iC2 CopyrightN"_L3jjJl COPYRIGHT DEPOSm Little Jake." Songs AND Stories FROM TENNESSEE. BV / JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE, AUTHOR OF " A SUMMER HYMNAL." ILLUSTRATED BY HOWARD WEEDEN AND ROBERT DICKEY. PHILADELPHIA: HENRY T. COAXES & CO., 1903. DLAS*« ^ XXc No. i^ 7 ^ /f vT , OOPY 9. copyrig^ht, 1897, by John Trotwood Moore. Copyright, 1902, by Henry T. Coaxes & Co. PREFACE. 'T^HIS is a very large world, and so I have not -■■ tried to cover, in this little book, any very great portion of it ; but have contented myself in a faithful endeavor to describe, truthfully, life as it has been, and is, in the Middle Basin of Tennessee — the Blue Grass Plot of the State. And this spot is rich in history and tradition — so rich that for years I fretted because no gifted one of its citizens would arise and tell to the world, in story and in song, the earnest life, the sweet simplicity, the matchless beauty, the un- published glory of its land and its folk. And when none arose, week after week, without a thought that what was hastily written for an obscure department of a country paper would be found worthy of compilation, I have only attempted to do what a greater one should have done. iii Preface To those who will read this book, the author begs them to bear in mind that he does not claim for these little peoples of his brain any great amount of genius or originality. But he does claim that, though decked in homespun and homeliness, they are the faithful little children of their own bright land, the truthful representa- tives of the one dear spot, fresh from the fields and the forests, the paddocks and the pens of the Middle Basin. It is customary with some authors to dedicate their books to others. To my father. Judge John Moore, and my mother, Emily Adelia Bil- lingslea, both of whom yet live in the old home at Marion, Alabama, I dedicate this, an un- finished tribute of my love and honor, a half- expressed token of the gratitude I owe them. JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE. IV CONTENTS. \| The Basin of Tennessee, . Ole Mistis, Miss Kitty's Fun'ral, . The Wolf Hunt on Big Bigby, . Gray Gamma, .... The Mule Race at Ashwood, The Tennessee Girl and the Pacing Mare, "Dick," . . Nora, The Spelling Match at Big Sandy, How Robert J. Broke the Record, How Old Wash Sold the Filly, . How Old Wash Captured a Gun, Br'er Washington's Arraignment, ^*fe A Cavalry Drill in Old Tennessee, The True Singer, How the Bishop Broke the Record, First Monday in Tennessee, Yesterday, .... The Juliet of the Grasses, . Hal Pointer on Memorial Day, Sam Davis, The Lily of Fort Custer, . The Flag of Green's Brigade, By the Little Big-Horn, . V PAGE I 10 48 78 86 98 103 no 131 138 144 149 157 163 175 191 194 202 214 217 224 231 240 256 258 Contents PAGE Thoroughbreds, . . . . . . . .261 *' Wearing the Gray," 265 The Bells of Atlanta 267 The Tennesseean to the Flag, 272 Tennessee, 274 To a Wild Rose on an Indian Grave, . . . 279 The Blue-Grass Plot, 281 To a Sweet Pea, • . 283 The Hills, 284 To a Mocking-Bird in the Pine-Top, .... 286 A Harvest Song, 289 The Old Meadow Spring, 291 Sleeping, 293 To the Spirit of May, 294 Clouds, 296 Sunset on the Tennessee, 296 Morning, 297 Under the Pines, 298 The Music of the Pines, 299 The Evening Star, 302 To a Morning Glory, 302 The Summer of Long Ago, 303 Truth in Beauty, . . . . . . .305 The Faith of Old, ' .307 Christmas Morn, 309 Alone, 309 To Whittier, Dead, . . ... . . .310 The Church of the Heart, 311 The Christ-Star has Risen, 312 A Memory, 313 vi Contents PAGE Eulalee, 314 A Morning Ride, 314 Immortality, 316 Life's Cliristmas, ....... 317 Beauty, 318 It Can Not Be, 319 A Little Cry in tlie Night, ...... 320 *Tis But a Dream, . . . . . . .321 The Pines of Monterey, ...... 322 To an American Boy, ....... 323 Our Bob, 324 To Burns, , . . 325 Work Through it All, ..,.,. 326 Mollie, 327 O Voices that Long Ago Left Me, .... 328 A Ray from Calvary, ...... 329 Marjorie, 329 Blue Jay, 332 Success, 335 When the Colts are in the Ring, .... 336 Fair Times in Old Tennessee, . . , . . 338 The Rabbit Trap, ....... 339 •' Huntin' 0' the Quail," 341 When de Fat am on de Possum, .... 