IV.
Tune up the Christmas fiddles!
Where royal music rings,
Where lips are red with laughter and romping rapture sings,
We'll find surcease of sorrow and
Care shall die away
While the feet shall dance the music of happiness for aye!
Then fix your fiddles, fellers! Our sweet-hearts laugh applause,
And Love repeats the echoes in a kiss for Santa Claus!
Mistah Trouble, Mistah Trouble!
Happy dat yuh met me
When de pleasuhes all am heah,
En de joys beset me!
Happy dat de house am full
So yuh'll hab toh trabble;
Mister Trouble, stretch yoh laigs
Libely down de grabble!
So Santa Claus'll Come.
My Mommer says ef I ain't good,
Thet Santa'll stay away,
En never bring a top er thing
Thet boys want Christmas day;
En I'm jes' purfic now, I guess,
Er purficker then some,
En I'm behavin' like a man
So Santa Claus'll come!
I hop up out of bed, you know,
'Fore Mommer calls me thayre,
En dress myse'f en wash my face
En nicely comb my hair;
En then I help my Mommer work,
En make a happy home,
En please my Popper all I kin,
So Santa Claus'll come.
I go to school through all the week,
En never hookey play,
En I'm so good I'm never made
Tell after school to stay;
En when the Sundays come, you bet,
I quit each idle chum,
En go to Sunday School ez nice,
So Santa Claus'll come!
En Mommer says I'm orful good,
En teacher says so, too,
En call me jes' a angel, all
But havin' wings,—they do!
En Popper says thayre at the store's
A dandy big bass drum!
You betcher life I'm bein' good
So Santa Claus'll come!
Mister Sorrow.
Mister Sorrow came one day
When the times were blue,
And he said: "My brother, say
Can I stay with you?"
And he looked so mighty nice
That I asked him in;
Nothing said about the price;
'Fraid he'd go agin!
Mister Sorrow from that day
Hangs around here so!
Makes himself at home, to play
He's my friend, you know!
When I hint it mighty strong
That he'd better roam,
Says he's boarded here so long
That it seems like home!
If the Kingdom of Heaven was like a mustard-seed two thousand years ago, it has not changed its appearance any since; it seems so small now-a-days that it is pretty hard to find down here below.
The Women and the Bill.
(Explanatory Note:—The press reports state that the women of America are strenuously opposing the statehood bill, and demanding that it provide for Equal Suffrage and Prohibition in the new state.)
It was years and years in coming, but it hove in sight at last,
And we hoped our cares were over and our disappointments past;
It was fought for on the hustings, in the platforms was declared,
And with all the big campaigners it has every honor shared;
And we thought we surely had it where no evil hands could kill,
Till the women went to
knocking
on the
Statehood
Bill!
Don't the last of you remember how we whooped it up with might
Through the speeches of the daytime and orations of the night;
How resolved and re-resolved, and then resolved again,
That our people were the people, and our men the very men?
And we shouted out the story of our deeds with honest will;—
But the women now are
knocking
on the
Statehood
Bill!
Don't you now recall distinctly how we speechified till hoarse,
Trying to convince the people what was just the proper course?
How much time and toil we lavished in the beauty of our schemes
Just to save the state from danger to the dearness of our dreams!
But, alas! we see the finish! And alas! for manly skill!
For the women all are
knocking
on the
Statehood
Bill!
We have seen the new star rising from the territorial seas,
We have seen it mount the zenith where the old flag split the breeze;
And we boasted of our glories in rejoicings grand and great
As we thought we raced for honors in the new-created state!
Vanished now the dreams of sal'ry and the offices to fill,
For the women all are
knocking
on the
Statehood
Bill!
O, the grave and mighty Senate! Mr. Beveridge mighty too!
We can understand your pickle and we know just what you'll do;
There is only one escaping, only one to ransom us
From the rumpus we have kicked up and the madness of the muss:
Give the women all they ask for! We were chumps to treat them ill.—
We're undone if they keep
knocking
on the
Statehood
Bill!
A Hard Winter Ahead.
"Yessuh, we am lookin' foh de hahdest wintah dis yeah dar hez bin foh a long time; but ef de neighbohs keeps on erraisin' chickens en de possums doan't git too scahse, I belieb we kin pull thew toh grass widout a-sellin' ob de houn' pup!"
The Charity Ball.
Rich man foh de pooh man dance
One night in de yeah;
Pooh man foh de rich man prance
All times, do yuh heah?
Pooh man play de violin
While de rich man swing;
Pooh man squeeze de fiddle in
When he wants toh sing!
Mistah rich man, hab yoh fun
Makin' grub foh us;
Min' dat stohy ez yuh run
'Bout ole Lazaruss!
Guess yuh'll dance some ober dah,
Jes' ez like ez not;
Swing dem pahtnehs fas' en fah
'Foh de fiah git hot!
Little Sermons.
The man who can't live right in this world can't expect to get the chance in the next.
There may be more devotion in tears than in laughter, but I'll tie up with the latter and take the risk.
No one except Christ ever called the devil Satan to his face; and then they went up into the high mountain and into a private place where no one else could hear the muss.
The Santa Claus Boy.
The Santa Claus boy is the latest thing out;
He's the rage of the season, they say,
And wherever you wander, you'll find him about
With his beautiful, dutiful way;
He's as spick and as span as a dandified man.
And his look is a heavenly joy;
And however he does it, whatever his plan,
We know he's the Santa Claus boy!
He jumps out of bed in the morning himself,
And he never lies still for the rest;
He dresses in haste with the skill of an elf,
And he washes and combs with the best;
He does up the chores while his small sister snores,
And his whistle no longer annoys;
He's the pride of the house and the king of out-doors,—
This wonderful Santa Claus boy!
He hastens to school with a heart full of glees,
And he never turns truant to play:
His lessons he learns with the greatest of ease,—
He recites in a beautiful way;
And the teacher's so glad that the boy who was bad
All his failings has learned to destroy;
And she smiles with delight as she breaks up her gad,
At the change in the Santa Claus boy!
When the Sabbath day comes with its Sunday School hours,
He is never once absent or late;
And the verses he speaks beat the memory powers
Of the sages exalted and great;
But he dreams of a Tree, full of presents to be,
And with treasures that know not alloy;
And the vision he sees fills his bosom with glee
For the Sunday School Santa Claus boy!
Ah, well, this old codger laid up on the shelf,
In the rubbish piled high on life's ways,
Knows how it all is,—he has been there himself,—
He has romped through the Santa Claus days;
Whatever appears, whether laughter or tears,
Let a song every moment employ,
As the world tosses gifts through the beautiful years
To the glad-hearted Santa Claus boy!
Caught on the Fly.
Young woman, learn to cook. No man wants his home turned into an experiment station for biscuit making.
In these last days, a man is known by the patent medicine promoter to whom he sends his testimonial photograph.
The man who gets stooped shoulders from carrying other people's heavy burdens went to the wrong school in his youth.
Religion is a mighty good thing, but it never pays the rent bill; and the Christianity of warm clothes and wholesome food beats its balance on the record books of the angels.
"'Twill All Come Right."
O, brother, don't you worry,
When the sorrow brings the night!
It is never long till morning,
And 'twill all come right.
Do the loads seem hard and heavy
As you bear them with your might?
Love will lift the bending burdens,
And 'twill all come right!
Do you feel the hate and malice
Of the foolish ones that fight?
They will find your heart is worthy,
And 'twill all come right!
Do your duty to the utmost!
Then the foes shall vanish quite;
Let the world howl on with censure,—
It will all come right!
God awaits us over yonder,
Where his lilies blossom white;
In his love the griefs shall perish,
And 'twill all come right!
The happy days when the mistletoe makes raptures for young hearts and loving lips will soon come 'round again. Heaven grant us all to be young and confiding enough for all the love and joy and the glad music of the Christmas times!
[Good-bye] to Trouble.
O, it's good-bye, Mister Trouble!
There's a joy the angels know,
With the mistletoe above us
And our sweet-hearts here below!
Then play the fiddle, Mister!
Love and laughter are in sight;
And swing your partners, fellers,
Till the dawning of the light!
O, its good-bye, Mister Trouble!
For the fiddle says, "Be gay!"
There's the mistletoe up yonder,
And we kiss the griefs away!
Caught on the Fly.
All things are forgiven to the woman who holds her tongue.
The greatest vice of the women is gossip, and the greatest folly of the men is greed.
If some people get to heaven, no one will be more surprised at the achievement than themselves.
Troubles have walked the highways of human life since the morning stars sang together; and yet when we meet them on the dusty roads we travel, we pretend astonishment and annoy high heaven with our cries.
Too Much Prosperity.
"Dis heah big cotton crap am a great calam'ty toh de cullud folks," said old Black Mose dejectedly.
"How is that, Uncle?" inquired the astonished white man.
"So many ob 'em hab sabed up emuff money toh buy tall hats en long—tailed coats dat de conf'rences will all be jam-full ob cullud preachehs befoh spring, en de cotton-fiel's'll miss some mighty good han's nex' season, shuah!" was the reply.
Little Sermons.
Don't go too much on the sensibilities. Feelings are a mighty poor regulator when it comes to determining the necessity for hard work.
The days of the gray hairs and wrinkled brows utter few petitions to the merry god of all the happy Christmas eves; but if they asked of Santa Claus the supremest gift in all the world of men, they would implore him for one more Christmas as happy and as innocent as smiled upon them in the days of childhood long ago!
To the Lonesome Fiddle.
You needn't look so lonesome, Mr. Fiddle, hanging there
With the pretty girls about you and the pleasures every where;
For I know your heart is heaven with its music angel sweet,
And it all will go to singing at the coming of the feet!
Then don't you look so lonesome!
The happy days we'll meet;
For the Christmas times are coming
And the dancing of the feet.
You needn't look so lonesome! In your happy soul abound
All the airs of royal rapture that the golden cycles found,
And the willing fingers waiting are staying close about,
Just to pick your heart to pieces and to coax the music out!
Then don't you look so lonesome!
The laughing lips shall meet
With the mistletoe above us
And the coming of the feet!
You needn't look so lonesome! I can see you laughing there
To the tune of "Old Dan Tucker" as you drop the loads of care,
And the melodies immortal drive the troubles all away
As you spill the tender music of "My Darling Nellie Gray."
Then don't you look so lonesome!
All your dreams will come complete,
And Love will swing his partners
To the tripping of the feet.
O, you needn't look so lonesome! All the good times you shall feel
As you shout the mighty chorus of the "Old Virginia Reel,"
And Love shall join the music with the raptures that abound,
As we heel-and-toe-it lively and we "swing the ladies 'round!"
Then don't you look so lonesome!
Love and happiness shall meet,
And we'll shout good-bye to trouble
In the shuffle of the feet!
Let the boy eat! The grocery-man is a less expensive guest than the doctor, and mush and milk are more palatable than medicine.
"If Santa Claus Don't Come."
If Santa Claus forgets to come,
I don't know what I'll do;
I 'spect I'll get as bad as some
An' cry a little, too;
I wrote an' told him plain as day
What he should buy an' bring;
An' if he don't, I'll always say
That he's a mean old thing!
I want a drum to pound all day
Fer ev'ry passin' crowd;
A punchin'-bag an' foot-ball,—say,
An' gun that shoots out loud;
I'd like to have a pony, too,
An' big dog fer a chum;
Dear me, I don't know what I'll do
If Santa Claus don't come!
I'll hang my stockin's anyway!
They won't hold half enough,
But I'll jes' write a note, an' say
The place to leave the stuff!
I'll jump in bed at candle-light,
An' act both deaf an' dumb!
But 'twill be awful here tonight
If Santa Claus don't come!
Of course, he may not have to spare
Jes' ev'ry thing I lack,
An' yet I hope he'll leave me there
'Bout all a boy can pack;
But If he'll come an' bring a few,
I'll not be very glum;
But oh! I don't know what I'll do
If Santa Claus don't come!
The Call of the Fiddle.
Don't you hear the fiddle, fellers?
It is singing to the bow
All the glory of the music
Underneath the mistletoe!
Then good-bye, Mister Sorrow!
For the cares have run away;
Love and music both are shouting
And we answer them "Hooray!"
Don't you hear the fiddle, fellers?
It is calling us to know
Joys that circle to the music
Underneath the mistletoe.
Then good-bye, Mister Sorrow,
Good-bye for many a day!
Love's lips are smiling at us,
And our hearts respond "Hooray!"
I have often thought it very appropriate that good resolutions come after instead of before the Christmas days. The heart is then in much better mood to give them pleasant welcome.
A Queer Dream.
"Ah done had a queeah dream las' night!" said Sambo.
"How was that? Tell us about it," said the interested white listener.
"Ah dreamed I wuz in hebben on Crissmuss eve, en de angels all had a Crissmuss tree en ole St. Petah played de Santa Claus, en de angels all got new French hawps in dey stockin's; en dey couldn't play 'em at all en de white angels all wanted fiddles en de black angels all wanted banjoes; en dey wuz a-havin' a awful time up dar, shuah!"
"Well, how did it come out?"
"Ah dunno how it come out! Jes' ez dey wus a'pintin' a ahbitratoh, my boy Jim sot up a howl foh 'possum en woke me up!"
The Same Old Gifts.
"What do you expect for Christmas, Major?" inquired the hospitable store-keeper as the gray-haired Major hobbled in with his crutch and rested his rheumatic leg on a sack of coffee.
"The same as usual, sir, the same as usual! My wife always works me a pair of slippers two sizes too small, each one of the girls gives me a neck-tie I can't wear because of its color, and each of the boys a new-fangled revolver I can't shoot and have to turn over to them. Only my old army friend in Kentucky knows me well enough to know what I can use."
"What is that?" inquired the amiable store-keeper.
"Four gallons of mountain-dew fresh from the still, bless God! And I always get away with it in plenty of time for good resolutions on New Year's day!" replied the valiant Major, smiling and smacking his lips.
The Greatest Gift.
The Wise Men in the desert bare,
Heart-hungry in their need,
Behold a Star, and forth they fare
Wherever it may lead;
And find at last, full reconciled,
God's greatest gift,—a little child!
The ballot may be more powerful than the bullet, but sometimes the gun contains the wrong load.