battered, Like a veteran, scarred and weary, hangs the old sword on the wall. None can tell its stirring story, None can sing its deeds of glory, None can say which cause it struck for, or from what limp hand it fell; On the battle-field they found it, Where the dead lay thick around it—   Friend and foe—a gory tangle—tossed and torn by shot and shell. Who, I wonder, was its wearer, Was its stricken soldier bearer? Was he some proud Southern stripling, tall and straight and brave and true? Dusky locks and lashes had he? Or was he some Northern laddie, Fresh and fair, with cheeks of roses, and with eyes and coat of blue? From New England's fields of daisies, Or from Dixie's bowered mazes, Rode he proudly forth to conflict? What, I wonder, was his name? Did some sister, wife, or mother, Mourn a husband, son, or brother? Did some sweetheart look with longing for a love who never came? Fruitless question! Fate forever Keeps its secret, answering never. But the grim old blade shall blossom on this mild Memorial Day; I will wreathe its hilt with roses For the soldier who reposes Somewhere 'neath the Southern grasses in his garb of blue or gray. May the flowers be fair above him, May the bright buds bend and love him, May his sleep be deep and dreamless till the last great bugle-call; And may North and South be nearer To each other's heart, and dearer, For the memory of their heroes and the old swords on the wall.  

 

     NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE 

 

  Pavements a-frying in street and in square, Never a breeze in the blistering air, Never a place where a fellow can run Out of the shine of the sizzling sun:   "General Humidity" having his way, Killing us off by the hundred a day; Mercury climbing the tube like a shot,—   Suffering Caesar! I tell you it's hot! Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck, Necktie and bosom and wristbands a wreck, Handkerchief dripping and worn to a shred Mopping and scouring my face and my head; Simply ablaze from my head to my feet, Back all afire with the prickles of heat,—   Not on my cuticle one easy spot,—   Jiminy Moses! I tell you it's hot! Give me a fan and a seat in the shade, Bring me a bucket of iced lemonade; Dress me in naught but the thinnest of clothes, Start up the windmill and turn on the hose:   Set me afloat from my toes to my chin, Open the ice-box and fasten me in,—   If it should freeze me, why, that matters not,—   Brimstone and blazes! I tell you it's HOT!  

 Prev. P 44/61 next