344 Little Sam, ' • • 345 Lettie, 347 The Old Plantation, 349 Reconciliation, . . . . . . . .351 Longin' fur Tennessee, 352 Wonderful Men, 355 vii INTRODUCTION. THE BASIN OF TENNESSEE. THE Middle Basin is the dimple of the Uni- verse. About equal in area to Lake Ontario — nearly 6000 square miles — situated in Middle Tennessee and surrounded by the Highland Rim, it is one of those peculiar geological formations made long ago when the earth was young. In altitude, but little higher than the first plateau beyond the Mississippi ; in shape, oval and symmetrical as the tapering turn of an egg shell cut lengthwise ; in depth, from 500 to 1000 feet — deep enough to break the force of the wind, and yet high enough to concentrate, as by a focus, the slanting sun- beams and the shadows. Away back in the past it was once the bed of a silver shining lake. But whether its waves boiled beneath a torrid sun, lashed into foam by saurian battles, or whether glacial icebergs sunk their crystal pillars in its depths and lifted their diamond-turreted peaks to the steel-cold stars of an unanswering heaven, no one will ever know. And what became of it ? We shall never know. Perhaps an earthquake rent its natural levees, and it fled with the Cumberland or the I I Songs and Stories Tennessee to the gulf. Perhaps the mighty Mis- sissippi brushed with his rough waves too closely to the western border of our calm lake one day, and she went with him, a willing captive, to the sea. Or, she may have passed out down the dark channels of some mammoth cave whose caverns have never yet heard the sound of human voice — we know not. All we know is, the lake was here — the lake is gone. Time is long. The mound-builders were not here then, for they have dotted its fertile basin with a thousand voiceless monuments of a voiceless age. Time is long. The lake was here — the lake is gone. But when it went, it left the sweet richness of its farewell kiss upon the lips of our valleys, and the fullness of its parting tears on the cheeks of our hills. It made the loam and the land, the spirit and the springs, the creeks and the cream of the Middle Basin of Tennessee — the Blue Grass Plot of the State An animal is the product of the environments that surround him — the blossom of the soil upon which he lives. He is part of the sunlight and the grass, the rock and the water, the grain and the gravel, the air which he breathes and the ant-hill which he crushes beneath his feet. Man is the highest animal. Then behold the man of the Middle Basin, the highest development of the animal creation : Jackson, Crockett, Houston, from Tennessee Bell, Polk, Gentry, Maury, Forrest — these and thousands of others whose names and fame are fadeless. The life of man is what he makes it ; and of a state what man makes it. And so, in the course of time, the two become as one—the men become the state while the state is ever but its men. Character is what we are ; reputation is what we are supposed to be, 'tis said. A history of the Middle Basin, then, is but a record of the char- acter of the people who have lived and died there. If she did great things in the past, it was because she had great characters in the past. The wis- dom of those ancient Greeks who taught their children that they were descended from the gods is to be admired ; had they not, I doubt if the Greeks had acted like the gods, as they did when they met the Persians at Thermopylae and Sala- mis, and, even that far back, made the story of the Middle Basin a possibility. Our ideals, at last, are the true gauges of our characters, and the higher we rear these castles in the air, the loftier will our own soul-dwellings be. Let us build our characters as we would our castles, alike beyond the reach of those who climb and those who throw. For the ideal and the real go together. The dream must precede the chisel, the vision be father to the brush, the thought to the pen. Briefly stated, our forefathers of the Middle 3 Songs and Stories Basin came from North Carolina and Virginia, and when they came over the mountain they brought its granite with them. Mountains and hills have always produced genius and liberty. There is a divine spirit that dwells in the rarefied air of hill-tops, that is incompatible with ease, with slavery and with sloth. It seems to permeate the souls of those who breathe it, to lift them above the sordidness of that wealth which accumlates in the valleys but for decay. Andrew Jackson was their type and, like him, their deeds will live forever. Down the long aisle of the centuries to the organ notes of fame Stalks a silent figure hallowed in the light of glory's name ; Stalks a grand, majestic manhood to those eon fields to be, A spiritual pyramid in the land of memory. And if we cannot prove that we are descended from the gods, we can at least demonstrate that we are the children of god-like men and women — and that is better. Years have passed and yet the Middle Basin is as rich and beautiful to-day, in