Read Ebook: John Smith U.S.A. by Field Eugene

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 391 lines and 26897 words, and 8 pages

JOHN SMITH.

To-day I strayed in Charing Cross as wretched as could be With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea; There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast. This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by-- Not one in all the crowd knew me and not a one knew I! "Oh, for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh, for a friendly face! Oh, for a hearty handclasp in this teeming desert place!" And so, soliloquizing as a homesick creature will, Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's, Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes. The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight-- The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day-- The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U.S.A."

Wildly I clutched the register and brooded on that name-- I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same. I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West-- I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best. His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue, And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue; Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette-- Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet; I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream, Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime; So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"--your pedigree confess In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess"; Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A."

It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow; Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills; Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies; Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond, And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond; Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent; Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir, Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire: Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week, And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak, And where our grandmas sleep their sleep--God rest their souls, I say! And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U.S.A."

Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow; Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn; You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott-- Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot; And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue; Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight, Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night; Whar blooms the furtive 'possum--pride an' glory of the South-- And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth! Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze, Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay-- Hyar's lookin' at yo', Colonel "John Smith, U.S.A."!

Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West-- That part of our republic I shall always love the best? Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine? Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide; Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote, And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago ! Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high again, And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then; The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below; And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.

THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.

Of all the gracious gifts of Spring, Is there another can safely surpass This delicate, voluptuous thing-- This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? Upon a damask napkin laid, What exhalations superfine Our gustatory nerves pervade, Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine.

The ancients loved this noble fish, And, coming from the kitchen fire All piping hot upon a dish, What raptures did he not inspire! "Fish should swim twice," they used to say-- Once in their native vapid brine, And then a better way-- You understand? Fetch on the wine!

And, harkee, garcon! let the blood Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him-- Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood This piscatorial pride should swim; So, were he living, he should say He gladly died for me and mine, And, as it was his native spray, He'd lash the sauce--What, ho! the wine!

I would it were ordained for me To share your fate, oh finny friend! I surely were not loath to be Reserved for such a noble end; For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, At last reels in his ruthless line, What were my ecstacy to swim In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!

Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, Come hither every year and bring The boons provocative of mirth; And should your stock of bass run low, However much I might repine, I think I might survive the blow If plied with wine, and still more wine!

TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR.

Whereas, good friend, it doth appear You do possess the notion To his awhile away from here To lands across the ocean; Now, by these presents we would show That, wheresoever wend you, And wheresoever gales may blow, Our friendship shall attend you.

What though on Scotia's banks and braes You pluck the bonnie gowan, Or chat of old Chicago days O'er Berlin brew with Cowen; What though you stroll some boulevard In Paris , Or make the round of Scotland Yard With our lamented Melville?

Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine True heart from true hearts sever? No--in this draught of honest wine We pledge it, comrade--never! Though mountain waves between us roll, Come fortune or disaster-- 'Twill knit us closer soul to soul And bind our friendships faster.

So here's a bowl that shall be quaff'd To loyalty's devotion, And here's to fortune that shall waft Your ship across the ocean, And here's a smile for those who prate Of Davy Jones's locker, And here's a pray'r in every fate-- God bless you, Knickerbocker!

THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD.

Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show, And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights; When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred, He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!"

Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine-- A certain inspiration which I cannot well define! How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say: "Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"

But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate-- How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate! You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes; To me, at least it never once occurred What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird.

Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day, And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay! What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside! And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!

The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said, Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head, And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred, Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.

Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right If ever it has been your wont to train around at night; How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline! How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast, And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!

But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie-- I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong, Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song; Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine-- I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!

THE MAN WHO WORKED WITH DANA ON THE "SUN".

