bendin' clover, Like ter see the happy ducks in the puddles sailin'   And the stuck-up rooster all draggled, wet and trailin'. But I like it best inside, with the fire a-gleamin', And myself, with chores all done, settin' round and dreaming With the kitten on my knee, and the kettle hummin', And the rain-drops on the roof, "Home, Sweet Home" a-drummin'. Kind er like a stormy day, take it all together, Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complaining And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.  

 

     THE HAND-ORGAN BALL 

  When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down. And hushed is the roar and the din, When Evening is cooling the sweltering town,     'Tis then that the frolics begin; And up in dim "Finnegan's Court," on the pavement, Shut in by the loom of the tenement's wall,   'Neath the swinging arc-light, on a warm summer's night, They gather to dance at the hand-organ ball.    'Tis not a society function, you see, But quite an informal affair; The costumes are varied, yet simple and free, And gems are exceedingly rare; The ladies are gowned in their calicoes, fetching, And coatless and cool are the gentlemen, all. In a jacket, they say, one's not rated au fait By the finicky guests at the hand-organ ball. There's "Ikey," the newsboy, and "Muggsy" who "shines"; There's Beppo who peddles "banan'"; There's A. Lincoln Johnson, whose "Pa" kalsomines—     His skin has a very deep tan; There's Rosy, the cash-girl, and Mame, who ties bundles, And Maggie, who works in the factory, tall; She's much in demand, for she "pivots so grand,"     She's really the belle of the hand-organ ball. Professor Spaghetti the music supplies, From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime; His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies, Is merrily thumping the rollicking time; The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper, The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall, And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball. The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street, The mothers lean out from the windows to see, While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet, And tenement babies crow loud in their glee; And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,—     Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;—   There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light, In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball.  

 

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