the green dressing of autumn's after grasses, as she was on that memorable day, years ago, when Hood's army, 4 from Tennessee on its march to Nashville, came thundering with thirty-five thousand men over Sand Mountain from the bloody fields around Atlanta. The Tennessee troops, as a guard of honor, led the advance. For days they marched among the *'old red hills of Georgia," the pines of North Alabama and the black-jacks of the Highland Rim. But suddenly, as they wheeled in on the plateau beyond Mt. Pleasant, a beautiful picture burst on their view. Below them, like a vision, lay the border land of the Middle Basin — a sea of green and golden ; green, for the trough of the land waves, somber in the setting sun, had taken on the emerald hues of the pasture grasses ; golden, for the swelling hills, where rolled the woodlands, were studded with the bright gold foliage of autumn leaves, nipped by the early frosts. Farm house and fences, orchards and open field, meadow and meandering streams, newly plowed wheat fields and rustling rows of trembling corn, all basking in the quiet glory of mellow sunlight, formed a picture so restful to the eye of the tired soldier and so sweet and soothing to the homesick heart, that involuntarily his old slouched hat came off, his musket shifted to ''present arms," and a genuine rebel yell rolled from regiment to regiment, from brigade to brigade, as this splendid master-piece of nature unfolded before them. ** Have we struck the enemy's picket already?" 5 Songs and Stories asked the thoughtful Hood, now thoroughly aroused and his keen eyes taking on the flash of battle. **No, General, but we've struck God's coun- try," shouted a ragged soldier present, as he saluted and joined in swelling the volume of the reverberating yell. Even the gallant Cleburne, Honor's own soldier, the man whose matchless brigade a year before, at the retreat from Chickamauga, had stopped Grant's whole army at Ringgold Gap, tipped a soldier's salute to the quiet church-yard at Ashwood, and expressed the wish, if he fell in the coming battle, he might sleep his last sleep there. Prophetic wish ! With thirteen other field officers he fell, a few days afterward, around the bloody breastworks of Franklin, and yielded up his life *'as a holocaust to his country's cause." But even War — the cloven-footed curse that he is — could not blanch her cheek save for a moment, and as soon as the last echo of his tread had died away, she aroused again to life, with a wreath of emerald on her brow, the blush of the clover blossoms on her cheek, the sparkle of her own bright springs in her eye, and the song of the reaper in her ear. Upon the knolls where cannon hurled Their deadly grape between, 6 from Tennessee The stately locusts have unfurled Their flag of white and green. And o*er the ridge upon the crest Where gleamed the flashing blade, The serried rows of corn, abreast Stand out on dress parade. Adown the slope where once did reel The stubborn ranks of gray, Now speeds the flying reaper's wheel — Now charge the ranks of bay. And down the vale where marched the blue With band and banner fine. The frisky lambs in ranks of two Deploy their skirmish line. And so is she rich in climate and in soil ; but richer far in the memory of heroic men — in lives that shall live and a beauty that shall never die: O, the glorious Middle Basin, The rose in Nature's wreath ! With her purpling sky and her hills on high And her blue grass underneath. 'Tis here our fathers built their homes, 'Tis here their sons are free — For the fairest land From God's own hand Is the Basin of Tennessee. 7 Songs and Stories O, the fertile Middle Basin ! Proud Egypt's threshing floor Held not in the chain of her golden grain Such fields as lie at our door. Our daughters grow like olive plants Our sons lilx SAM DAVIS (From the Memorial Statue). from Tennessee Smiled back the hills of Tennessee ! Smiled back the hills, as if to say, ** O, save your life for us to-day !" ** Tell me his name and you are free," The General said, **and I shall see You safe within the rebel line — I'd love to save such life as thine/' A tear gleamed down the ranks of blue — (The bayonets were tipped with dew) Across the rugged cheek of war God's angels rolled a teary star. The boy looked up — 'twas this they heard : ** And would you have me break my word ?" A tear stood in the General's eye : ** My boy, I hate to see thee die — Give me the traitor's name and fly !'* Young Davis smiled, as calm and free As he who walked on Galilee : ** Had I a thousand lives to live, Had I a thousand lives to give, I'd lose them — nay, I'd gladly die Before I'd live one life a lie !" He turned — for not a soldier stirred — ** Your duty, men— I gave my word." The hills smiled back a farewell smile, The breeze sobbed o'er his hair awhile, The birds broke out in glad refrain, 239 Songs and Stories The sunbeams kissed his cheek again — Then, gathering up their blazing bars, They shook his name among the stars. O, stars, that now his brothers are, O, sun, his sire in truth and light, Go, tell the list'ning worlds afar Of him who died for truth and right ! For martyr of all martyrs he Who dies to save an enemy ! ^> '%' ^' THE LILY OF FORT CUSTER. AND you want me to tell you the story, lad, of the old horse, Tennessee, The stout red roan I rode alone on the track of that snake Pawnee, The meanest Indian that ever bit dirt, and I hope he is roasting to-day, For I ain't had a mount that was any account since — What did you say ? Go on with the story ? Why, that's what I am, and I'm going to tell it my way ! A Hal he was — the Indian, you ask ? Young man, if I had my gun You'd go to the spirit land yourself before this here tale was done. Three stout crosses of running bloQd---old Trav- eler, Timoleon, Empire — 240 from Tennessee A Hal on that ! Aye, there's the horse the devil himself can't tire, Molded as trim as a Catling gun and full to the brim of its fire. I raised him from a colt myself. My father gave him to me When I rode West with Custer's men of the Seventh Cavalry, Away to the shade and the shadow-land, where the Rockies prop the sky, And the bison herd, like a powder-brown bird, afar on the trail fly — But we never flickered in all that ride, neither Tennessee nor I. And gaits ? There wasn't a horse in camp could go all the gaits like him — Canter and pace and single-foot and fox-trot smooth and trim. He led the wing when the bugler would sing ** Boots and Saddles !" — Away ! From sun to sun there was never a run that he wasn't in it to stay — The showiest horse on dress parade, the gamest in the fray. And the Rockies ! O, the Rockies, lad ! God made 'em to teach us how To look from earth to Grandeur's birth — to His own great beetling brow. i6 241 Songs and Stories I never had seen a mountain, lad ! How they thrilled ! — how they loomed on me ! Granite and cloud wrapped in a shroud of snow eternally, So different from the sweet green hills of dear old Tennessee. Homesick I grew, I know not why, when we camped in the far Sioux land ; Things were so solemn and silent there — silent and solemn and grand — And I longed again to see the plain and the roll- ing waves of wheat, And the low, soft music of the grain in the June days rustling sweet. And the gay notes of the mocking bird, where the Duck and the Bigby meet. But out at the Fort was a maiden, A maiden fair to see. And I fell dead in love with her, And she — with Tennessee, For she learned to ride upon him, And her gallop across the plain Would make you think Athena had come To break the winged horse again.. And she was the Captain's daughter, In rank above me far As above the fire-fly in the grass Beams out the evening star. 242 from Tennessee But Love — he smiles at epaulets As he laughs at bolts and bar. With eyes like the skies when the shower is over And the rain drops are soothing the cheeks of the clover — Dear drops of sympathy all too soon over ! And a face like a vase with two rose-buds in it, Rose-buds of cheeks, to change in a minute To the puckered-up throat of a sweet-singing linnet. And curls like the whirls of the clouds, when the Day-king Stops his bold ride to the West, ere making His bed in their bank and his night-goblet taking. And lips like the dew-wine he sips in the morning, Mistaking her eyes for the day's in its dawning, Mistaking her eyes and sweet Eos' scorning. And her soul ! Twas the goal of the Angels and Graces, Seen in their face as they play in their races — The purest of souls in the purest of places. And I ? Followed no flag but the blue of her bonnet. And I marched and I charged by the white streamers on it. And yet when she turned her blue batteries on me 243 Songs and Stories Brought up her reserve to ride over and scorn me. I was wretched, and sorry my mother had borne me. And surrendered, I did, though my heart was enraptured — A prisoner, yet gloried by her to be captured. And she ? When she was certain I'd never be free Gave me her pity and loved — Tennessee. Heydey ! And I say But that is the way — Love is a tyrant that never grows old. Bonnet and curl — Lord, all my world Got under that sheen of gold. Heydey ! Still