“’Tis nigh on ninety years, I guess,
By the road called the ‘Wilderness’—
Its story’s told by Captain Speed,
A little book you all should read—
We pioneered to Old Kaintuck,
Woods swarmed with turkey, bear and buck,
And by the ‘Rock Spring’ pitched our tents,
Them times wild strawberries was immense;
We didn’t pick, we scooped ’em up
By bushels, with a bowl or cup;
And when our teams came home at night,
The critters’ legs—they wuz a sight;
Seemed like they’d swum in bloody seas,
The red juice splashed above their knees.
We rode one May-day ’cross the prairie,
Me and my wife and little Mary;
Come to a holler in the ground,
Where lots of strawberries grew around,
And herds of trampling buffalo
Made the red juice in rivers flow
And fill a pool some five foot deep—
Excuse me, pardners; I must weep—
Thanks! My throat is a leetle dry—
God knows I can not tell a lie (Applause)
Our horses slipped and tumbled in,
We swum in juice up to the chin;
A half an hour we rose and sank
At last we scrambled to the bank;
Me and my wife soon came around—“
“She was drowned!” (Groans)
“Yes drowned! My stricken heart, be calm!
Hers is the crown, the harp, the palm—
Thanks, yes if you insist, a dram.
Blood flowed them days like strawberry juice
When Girty let his hell-hounds loose.
One day some Injin squaws allfired—“
Master:
“There, old man, rest. You must be tired.
Share in our feast, Homeric sire;
Thanks to the Muse for such a lyre!”
Ye Silent Toast.
Fill high to-night the strawberry bowl
For friendship’s feast and flow of soul,
Quickly, ere Psyche’s brilliant flight
Shall vanish in the coming night.
Soon shall the parting word be spoken,
Soon friendship’s golden bowl be broken;
Clasp hands and salutation send
To each true-hearted, absent friend;
Nor in our circle be forgot
The masters who before us wrought,
Titans of memorable days:
Penn, with his sheathless falchion’s blaze,
Harney, the dauntless, true, and strong,
And Prentice of the golden song,
Triad whose still ascending track
Flings its long rays of splendor back.
Ye Small Boy’s Downfall.—A Sam.
What spectres from the strawberry bowl
Flit through the galleries of the soul,
With shrill voice crying, “Grieve his heart;
Come like shadows; so depart!”
Strawberry cake, preserves, and jam!
I see thy mild eyes moisten, Sam
Perchance at memory of the closet
Where once was stored the rare deposit,
High ranged upon the topmost shelf,
A skillful mother’s richest pelf.
I see thee steal, at dead of night,
With cat-like footsteps, soft and light;
I see thee open slow the door,
Peep in, and cautiously explore;
I see short Sam the boxes pile,
Humming Longfellow’s psalm the while:
“The heights to which the great have stept,
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept
Were toiling upward in the night.”
I hear a sudden scream—a crash—
I see a candle’s fitful flash—
Tableau—A boy with downfallen breeches,
Loud sobs and screams and stinging switches.
Good-night.