Thar showed up out 'n Denver in the spring of '81 A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. His name was Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he was a sight ter view Ez he walked into the orfice 'nd inquired for work to do; Thar warn't no places vacant then--fer, be it understood, That was the time when talent flourished at that altitood; But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the rest Uv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best-- 'Til finally he stated that he had done A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop; It seems that Dana was the biggest man you ever saw-- He lived on human bein's 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw! If he had democratic drugs to take, before he took 'em, As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he allus shook 'em! The man that could set down 'nd write like Dana never grew And the sum of human knowledge wuzn't half what Dana knew. The consequence appeared to be that nearly everyone Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun.

This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in-- He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin; Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus sure to shirk-- He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work! If any other cuss had played the tricks he dare ter play, The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day; But, somehow, folks respected him and stood him to the last, Considerin' his superior connections in the past; So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gun On the man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83-- A very different party from the man we thought ter see! A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm-- You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm! A certain hearty manner 'nd a fullness uv the vest Betokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best; His face was so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind, That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind, And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hair In promise of the golden crown He meaneth him to wear; So, uv us boys that met him out 'n Denver there wuz none But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun.

But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83 His old friend, Cantell Whoppers, disappeared upon a spree; The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so That he borrowed all the stuff he could and started on a bat, And, strange as it may seem, we didn't see him after that. So when ol' Dana hove in sight we couldn't understand Why he didn't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand; No casual allusion--not a question, no, not one-- For the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!

We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss-- When we get played fer suckers--why, that's a horse on us! But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff A man who's "worked with Dana"--'nd then we fellers wink And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think. It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away; And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shun The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!

But, bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years, To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears; An' may I live a thousan', too--a thousan', less a day, For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away. And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaff Nor biographic data put in your epitaph; But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe; You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun."

A DEMOCRATIC HYMN.

Republicans of differing views Are pro or con protection; If that's the issue they would choose, Why, we have no objection. The issue we propose concerns Our hearts and homes more nearly: A wife to whom the nation turns And venerates so dearly. So, confident of what shall be, Our gallant host advances, Giving three cheers for Grover C. And three times three for Frances!

So gentle is that honored dame, And fair beyond all telling, The very mention of her name Sets every breast to swelling. She wears no mortal crown of gold-- No courtiers fawn around her-- But with their love young hearts and old In loyalty have crowned her-- And so with Grover and his bride We're proud to take our chances, And it's three times three for the twain give we-- But particularly for Frances!

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

The Blue and the Gray collided one day In the future great town of Missouri, And if all that we hear is the truth, 'twould appear That they tackled each other with fury.

While the weather waxed hot they hove and they sot, Like the scow in the famous old story, And what made the fight an enjoyable sight Was the fact that they fought con amore.

They as participants fought in such wise as was taught, As beseemed the old days of the dragons, When you led to the dance and defended with lance The damsel you pledged in your flagons.

In their dialect way the knights of the Gray Gave a flout at the buckeye bandana, And the buckeye came back with a gosh-awful whack, And that's what's the matter with Hannah.

This resisted attack took the Grays all a-back, And feeling less coltish and frisky, They resolved to elate the cause of their state, And also their persons, with whisky.

Having made ample use of the treacherous juice, Which some folks say stings like an adder, They went back again at the handkerchief men, Who slowly got madder and madder.

You can bet it was h--l in the Southern Hotel And elsewhere, too many to mention, But the worst of it all was achieved in the hall Where the President held his convention.

They ripped and they hewed and they, sweating imbrued, Volleyed and bellowed and thundered; There was nothing to do until these yawpers got through, So the rest of us waited and wondered.

As the result of these frays it appears that the Grays, Who once were as chipper as daisies, Have changed their complexion to one of dejection, And at present are bluer than blazes.

IT IS THE PRINTER'S FAULT.

In Mrs. Potter's latest play The costuming is fine; Her waist is made decollete-- Her skirt is new design.

SUMMER HEAT.

Nay, why discuss this summer heat, Of which vain people tell? Oh, sinner, rather were it meet To fix thy thoughts on hell!

The punishment ordained for you In that infernal spot Is het by Satan's impish crew And kept forever hot.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet