Water.

[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]


APRIL 25, 18 - .

        RAIN - rain - rain - for three good solid fluid weeks -
        Till the air swims, and all creation leaks!
        And street-cars furnish still less room to spare,
        And hackmen several times have earned their fare.
        The omnibuses lumber through the din,
        And carry clay outside as well as in;
        The elevated trains, with jerky care,
        Haul half-way comfort through the dripping air;
        The gutters gallop past the liquid scene,
        As brisk as meadow brooks, though not so clean;
        What trees the city keeps for comfort's sake,
        Are shedding tears as if their hearts would break;
        And water tries to get, by storming steady,
        That fourth of all the world it hasn't already.

        And men are not so sweet as men could wish,
        In air that wouldn't offend a moderate fish;
        Few places can be found, outside or in,
        Where this dark-featured weather has not been;
        For man has always striven, and in vain,
        To roof his disposition from the rain.
        I've strolled about, this morning, several miles,
        'Mongst men who get their living by their smiles;
        I've set my old umbrella up to drip
        In places where I claimed relationship
        (Or, rather, where my heart did; and that's more
        Than blood connection is, sixteen times o'er);
        I've journeyed up and down through half Broadway,
        And did not see a first-class smile to-day.

        And so, in spite of all that I can do,
        These gold-bowed spectacles are growing blue;
        And my old heart must bear along the road
        A fanciful but rather heavy load;
        A painful pressure from a hand unseen:
        Most any one knows nearly what I mean.

        I think I'll powder up this dark-skinned day,
        By going, to-night, to hear the actors play!
        They'll make me laugh, and tone me up a bit,
        And get me out of this unnatural fit.

            *            *            *            *            *

11 o'clock P.M.

        Got back alive; and that's worth thinking on,
        From where there's been such lots of killing done;
        Mercy! it was a somewhat skittish sight -
        So many people butchered in one night!
        'Twas just a lot of people playing crime -
        A sort of murder-picnic all the time.

        We found the theatre with handbills spread,
        Near where the notice in the paper said
        (The weather had slacked up an hour or so,
        And Wife thought she would condescend to go),
        And after stumbling over several chaps,
        Who thought they'd met us somewhere else, perhaps,
        And cheerfully addressed us o'er and o'er,
        As if they'd known us several years or more,
        Persisting in affording us a chance
        To buy our tickets at a slight advance
        (The theatres employ these men, I've heard,
        To greet their patrons with a friendly word,
        And light their way in with kind word and smile,
        And make a dollar out of them meanwhile);
        We brushed past these remarkable "dead-beats,"
        Some tickets bought, and scrambled to our seats.

        After a piece of music by the band,
        The curtain rose before a castle grand,
        And soldiers talking, with a half-scared mien,
        About a spook that one of them had seen.
        When lo! this ghost appears, plump to their view,
        And will not talk, although they beg him to.
        (I whispered to my wife that I'd a freak
        That a newspaper man could make him speak;
        But suddenly my comments had to cease,
        For Wife encouraged me to hold my peace.)

        When lo! this ghost, who, thus far, might have come
        Out of a sky-asylum for the dumb,
        Speaks with a queer but rather human sound,
        When once his son, the Prince, gets on the ground;
        And taking him aside, ten feet almost,
        Tells the poor boy that he's his father's ghost,
        Whose own false brother softly to him crept,
        And poured him full of poison while he slept.

        Then the young man got mad, though to my mind
        'Twas lunacy of quite a knowing kind;
        And went to work with an apparent view
        Of killing off 'most every one he knew.

        I haven't the time his actions all to state;
        I'll only say he managed it first-rate,
        And some way killed all relatives he saw,
        From uncle to prospective father-in-law;
        And when he got through, those he hadn't snuffed out
        Were hardly worth while bothering about.
        (I mustn't forget to say that this poor elf
        Became, at last, a good square corpse himself.)

        I looked around, and, the whole building through,
        Women were shedding tears as if 'twas true;
        And Wife was 'most too much concerned to speak,
        And even my old eyes had sprung a leak.
        'Twas a moist time; and I remarked, "'Tis plain
        We've come out of the rain into the rain."

        I got so full of funeral, sitting there,
        Then, when we once more sniffed the clean, live air,
        It seemed a piece of good-luck all around,
        To get away once more, alive and sound.

        That's what they call a "tragedy;" where Death
        Flies 'round till he himself gets out of breath;
        And, with sword-slashes and cold poison filled,
        All who amount to anything, get killed.
        It's part of life; some time again I'll view it,
        But take a good square rest before I do it!



[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

        Here on this sea-beach I wander;
        Why of the storms am I fonder
        Than of the sunlight above them?
        And the clouds: why do I love them -
        Waves of the sky, onward sweeping,
        Or to the ocean-waves leaping?
        Why do I court this fierce day,
        Dashing my face full of spray?
        Why, when the waves strike the shore
        With their strong, leonine roar,
        Does my soul fiercely entreat them -
        Rush out with rapture to meet them?
        Why do I love to descry
        War in the fields of the sky?
        Why does the chain-lightning's glare,
        Ploughing blue meadows of air,
        Look to my vision alway
        Sweet as a star in the day?

            You who in fair summer weather
        Seek this sea-city together
        (Built for tumultuous rest,
        With the famed ocean chief guest),
        Not half the pleasure you've known
        That I, here wand'ring alone,
        On these wet sand-fields have found,
        Hearing the ocean's own sound,
        Viewing fierce waves from afar
        Strive with the winter in war.
        Storms that tumultuously roll
        Far through my innermost soul -
        Here you encounter, at last,
        Harmonies wondrous and vast!

            *            *            *            *            *

        What did I find on the shore?
        Must I rehearse it once more?