I say If naught's in the way What glory in battling for beauty to love us ? Love is a star, To be worshipped afar, And, like it, should be above us. Heydey ! Yet I say There's many a way That love finds his own, though his own be not waiting. And lips may be mute, And eyes may refute, 244 from Tennessee But hearts made to mate find a way for the mating. In our long ride up from the valley A Pawnee chief we found — Old Bone-in-the-Face they called him then, But now — he is bone-in-the-ground. Starving he was when we picked him up, And racked with ague and pain. But he taught us a lesson we'll never forget. Which I don't mind telling again — The good Indians live in the school books, lad, The bad ones all live on the plain. The coyote 1 We nursed and cured him. And then he turned his eyes To the Lily, God help her ! and when she rode From the Fort 'neath the sweet June skies To pluck the flowers that grew on the plain (A pony she rode that day) The Pawnee stole the Colonel's horse And slipped, with a Sioux, away. Away on the track of the Lily, Like wolves on the trail of a fawn, Two hours before a soul in camp Knew the treacherous dogs were gone — Two hours before alarm's shrill voice Waked the echoing sentry's horn ! Away on the track of the Lily, and they lassoed her pony and rode 245 Songs and Stories With her bound in the saddle and helpless, to Sitting Bull's band at the ford — To Sitting Bull's tent ! for a life that was worse than living in hell's own abode. The alarm gun was sounded, we rushed through the gate — the Captain, the Corporal, and I — The moon had just risen, a trifle too late to see the sun sink in the sky. The Captain looked black as the charger he rode, the Corporal sat grim on his grey, While I ? — just patted old Tennessee's neck and he struck that long gallop — to stay. We struck the trail quickly ; 'twas plain as could be, the pony's flat track in the sand. And then it was headed as straight as a bee to the North, for the Sioux's bloody band. A mile further on it turned slight to the right — the Captain sprang quick to the ground. For there in the path was a sun-bonnet bright — he kissed it ; then, turning around, We saw the tears glitter and felt kind o' moist around our own hardened eyes. Then stood with bowed heads for a momentwhile each breathed a silent prayer up to the skies. 'Twas the work of a moment to tighten our girths, cut loose the throat-latch and curb-chain. Then strike for the ford — fifty good miles away across the wide stretch of the plain. 246 from Tennessee **To the ford !'* cried the father, and his rowel shot swift as a star in the flank of his black. ** To the ford ! There is no other place they can cross. To the ford ! See the course of the track ! Two hours the start ! Great God give us speed," as the black went away like the wind. ** Too fast !" I called out, but he never did heed ; already he'd left us behind. *'Now, Corporal," I said, **we will test your grey's grit ; 'tis a ride that the stoutest might shun." And I braced myself firm, held steady the bit, with Tennessee struggling to run. But I gave not his head, for well did I know not a horse in the world could stand Fifty miles of a race at a heart-killing pace in the alkali dust of that land. Galloping, galloping, galloping on. Out in the moonlight, galloping on. No word did we speak, no sound did we heed But the low, muffled beat of the galloping steed. The grey, circling dust rose in pillars and spread Like the ghost of a cloud in the moonlight o'er- head ; And the sage-bush was plated with white in the light As we raced, like a running team, into the night. 247 Songs and Stories Beyond us, the peak of a towering cone, Fifty good miles away, on the broad Yellowstone, Was our snow-covered goal, in the moon-bla- zoned air. And we headed full straight for the ford that was there. Our horses pulled hard on the bit, for the dash Was a frolic to them in the hoof-beating crash, And the quick, playful snort, as onward we glide, From their nostrils keep time to the lengthening stride. The miles spin behind us, with bound upon bound Two shadows fly on like a twin-headed hound. My roan tossed the fleckings of foam in a ring. As an eagle the snow-flake that lights on his wing. And with nose to his knees and his ears laid back He swept a clean path through the dust-covered track. Galloping, galloping, galloping on — Ten miles in the moonlight, galloping on. But onward we went, head lowered, and bent To the stride like an arrow from ashen bow sent. My horse was now wet to the mane with his sweat, And the grey, where the dust and the moisture had met. Was white as the palfrey Godiva rode down Through the dead silent street of Coventry town. 248 from Tennessee His breath comes shorter and quicker — a wheeze, And I note that his stride is not true at the l i Through the pines of Monterey. . 