Do yer 'member how yer fired 'em, slow and careful, one by one?
Do'n't it seem like each was louder than the grandest sort of gun?
Can't yer see the big, red flashes, if yer only shut yer eyes,
And jest smell the burnin' powder, sweeter'n breaths from paradise?
O you boys, gray-haired and bearded. O you youngsters grown ter men,
We can't buy them kind of crackers now, nor never shall again!
Fer the joys thet used ter glitter through the fizz and puff and crash,
Has, ter most of us, been deadened by the grindin' chink of cash;
But I'd like ter ask yer, fellers, how much of yer hoarded gold
Would yer give if it could buy yer one glad Fourth like them of old?
How much would yer spend ter gain it—that light-hearted, joyous glow
That come with yer fust fire-crackers, when yer bought 'em long ago?
WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR
I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me
Religion isn't nigh so good as what it used ter be!
I go ter meetin' every week and rent my reg'lar pew,
But hain't a mite uplifted when the sarvices are through;
I take my orthodoxy straight, like Gran'pop did his rum,
(It never hurt him, neither, and a deacon, too, by gum!)
But now the preachin' 's mushy and the singin' 's lost its fire:
I 'd like ter hear old Parson Day, with Nathan leadin' choir.
I'd like ter know who told these folks that all was perfect peace,
And glidin' inter heaven was as slick as meltin' grease;
Old Parson Day, I tell yer what, his sermons made yer think!
He'd shake yer over Tophet till yer heard the cinders clink.
And then, when he'd gin out the tune and Nate would take his stand
Afore the chosen singers, with the tuning-fork in hand,
The meetin'-house jest held its breath, from cellar plum ter spire,
And then bu'st forth in thunder-tones with Nathan leadin' choir.
They didn't chime so pretty, p'r'aps, as does our new quartette,
But all them folks was there ter sing, and done it, too, you bet!
The basses they 'd be rollin' on, with faces swelled and red,
And racin' the supraners, who was p'r'aps a bar ahead;
While Nate beat time with both his hands and worked like drivin' plow,
With drops o' sweat a-standin' out upon his face and brow;
And all the congregation felt that Heav'n was shorely nigher
Whene'er they heerd the chorus sung with Nathan leadin' choir.
Rube Swan was second tenor, and his pipes was kinder cracked,
But Rube made up in loudness what in tune he might have lacked;
But 'twas a leetle cur'us, though, for p'r'aps his voice would balk,
And when he'd fetch a high note give a most outrageous squawk;
And Uncle Elkanah was deef and kind er'd lose the run,
And keep on singin' loud and high when all the rest was done;
But, notwithstandin' all o' this, I think I'd never tire
Of list'nin' ter the good old tunes with Nathan leadin' choir.
We've got a brand-new organ now, and singers—only four—
But, land! we pay 'em cash enough ter fee a hundred more;
They sing newfangled tunes and things that some folks think are sweet,
But don't appeal ter me no more'n a fish-horn on the street.
I'd like once more ter go ter church and watch old Nathan wave
His tunin'-fork above the crowd and lead the glorious stave;
I'd like ter hear old Parson Day jest knock the sinners higher,
And then set back and hear a hymn with Nathan leadin' choir.
HEZEKIAH'S ART
My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at;
An artist, I mean,—course he ain't a whitewasher or nothin' like that.
At home he was always a-drawin' and shirkin' his work 'round the place,
And kept me continyerly jawin' or dressin' him down with a trace;
Till I says ter Mother, "Between us, this thing might's well be understood;
Our Hez is jest simply a gen'us, and a gen'us is never no good;
He won't stop fer jawin's and dressin's; he'll daub and he'll draw
all the while;
So he might as well have a few lessons, and learn how ter do it in style."
So I sold a slice of the wood-lot ter the folks at the summer hotel,
That fetched me some cash—quite a good lot—so now he's been gone a
long spell;
He's got a room up ter the City, an' calls it a name that is queer—
I ain't up in French, more's the pity—but something that's like
"attyleer."
I went up last month on a visit, and blamed if that place wa'n't a sight!
The fourteenth or fifteenth—which is it?—well, anyhow, it's the top
flight;
I wouldn't have b'lieved he could be there, way up on that
breath-takin' floor,
If't wa'n't fer the sign that I see there—"H. Lafayette Boggs"—on
the door.
That room was a wonder fer certain! The floor was all paint-spots and dirt,
Each window was hung with a curtain, striped gay as a calico shirt;
The walls was jest like a museum, all statoos and flim-flam and gush
And picters—good land! when I see 'em I jest had ter turn 'round and
blush;
And Hez! he looked like a gorilla,—a leetle round hat on his head,
And hair that would stuff a big piller, and necktie blue, yeller, and red;
I swan, he did look like a daisy! I tell yer, it went ter my heart,
'Cause, course I supposed he was crazy, until he explained it was ART.