And the dew is on the clover,And the night-hawk whirls in circles overhead;
When the cow-bells melt and mingle
In a softened, silver jingle,
And the old hen calls the chickens in to bed;
When the marshy meadows glimmer
With a misty, purple shimmer,
And the twilight flush is changing into shade;
When the firefly lamps are burning
And the dusk to dark is turning—
Then the bullfrogs chant their evening serenade:
"Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep!
Better go 'round! Better go 'round! Better go 'round," First the little chaps begin it, Raise their high-pitched voices in it, And the shrill soprano piping sets the pace; Then the others join the singing Till the echoes soon are ringing With the big green-coated leader's double-bass. All the lilies are a-quiver, And the grasses by the river Feel the mighty chorus shaking every blade, While the dewy rushes glisten As they bend their heads to listen To the bullfrogs' summer evening serenade: "Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! Better go 'round! Better go 'round! Better go 'round!" And the melody they're tuning Has the sweet and sleepy crooning That the mother hums the baby at her breast, Till the world forgets its sorrow And the cares that haunt the morrow, And is sinking, hushed and happy, to its rest Sometimes bubbling o'er with gladness, Sometimes soft and fall of sadness, Through my dreaming rings the music they have played, And my memory's dearest treasures Have been fitted to the measures Of the bullfrogs' summer evening serenade: "Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! Better go 'round! Better go 'round! Better go 'round!"
SUNDAY AFTERNOONS
From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note,
Through the wintry Sabbath gloaming drifting shreds of music float,
And the quiet and the firelight and the sweetly solemn tunes
Bear me, dreaming, back to boyhood and its Sunday afternoons:
When we gathered in the parlor, in the parlor stiff and grand,
Where the haircloth chairs and sofas stood arrayed, a gloomy band,
Where each queer oil portrait watched us with a countenance of wood,
And the shells upon the what-not in a dustless splendor stood.
Then the quaint old parlor organ with the quaver in its tongue,
Seemed to tremble in its fervor as the sacred songs were sung,
As we sang the homely anthems, sang the glad revival hymns
Of the glory of the story and the light no sorrow dims.
While the dusk grew ever deeper and the evening settled down,
And the lamp-lit windows twinkled in the drowsy little town,
Old and young we sang the chorus and the echoes told it o'er
In the dear familiar voices, hushed or scattered evermore.
From the window of the chapel faint and low the music dies,
And the picture in the firelight fades before my tear-dimmed eyes,
But my wistful fancy, listening, hears the night-wind hum the tunes
That we sang there in the parlor on those Sunday afternoons.
THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES
Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest,
Where the flowered gowns lie folded, which once were brave as the best;
And like the queer old jackets and the waistcoats gay with stripes,
They tell of a worn-out fashion—these old daguerreotypes.
Quaint little folding cases fastened with tiny hook,
Seemingly made to tempt one to lift up the latch and look;
Linings of purple velvet, odd little frames of gold,
Circling the faded faces brought from the days of old.
Grandpa and grandma, taken ever so long ago,
Grandma's bonnet a marvel, grandpa's collar a show,
Mother, a tiny toddler, with rings on her baby hands
Painted—lest none should notice—in glittering, gilded bands.
Aunts and uncles and cousins, a starchy and stiff array,
Lovers and brides, then blooming—now so wrinkled and gray:
Out through the misty glasses they gaze at me, sitting here
Opening the quaint old cases with a smile that is half a tear.
I will smile no more, little pictures, for heartless it was, in truth,
To drag to the cruel daylight these ghosts of a vanished youth;
Go back to your cedar chamber, your gowns and your lavender,
And dream, 'mid their bygone graces, of the wonderful days that were.
THE BEST SPARE ROOM
I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent
When to visit Uncle Hiram in the country oft I went;
And the pleasant recollection still in memory has a charm
Of my boyish romps and rambles round the dear old-fashioned farm.
But at night all joyous fancies from my youthful bosom crept,
For I knew they'd surely put me where the "comp'ny" always slept,
And my spirit sank within me, as upon it
