OF SAGE-BRUSH. A SPRIG of sage-brush I've brought to you From the prairies of the West ; I know 'tis the season for mistletoe, But I thought— well, you know best! Perhaps, however, you'll listen awhile And ponder the matter well ; And render your judgment afterward On the tale I've got to tell. I sing no song of knightly might, Or deed of warrior brave. Or tell of exploit nobly dared A woman's fame to save; All these, and more, 'tis my delight To reverence with you; But that there're other kinds of pluck As great, I think is true. 'Twas early days in Medicine Lodge On the road to No Man's Land, When men played high, and settled games With a gun in either hand. When iron nerves and a steady eye Were trumps when a row began, And the reputation greatly prized Of having killed one's man. I02 Panama Patchwork And the man whose reputation stood Head-high above the rest Was Isaac Walton — Ike, for short — The terror of the West. No bully he, but quick and sure. And tenacious of his right; And no man ever saw him run Or dodge the deadliest fight. And very proud of Ike was this, And his reputation kept Unsullied save by those who short Within the graveyard slept! Until one night old Morris Smith, Before a crowd of men, Gave him the lie, and dared him shoot — Not once, but thrice again ! A hush such as had not been known For many a year and long — Since lonely winds moaned o'er the spot — Fell on that waiting throng! And then — that hand of cruel aim. That hand that ne'er before Was known to falter — dropped, and Ike Strode thro' the open door! Next day a horseman far from town Met Isaac — Ike for short — And, trembling much, asked him if there Was truth in the report. Panama Patchwork 1^3 " Thar mebbe— yes— I run," said Ike, " ' My reputation? ' Lost! ' Why did I do it? '—wall, yer see, I kinder thought the cost " Of old Smith's life ter them kids o' his A ruther steep price ter pay Fer a repertation I kin git In a damned sight cheaper zvay!" Ive brought this sprig of sage-brush here, Tho' it should be mistletoe ; But don't you think I have an excuse? Just think— and let me know I MARANATHA. Forgiven? No! Forgotten? Never! My soul shall clutch it after death! My life shall grasp it close forever, Nor lose it with its latest breath! Each day my mind doth ponder o'er it From breaking dawn to fading light! No sleep doth end unless before it A dream doth bring thy hated sight! I04 Panama Patchwork Think'st thou my vengeance long belated? Wait! Some day's smi shall it reveal! As silently I've watched and waited, So, noiseless, on thee it shall steal ! 'Tis said that '' time makes all things even ; That naught, however great or strong. Shall e'er prevail, if unforgiven, 'Gainst him who treasures up a wrong ! " My cause is just, its triumph certain! And not to time I've left it all ! — Eternity, behind death's curtain. Holds fast a curse on thee to fall ! THE MINORITY. Whence do they come, they of the lofty bearing. Whose manners voice an elevated life. Whose faces, smiles of triumph wearing, Tell us of strife. And victory won o'er weaknesses of nature. And petty sinfulness? In what grave tone — In what phraseology and nomenclature To us unknown — Do they commune together o'er the tale Of how we strive to reach them but to fail? Panama Patchwork 105 We may not say! Perchance they are descended In hne unbroken from the Pharisee Who once within the gates, his knee unbended, Thanked God that he Was not as other men ! We must not murmur. Oh, mourning brother of the frail estate ! Our steps will aye be weak, theirs aye the firmer! We may be late; Yet, haply still, each much-repented fall Shall aid us answer His last muster-call! CHARITY. To brag or boast of one's own deeds Is nature's mild insanity — The pabulum on which one feeds The craving, ever-pressing needs Of this weakness of humanity. And I would aid to place a ban Upon all thoughts satirical; For I believe that every man Is, in his heart, a charlatan. And more or less empirical. Then why pose as exceptional, Or claim superiorities. io6 Panama Patchwork When at thy soul's confessional Thou hast, perforce, to mention all Thine own inferiorities? Come, let us strive to be so great As to deny disparity Between the faults with all innate, And ours, that are commensurate — Thus practising true charity! THE PORTAL AND THE DOOR. Through a shining portal springs a youth to grasp his kingdom fair. With a smile of fond assurance — careless, blithe and debonair; 'Tis a heritage of gladness that he rapturously claims, And his joy-bejewelled sceptre just before him brightly flames. II. One who early plucked life's fruitage — thro' its rosy surface tore; To whose trembling lip still clings the dust left by the ashen core; Panama Patchwork 107 One who longed and lost — a sad, stern man — chokes down a bitter sob As he slowly passes through a door that has no outer knob. TO JOHN PAYNE. To dream with thee in fair Armida's garden, Thou sweetest dreamer of the dream-song land, I entreat thy kind compliance ; I crave with thee alliance: Across the sea that thou would'st clasp my hand. Deem not my hope but too audacious folly — 'Tis most sincere, this humble prayer of mine; For tho' the w^orld is ringing With the notes of poets singing. There is no voice that thrills me as does thine! So, then, oh, thou most gracious, tender master, I ask to follow on thine upward way : I would suffer all thy sadness, Would be glad with all thy gladness, And with thee learn to dream and sing and pray ! io8 Panama Patchwork A SHIP OF MIST. A SHIP of mist sails out of a cloud, Out of a cloud at the sunrise time ; The glint of the dawn is on sail and shroud, The glint of the dawn of the sunrise clime. Into the blue from the harbor gray, Into the blue of the living day, Into the vast she sails away. Ahoy, lone sailor, zvhat of the voyage? " I've neither chart nor bearing, friend! " A ship of mist sails into a cloud. Into a cloud at the sunset time; The shade of the dusk is on sail and shroud, The shade of the dusk of the sunset clime. Into the gloom with the dying light. Into the gloom of the endless night, Into the vast she sails from sight. Ahoy, lone sailor, what of the voyage? '' I'm past the care of caring, friend! " Panama Patchwork 109 WE LINGER STILL. We linger still, tho' many a one Who thought his labor just begun Has learned his task was but to fill A narrow space on yonder hill; And found it easy — quickly done! O'er longer stints ere rest is won — O'er work we may not slight or shun — With ever-lessening speed and skill We linger still. His hopeless race the jaded sun With tireless Time has nearly run; The evening falls, the night winds chill The fainting heart and failing will : Expecting all things, fearing none, We linger still. no Panama Patchwork WHEN I AM DEAD. When I am dead no graven stone Thon need'st erect to make it known That one hes there of whom 'twas said His faults were not of heart, but head, And such as all men should condone. My sins are mine and mine alone! Let no man's thoughts be once misled, Or tastes for eulogy be fed When I am dead! Pray, tell the truth: that may atone For a life of folly like my own. By warning others not to tread The path o'er which my feet have bled. I'd have no '' mantles" round me thrown When I am dead! Panama Patchwork 1 1 1 TO HIM WHO WAITS. To him who waits all things, they say, Will come upon a certain day: The love that Love's own sloth belates. The satisfaction of the hates. For which one yearns, tho' does not pray. Success will bring the wreath of bay She filched from Fame, as sleeping lay The sullen and unwilling Fates, To him who waits. It may be true ! Ah, yes, it may ! But hearts grow feeble. Faith grows gray Her greed for sadness Sorrow sates; Hope trembles, doubts and hesitates, While Fortune loiters on her way To him who waits. 112 Panama Patchwork MY WICKER JUG. My wicker jug before me stands, A quart within its woven bands — A quart of undiluted themes, A quart of concentrated dreams At vagrant Fancy's soft commands. I ramble now enchanted lands Of forest glades and purling streams — The while benignly on me beams My wicker jug. Led by Caprice's listless hands, I reach at last far Lethe's strands, Where Memory dies and darkness teems- Save where beside me kindly gleams My wicker jug. Panama Patchwork 113 THE SWEET OLD STORY. Down the tunnel long that Time hath built- Thro' the circles smaller growing — Past the doubts and fears Of the arching years — Toward the entrance dimly glowing Doth Memory speed on her way to-night Back to childhood's dormitory, Just to hear once more With the faith of yore The sweet old Christmas story. All unhid, she'll slip in the trundle-bed To the space 'twixt down and feather ; And will lay her head, As in time long fled,- Where the pillows meet together. She will close her eyes at the face she sees All ablaze with loving glory. As a mother sweet Will again repeat The dear old Christmas story. The angels and shepherds again will play Their parts in the drama holy ; The star will appear. The wise men revere, The Babe in the manger lowly. 14 Panama Patchwork Then Memory, Hke Mary, will ponder well These things of the ages hoary; And with tender art Tell the softened heart The old, old Christmas story. Oh, the sweet old story! The dear old story ! The old, old story to memory dear ! Hearts of the boldest. The sternest, the coldest. Grow warm o'er the story told once a year ! THE FALL OF OLD PANAMA. 1671. His Catholic Majesty, Philip of Spain, Ruled o'er the West Coast, the Indies and main; His ships, heavy laden with pesos and plate, Sailed o'er the South Sea with tribute of state. From Lima and Quito his galleys pulled forth For Panama pearls and gold of the North ; And cargoes of treasure were sent overland While his soldiers kept guard from the gulf to the strand. Panama Patchwork 115 From Panama Bay to the port '' Name of God" Long freight trains of slaves thro' the dense forests trod: Then, some through the straits and some from the main, King Phihp's good ships sought their owner again. On England's grand throne great Elizabeth reigned, And on sea and on land her power maintained ; O'er the hearts of her subjects, o'er the conquests they made. O'er their lives and their fortunes her sceptre she swayed. But her title of " Queen of the Seas" to dispute King Philip essayed from the land of the lute; And velvet-clad Dons cast their love-songs aside To battle the English, and wind, wave and tide. In many and mortal an affray they engaged. And bravely and fiercely the struggle they waged, But the men of old Devon — those stout hearts of oak — As often successfully parried each stroke. The Drakes and the Gilberts, the Grenvils and Leighs, The Oxenhams, Raleighs — the props and the stays Of England's first greatness — were the heroes of old Who helped Britain's queen with the Spanish king's gold. 1 1 6 Panama Patchwork They robbed the arch-robber of ill-gotten gain, And brought England the glory they wrested from Spain. His galleons they captured, his treasure trains seized — Outfought him abroad and with zeal unappeased. At home they defeated the Armada's great fleet. And laid a world's spoil at Elizabeth's feet. Alas, that such deeds should grow dim with the years ! Alas, that such men should have trained buccaneers ! That from such examples — so noble, so true — A race of marauders and ruffians grew! That fiends such as Morgan should follow the wake Of men like John Oxman and Sir Francis Drake, Who swore by the oak, by the ash and the thorn, God helping them always, to sail round the Horn To fair Panama and the placid South Sea, Which they saw one day from the top of the tree! For old England's glory their standard to raise, To cruise the Pacific and its isle-dotted bays. Four miles from where Ancon looks down on the New Stood old Panama, whence Pizarro once drew The bravest of followers Peru to obtain And her Incas subject to the power of Spain; Where once stood cathedrals and palaces fair, Whose altars and vessels and tapestries rare Panama Patchwork 117 Were the pride of a people whose opulence then Was the envy of kings and the longing of men ; Where once stately streets to the plains stretched away, And warehouses skirted the vessel-lined bay; Where plantations and gardens and flowering trees Once perfumed the tropical evening breeze — Stands naught but a ruin half hidden from view, A pirate's foul gift to his bloodthirsty crew ! From sacked Porto Bello redhanded they came, All bloodstained from conquest unworthy the name, To the mouth of the Chagres, where, high on the hill, San Lorenzo kept guard, to plunder and kill Its devoted defenders, who courageously fought For homes, wives and children, accounting as naught Their lives held so precious, so cherished before, Could they drive the fierce pirates away from their shore. Three days they repulsed them, but to find every night The foe still upon them in ne'er-ending fight. Their arms could not conquer the powers of hell ! San Lorenzo surrendered — ingloriously fell ! Burned, famished and bleeding from many a wound. They lay while their stronghold was razed to the ground. 1 1 8 Panama Patchwork On, on up to Cruces the buccaneers sped, But to find it in ashes, its inhabitants fled. Yet on and still on, with Morgan ahead. They pressed down the road that to Panama led. Nine days through the forest unbroken they tramped, And at last on a mount near the city encamped. Before them the ocean for leagues away rolled ; Below them the islands lay bathed in the gold Of the sun that, just setting, looked mournfully down On the last day of life of the ill-fated town : While around them the plains with groves of bright trees Sheltered cattle and fountains their wants to ap- pease. The famed '' golden cup" lay filled at their hand. And to drain it at sunrise the buccaneers planned. " Oh, ho, for the morrow ! " quoth Morgan the bold. " Oh, ho, for the day and the tale to be told ! " The dawn's faint purple had scarce 'gan to light The peak of Ancon, erst hid in the night, When the blare of the trumpet and beat of the drum Made known that the day of the struggle had come. In the camp of the pirates " To arms ! " is the cry ; " Press forward, my hearties, our treasure is nigh ! Avoid the main road — there are ambuscades there— Panama Patchwork 1 1 9 Push on through the forest, your firearms pre- pare!" Now out on the hill, still called the '' Advance," The buccaneers over their enemy glance. Before them they see in the full light of day The Spaniards drawn up in battle array. Two squadrons of horse, four thousand of line, With bullocks and peons their forces combine. And then, were it safer for them to retreat, Would Morgan have ordered the signal to beat ? Too late it is now — it is triumph or die! Though desperate to battle, 'twere folly to fly ! 'Tis useless to falter! On, onward, my men! We have won against odds, we shall win once again ! " And*' On!" cry the Spaniards, shouting Viva el Rey! Our numbers are greater ! Ours, ours is the day ! Our bullocks will rout them ! Huzza for old Spain ! The gore of the thieves shall enrich the plain ! " Alas, for the hopes so sadly misplaced. For never before such a foe had they faced ! No Indians now, but trained men of might, Who had learned in stern schools to die and to fight. Two hours they fought 'neath the tropical sun. Then threw down their muskets, and — Morgan had won! The verdant savanna like a great river runs With the blood of six thousands of Panama's sons ! no Panama Patchwork " On, on to the city ! " cries Morgan the bold ! " Oh, ho, 'tis the day, and the tale is soon told ! '* Then awful the combat, as over the walls The bloodthirsty pirate in eagerness falls! With Spartan-like valor did the sons of those who Had assisted Pizarro to conquer Peru Attempt to o'erpower the fierce buccaneer — To save city and home and all they held dear! But vainly they struggled — repulsed o'er and o'er, The pirates return to the battle once more! At last they are vanquished ! " Now, comrades, we'll sup On the riches we find in the West's golden cup ! " " Fire, pillage and slaughter ! " the order goes round Till palace and cottage are burned to the ground ; Till cathedral and warehouse no treasures contain, And in the whole city no gold doth remain ; Till mother and daughter are captured and chained With father and brother, or ransom obtained. Monasteries and hospitals — down with them all! Leave not a stone standing on yon city wall ! ''Oh, ho, 'tis the day!" quoth Morgan the bold! " Oh, ho, 'tis the day, and the tale is now told ! " O demon insensate ! O offspring of hell ! What pen may thine awful enormities tell! How picture the cruelties, useless and vain, Upon the march back through the forest again ! Panama Patchwork I2t Old men tottering feebly 'neath Time's hoary crown, Frail women in chains and with burdens borne down, Fresh youth and grown man and the child but just born, Scourged pitilessly on w^th the lash and the thorn, While sobs, lamentations and shrieks of despair Unceasingly freighted the soft summer air! The ink turns to tears and corrodes the sad pen O'er the tortures at Cruces repeated again. There, under the shade of the broad mango trees — 'Mid anguish that nothing may ever appease — Are parents and children and husbands and wives, Condemned without mercy to horrible lives! Then back down the Chagres the buccaneers hie To where ships near the castle awaiting them lie ; And embarked with his slaves, his treasure and gold. Once again for Port Royal sails Morgan the bold! 122 Panama Patchwork THE LAND OF THE CACIQUE. Near the diffs of Portobelo, Where the fortress still is standing, Near the moss-clad old cathedral That the Dons built long ago ; Eight degrees from the equator, From the southward counting northward, Lies the land of the Cacique, Lies the region of San Bias. There the skies are soft and tender, And the clouds form wondrous pictures Round the crimson sun disrobing For his sleep beneath the sea ; And the monarch of the forest The majestic palm-tree, waveth Shining, multi-sceptred branches O'er a kingdom all its own. There the almond-tree doth flourish. There the gorgeous mango groweth Close beside the lustrous caucho. And the tagua strews the ground. There, upon the sylvan hillsides And within the lovely valleys. Nestles many an Indian village Of the slender bamboo built. 'Tis a lyric of these people, Of their customs quaint and curious, Panama Patchwork 123 Of the rites to them pecuUar, That the bard would strive to sing: Sing in humble words and simple To a harp uncouth and awkward, As befits the modest minstrel Of a lowly race of men. Lowly? Yea, but lowly only As retired from observation — As without the pale of notice Of the nations of the world. For within his own dominion The Cacique and his subjects Are as dignified and haughty As the proudest of mankind. In their veins no mixed blood courseth, In their land no stranger dwelleth, For this simple child of nature Guards his country with his life. Guards his race from all admixture, Guards his ancient superstitions, His religion and his customs. Zealously and jealously. For a solemn oath doth bind him — Sworn above his father's body — To kill wife and son and daughter Should an enemy approach To obtain his fair possessions, Or to other laws subdue him Ere he marches to the battle That can end but with his life. 1 24 Panama Patchwork Every hamlet hath its chieftain, Subject still to the Cacique — The Cacique of Sasardi — Who is ruler over all. Every village hath its Mila, Arzoguete and Tulete (Priest and teacher and physician, Councillor and wisest men). Primitive is their religion : Little know they of the Godhead That the Israelites discovered And the Gentiles have improved. No need here for costly churches : Each rude hut is sanctuary, From whence, dying, to the bosom Of Eternal Rest they go. And to show the Mighty Spirit How on earth they toiled and labored. The canoe and the machete And the arrows near them lie. Each home hath its cemetery, Built within a palm enclosure, Where the dead swing in their hammocks, Hid forever from the view. Seldom dream the San Bias Indians, Seldom lose their mental balance, For an ancient superstition Holds all such condemned to death. 'Tis a sign that evil spirits Seek to cast their lot among them, Panama Patchwork 125 From their old behefs to win them Unto those they know not of. Let us leave these sad statistics — Let us visit the Fiestas : Three days since unto an Ohme A Punagua child was born; And with shouts of great rejoicing And libations of the Chicha, They will pierce the tiny nostril For the hoop of yellow gold. Haste we quickly to another — To a festival more joyful : For in turn the shy Punagua Hath an Ohme now become. Oh, the drinking! Oh, the dancing! As they cut the maiden's tresses ; In her father's house immure her Till her husband shall be found. Now bring forth the long Cachimba, Bring the Ina, bring the Guarra, Bring the men and bring the women : The Nutschuqua claims his bride! Long the parents pondered o'er it, That among the young men waiting They might choose the one most fitting For their daughter and themselves. Whom could choose they but Machua ? Who, like him, to snare the tortoise? Who, like him, to drive the Ulo 126 Panama Patchwork Through the breakers of the coast? On the voyage to Portobelo, Though with cocoanuts deep laden, His canoe is ahvays leading, Always first to reach the port. Six days will he bravely labor, Six days' toil to build the Ulo That the law from him demandeth Ere he once may see his bride. Sweet Punagua, none may see her; For until the boat is builded In the pit the maid is hidden From the sight of every one. From her father's house they brought her In the early morning darkness; Now about her all the village, In a circle gathered round, Sit and smoke the wedding Guarra, Sit and drink the wedding Chicha, Stories tell of other weddings. And traditions old recite. Six days will they all be merry, Six days till, his labor finished. With rejoicing comes Machua — Comes and claims his promised wife. To her father's house he bears her, There to serve their daughter's parents Till to him is born a daughter, And his freedom thus is gained. Panama Patchwork 127 Then upon the sylvan hillside, Or within the lovely valley, Or upon the beach of coral They will build their palm-thatched home ; And in turn will rear their children In the ancient superstitions, And to all the tribe be useful In the common industries. Let them live in their seclusion, Let them keep their fair possessions, Let them rule themselves unaided, O ye nations of the earth ! Let them practise their religion. And observe their rites and customs O ye pushing missionaries Of accepted creed and sect! Trouble not this gentle people — Leave them to their peace and quiet — Nor disturb this tropic Eden Of the red men of San Bias ! 128 Panama Patchwork ON THE BROW OF THE HILL. (The cemetery of Monkey Hill, or Mount Hope — by which latter name it is more euphoniously though less widely known — is situated about two miles to the southward of Colon, and overlooks a wide expanse of diversified tropical country. At its base lies the extensive plant of the Panama Canal Com- pany, and, beyond, the straggling little city and broad Atlantic. The spot was first used as a burial-place about the year 1853, shortly after the beginning of the work on the Panama Rail- road. Although of such recent origin, there is probably no more populous Necropolis in the New World ; and while many of the tales that are told oi it are considerably exaggerated, they all, unfortunately, have a foundation in fact. Should Macaulay's Traveller in his lonely wanderings visit this tragic mount, visions, perhaps not so extensive, but cer- tainly as melancholy as those which could appear to him on the ruins of London Bridge, would materially assist in his speculations upon the littleness of man and the barrenness of life.) Beneath the sea the diving sun Is searching for another day; This weary one, its Hfe work done, Expires with yon swift-fading ray. Low at my feet the drowsy town Lies dully mute, awaiting sleep; In gathering dusk the foothills frown, And o'er the waves dark shadows creep. Panama Patchwork 129 Where once fierce toil the landscape blurred, And greed's o'erweening passion dwelt, Now only laggard steps are heard — The pulse of life can scarce be felt. The lights that pant with feeble breath Anon will vanish in the gloom, And in the very lair of Death I muse upon an unknown tomb. Around in graves thrice multiplied The bones of countless thousands lie ; They found their wish here satisfied Who sought a nod as Wealth passed by. Success and Failure side by side Enrich the dank and ocherous mold; Conducted by the Pallid Guide, Alike come here the faint and bold. The envious and the kind of heart On evil and on good intent Out here perform one common part — Their separate ways together blent. The cunning scheme, the noble plan That busy intellects evolved Here find the worst and best of man — Life's mazeful problem here is solved. 130 Panama Patchwork Yon rotting cross that marks the place Of ended quest in stranger land The cancelling months will soon efface, Nor leave a vestige of it stand. Yet hear the tale those ruins tell Ere he who knows the story falls ; And tarrying on this hill of hell, Obeys the last, most dread of calls. The man whose dust commingles there Belike with that of some low thief Gave promise of a life as fair As e'er succumbed to blighting grief. He came in Fortune's crowded train To wrest from her a fleeting smile; Erelong he seemed his end to gain, And reigned a favorite for a while. Around him gather hosts of friends, Whose praise and gifts are wondrous sweet Who watch that no harsh word offends. And strew bright roses 'neath his feet. Beloved by women, sought by men. His life is one continued joy ; He buys each pleasure o'er again, Nor in the gold detects alloy. Panama Patchwork 13 1 What wonder that the reckless crew His early teachings soon erase; That their ideals his mind imbue — His once keen moral sense debase! On, on he travels down the road — Laughs gaily in each sober face; Just now he bears no heavy load — Of coming care he sees no trace. What use the story to prolong? 'Tis hackneyed — stale on every tongue : The burden of each dismal song That poets have for ages sung. The smiles of Fortune are withdrawn — Her fickle favors quickly end ; His satellites forget to fawn — He seeks in vain one faithful friend. In broken health, enfeebled mind. To menials then for aid he flies ; And, lastly, failing that to find, He hugs his misery — and dies. A conscience-stricken one remains, Who stealthily erects this cross. Recording one of Hades' gains, And sadly marking Heaven's loss. 132 Panama Patchwork Bend low, thou gloomy, starless sky, And in thy tears each hillock lave ! Sob on, thou mournful wind, and sigh O'er stoneless tomb and nameless grave! "OLD COMRADE." God bless you, dear old comrade. You're my kind of gentleman! I've known you since the " eighties," When our years of grief began. I've known you and I've loved you — I couldn't help it, see? And I've respected you, sir, As you've respected me! You've never thought your duty Lay in making others feel That on top was your position — Theirs the bottom of the wheel. Yours are Nature's manners. Yours is the tender heart; And the part that you have chosen Is, by God, the better part! Panama Patchwork 133 YouVe sorrowed with the weeping, You've been merry with the glad; You've helped to bear the burden When it almost drove us mad! You've wasted no time talking, You've simply said a word — But in that word we've fancied A sermon we have heard ! Again I say, God bless you Wherever you may be! Whatever be the distance, You can't get far from me! I've known you and I've loved you Since our years of grief began: Here's a brimming bumper to you — You're ray kind of gentleman! 134 Panama Patchwork CURTAIN. The rhymster should apologize, perhaps, For many a silly jest and foolish lapse; But, then, no purposed mischief hath he done, And truth, you know, oft masquerades as fun. It may be that his utterances trite Some good may do — some senseless wrong may right. There may be, 'mongst them all, one word with powV To call a smile — to cheer some lonely hoar : If so, then, he whose sentences involved Contain more puzzles than may e'er be solved, Fore'er deserts his feeble, unfledged Muse — His tuneless lyre abandons to disuse! If so — if happ'ly so! — then ring the bell, And drop the curtain. 'Tis a glad Farewell ! DFC 17 1900