Armazindy Page #5

								

  For I am no philosopher
    Of wise elucidation,
  But speak of things as they occur,
    From simple observation.

  I notice little things—to wit:—
    I never missed a train
  Because I didn’t run for it;
    I never knew it rain
  That my umbrella wasn’t lent,—
    Or, when in my possession,
  The sun but wore, to all intent,
    A jocular expression.

  I never knew a creditor
    To dun me for a debt
  But I was “cramped” or “bu’sted”; or
    I never knew one yet,
  When I had plenty in my purse,
    To make the least invasion,—
  As I, accordingly perverse,
    Have courted no occasion.

  Nor do I claim to comprehend
    What Nature has in view
  In giving us the very friend
    To trust we oughtn’t to.—
  But so it is: The trusty gun
    Disastrously exploded
  Is always sure to be the one
    We didn’t think was loaded.

  Our moaning is another’s mirth,—
    And what is worse by half,
  We say the funniest thing on earth
    And never raise a laugh:
  ’Mid friends that love us overwell,
    And sparkling jests and liquor,
  Our hearts somehow are liable
    To melt in tears the quicker.

  We reach the wrong when most we seek
    The right; in like effect,
  We stay the strong and not the weak—
    Do most when we neglect.—
  Neglected genius—truth be said—
    As wild and quick as tinder,
  The more you seek to help ahead
    The more you seem to hinder.

  I’ve known the least the greatest, too—
    And, on the selfsame plan,
  The biggest fool I ever knew
    Was quite a little man:
  We find we ought, and then we won’t—
    We prove a thing, then doubt it,—
  Know everything but when we don’t
    Know anything about it.

THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM

  He puts the poem by, to say
  His eyes are not themselves to-day!

  A sudden glamour o’er his sight—
  A something vague, indefinite—

  An oft-recurring blur that blinds
  The printed meaning of the lines,

  And leaves the mind all dusk and dim
  In swimming darkness—strange to him!

  It is not childishness, I guess,—
  Yet something of the tenderness

  That used to wet his lashes when
  A boy seems troubling him again;—

  The old emotion, sweet and wild,
  That drove him truant when a child,

  That he might hide the tears that fell
  Above the lesson—“Little Nell.”

  And so it is he puts aside
  The poem he has vainly tried

  To follow; and, as one who sighs
  In failure, through a poor disguise

  Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say
  His eyes are not themselves to-day.

WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS

  My dear old friends—It jes beats all,
    The way you write a letter
  So’s ever’ last line beats the first,
    And ever’ next-un’s better!—
  W’y, ever’ fool-thing you putt down
    You make so interestin’,
  A feller, readin’ of ’em all,
    Can’t tell which is the best-un.

  It’s all so comfortin’ and good,
    ’Pears-like I almost hear ye
  And git more sociabler, you know,
    And hitch my cheer up near ye
  And jes smile on ye like the sun
    Acrosst the whole per-rairies
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