322 from Tennessee TO AN AMERICAN BOY. BE manly, lad — your folks have made Their way by work and waiting, Be manly, lad — a spade's a spade Though it hath a silver plating. For all must work or all must steal — What's idleness but stealing ? To each will come his woe and weal His weak or strong revealing. And work makes brains, but error's chains Are forged in fashion's idleness ! Be honest, lad — you weaker grow From gain that's falsely gotten. Be honest, lad — what's outward show When all within is rotten .? For each must live or each must die — What's honor lost, but dying ? To live with Truth and you a lie ! — Was ever death more trying ? And Truth makes men — but falsehood's den Is the home of dwarfs and pigmies ! 323 Songs and Stories OUR BOB. (Introducing Governor Robert L. Taylor, in his famous lecture, " The Fiddle and the Bow.") WITH humor as sweet as our Basin When the clover bloom gathers the dew, And pathos as deep as our valley When the clouds shut the stars from our view, With wisdom as rich and as fertile As our plains when they first feel the plow, And wit like the tapestry frostwork That hangs on the Great Smoky's brow, With grand thoughts as strong as our mountains And tender ones sweetly that flow, Like the music that steals o'er our senses At his touch of ** The Fiddle and Bow," The bee that hath sucked every blossom Each Tennessee flower to rob And stored up the rich, golden honey In a genius that's ours — Our Bob ! 324 from Tennessee TO BURNS. THERE is no death for genius, for it leaps, Fount-like, from source to limpid depths again. There is no death for genius, for it sleeps To wake refreshed in each new life's sweet pain. O, Burns, how rich and sweet thy stream of song. Pouring from mountain dale and hawthorn glen, Bright as the channel where Ayr flashed along, Deep as the sea beyond Ben Lomond's ken. Bubbling, it bursts out like thy mountain springs. Out from the cool depths of great nature's mart. Slaking the fevered thirst our life toil brings, Reflecting all the star-domes of our heart. Here at thy fount, O, let me drink and know That God still reigns and man is king below. 325 Songs and Stories WORK THROUGH IT ALL. HOPE, tho' misfortune overtake you, Smile, tho' you go to the wall. Bend to the blast that would break you, But work, aye, work through it all. Weep, when the cloud of your sorrow Comes with its mist and its pall. But tears make your rainbow to-morrow If you work as you weep — through it all. Give, for you grow with the giving, Live, but with love at your call, Be brave, be a man in your living, And work as a man through it all. Look up, as the weaver of laces. Your pattern hung high on the wall, Your soul on the beauty it traces. Your hands busy working withal. 326 from Tennessee MOLLIE. No fern-leaf sprang from mountain-moss, With blither grace than Mollie's, No lily on the lake across Had fairer face than Mollie's. And when the lily lifted up The bubbling bubbles in her cup From cut-glass pools where fern-maid's sup, She drank a health to Mollie. No wild-sloe hid, 'neath tan and red, A ruddier blush than Mollie's, No wild-rose held a queenlier head Where sang the thrush than Mollie's. . And when the red-thrush saw the maid — A glint of glory down the glade — He sang his sweetest serenade, A serenade for Mollie. No muscadine peeped from her vine With saucier eyes than Mollie's. No wild-bee sought her globes of wine With softer sighs than Mollie's, For when she sighed, and I did make Me bold, a trembling kiss to take, I saw them all — wine, roses, lake — All in the eyes of Mollie. 327 Songs and Stories O VOICES THAT LONG AGO LEFT ME. O VOICES that long ago left me, O eyes that were long ago bright, How often you come when the shadows Creep into the eyes of the night, When the moon-misted shadow encloses The sorrow-starred eyes of the night — V\^ith you in a wreathing of roses And rhymed in the laughter of light. O, voices that long ago left me, O, eyes that were long ago bright. Why, why do you come with the shadows And why do you not with the light — In the sun-shimmer'd glory of olden. In the sun-silvered sweetness of light? Have you learned that our tears become golden When merged with the music of flight ? Then lead me, dear voices that left me. And bring me, dear eyes that were bright. To that home where you now dwell forever, To that land where there never is night — To that love-ling'ring land where the portal Knows naught of the shadow of night. And the wreathing of roses immortal Is rhymed with the laughter of light. 328 from Tennessee A RAY FROM CALVARY. O CHRISTMAS, happy Christmas, in the days that bring their cheer, One thought amid the centuries grows brighter every year : That not alone for man was made the sweet- ness of thy birth. And not alone for him was decked the holly- wreathed earth, But all that on Him doth depend, like Him might blessed be. And catch the reflex of that ray that fell from Calvary. ^ ^ ^ u MARJORIE. P in the hills of Tennessee Lives Marjorie — sweet Marjorie. There ain't a bird but stops his song When down the lane she rides along- Stops his singin' just to stare And wonder where she got that hair So deeply golden, floatin' there ! And why her eyes ain't baby blue 329 Songs and Stories j Instead of twilight beamin* through ? '•■ (For birds do know a thing or two !) •■ They know that wavy, rosy flout | Of sunset tress in dreamy rout 1 Should have some sky of blue about. | But when them eyes, full to the brim Of stars and love, look up at them, ■; And daylight blush o'er cheek is spread 1 From cheeks just pulped to melon red, ] And o'er that sweet dream face is born The light that kind o' comes with morn, j They ketch their breaths and sing away — ] She's turned their eve to break o' day I ^ Up in the hills of Tennessee { Lives Marjorie — brave Marjorie. ; Loud boomed the Harpeth, as adown ] She rode like mad to Franklin town. i The Judge's daughter — the county's star — ; (For years I'd worshiped her afar !) i ** Too high in life," they whispered me, ] '* To look with favor, lad, on thee.'* i But love will climb to star itself — | What careth it for worldly pelf .? ] The Judge was stricken ; to the ford, ; A keen plum switch for stingin' goad, ) Her saddle mare like mad she rode ! ] Forgetting flood and angry wave j She spurred — her father's life to save ! j (Alas, her own she all but gave.) 330 from Tennessee Plowin' that day on the horse-shoe side, I stopped when I saw her frantic ride. I rushed where the tall creek willows grow — Where the swirling waters roared below — I waved, I beckoned, shouted— all Were lost in the lashing water's fall ! I saw the mare swept from her feet, I saw an emptied saddle seat. I plunged — what cared I for the roar, Born, as I was, on the Harpeth shore ? What to me was my burden frail, I, who could lift a cotton bale ? Did e'er an arm that had tossed the wheat Hold before a bundle so sweet ? But Harpeth was mad as a frenzied colt, And shot his flood like a thunderbolt. The big waves swept with giant scorn. And once I thought we both were gone ! Did she know it, then, when a kiss I brushed On cheek that e'en in the waters blushed } Did she hear the words of love I said ? (I couldn't help it — I thought she was dead !) Struggling, battling, I landed, but could Not meet her eyes — she understood. *M'm safe," she said, and my hand she took, (And gave me one, just one love look,) *' Now mount your horse, for the doctor ride ; Save my father and — I'm your bride !" 331 Songs and Stories Up in the hills of Tennessee Lives Marjorie — dear Marjorie. You can't climb up that tall hill there And look way down that valley fair, But what your gaze will rest on ground That's mine — all mine — for miles around. That Jersey herd, that bunch of mares, Them frisky colts with all their airs, That Southdown flock in yonder dell, Followin' the tinklin' wether-bell. Them barns and paddocks gleaming white, That home shut in with God's own light. And all them fields of wheat and corn That sweep clear down to Amberhorn. I earned 'em all — no gamblin' tricks, But hones' work and tellin' licks. But best of all, 'twixt you and me, That girl is mine — my Marjorie 1 ^ ^ ^ BLUE JAY. OTHE world is all against you, Blue Jay, , Blue Jay ; O, the world is all against you now, I say. With your tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, And your jay ! jay ! jayl 332 from Tennessee And your saucy, whistling wheedle Just before you fly away To pounce down on the juciest and the sweetest roasting ear ; To steal the ripest Concords in the sunshine purpling near ; To run off all the song-birds with your blust'ring, bragging tongue, And break the hearts of mother birds by eating up their young — Then to perch up on the highest limb upon the apple tree And call up mourners 'round you with your tweedle, tweedle, twee' ! You're a robber, robber, robber, Blue Jay, Blue Jay, And a hypocrite and bully. As all the world doth say. O, the world is all against you. Blue Jay, Blue Jay; O, the world is all against you now, I say, But your tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, And your jay ! jay ! jay ! And your saucy, laughing wheedle Brought again to me, to-day. The time we stole together, in the summer long ago, The cherries and the peaches and the grapes of purple glow. 333 Songs and Stories The day we climbed the chestnut for the yellow hammer's nest, And you gave it up, disconsolate, because I robbed the best ! And I see the old home once again, the fig trees in the sun, While a boy slips all around them with a single- barrel gun. And he brings it to his shoulder as he sees a bob- bing head — Bang ! and he's a murderer — for old Blue Jay is dead ! Was I a robber, robber, In the summer long ago. When I barbecued and ate you With my sportsman's pride aglow ? Ah, some grown-up folks are like you. Blue Jay, Blue Jay ; Ah, some grown-up folks are like you now, I say — For they tweedle, tweedle, tweedle. When they wish to have their way, And they wheedle, wheedle, wheedle. In their tricks of trade to-day. And they pounce upon their fellow-man and steal his very best — His eggs of reputation, and his cherries — happi- ness. And you'll find their crops distended with the plunder they have won, 334 from Tennessee While their tongues are shooting slander (ah, 'tis worse than any gun), And they thrive and fill and fatten till they go to get their due In another world — Oh, Blue Jay, won't they make a barbecue ? Then sing away your robber song Of jay ! jay ! jay ! Till some robber mortal comes along And sees himself to-day. SUCCESS. 'nniS the coward who quits to misfortune, 1 'Tis the knave who changes each day, 'Tis the fool who wins half the battle, Then throws all his chances away. There is little in life but labor. And to-morrow may find that a dream ; Success is the bride of Endeavor, And luck — but a meteor's gleam. The time to succeed is when others. Discouraged, show traces of tire. The battle is fought in the homestretch — And won — 'twixt the flag and the wire ! 335 Songs and Stories WHEN THE COLTS ARE IN THE RING. (As Riley would see it.) OTHE fair time, the rare time, I can feel it , in the air, As we take our brimming baskets and go out to see the fair ; The lasses decked with ribbons red, the colts with ribbons blue — What a trial for the gallant lads to choose between the two ! No season of old mother earth can half such blessings bring When the bloom is on the maiden and the colts are in the ring, O, the beauty of the bonnie curls— the rapture of the race ! O ! the maiden with the pretty foot — the filly that can pace ! The one in russet harness with a halter I can hold. But the other*s got me harnessed in her wavy hair of gold. O, the autumn time is full of joy and every goodly thing, 336 from Tennessee When the bloom is on the maiden and the colts are in the ring. O, the fair time, the rare time, when the Jer- seys set the pace In a sheen of silken colors and a skin of chrome lace, And the Berkshires tie their tails up in a lovely Psyche knot. And the Shorthorns and the Shropshires and Southdowns make it hot. **I wouldn't live here always," is the doleful song they sing, Who never loved a maiden while the colts were in the ring. O, the fair time, the rare time, in our life a ver- dant spot, When the people are all jolly and their trials are forgot ; And I sit and muse in fancy to the days so long ago When I sparked my little sweetheart out to see the County show. Since then old Time has made me dance — to-day I'll make him sing. For the bloom is on the maiden and the colts are in the ring. 337 Songs and Stories FAIR TIMES IN OLD TENNESSEE. FAIR time in ole Tennessee, days jes' to yer makin', Nights so cool an' crispy, jes' the kind for 'pos- sum shakin', Mornin's bright wid sun an' light of frosty dew an' flashy, Weather jes' the kind to make the little nigger ashy ! Bacon in de rafters, sorghum mills er grindin' sweetin', Punkins in de hay loft an' religun in de meetin' ! Fair time in ole Tennessee, ebery body gwine, Wagginsfullo'prittygals,dair ribbons jes' a-flyin'. Pikes jes' full o' people, an' de woods jes' full o' niggers A-leadin' ob de pacin' colts wid marks down in de figgers. Hoss an' jack an' jinny an' Jersey bull, all gwineter Git dar, 'kase deys brudders to dat good ole hoss, Hal Pinter ! Fair time in ole Tennessee, ebery body stirrin'— Cl'ar de road, dair comes er fool a'whippin' an' a'spurrin' ' 338 from Tennessee Look out dair yo' nigger, Julius Sezer Andrer Asi