Book: John Smith, U.S.A.
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Eugene Field >> John Smith, U.S.A.
[Illustration: Eugene Field]
JOHN SMITH
U.S.A.
BY
EUGENE FIELD
AUTHOR OF
THE CLINK OF THE ICE
IN WINK-A-WAY-LAND
HOOSIER LYRICS, ETC.
1905.
INTRODUCTION.
From whatever point of view the character of Eugene Field is seen,
genius--rare and quaint presents itself is childlike simplicity. That he
was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimination, all will admit.
He was a humorist as delicate and fanciful as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain,
Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or Bret Harte in their
happiest moods. Within him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked in
any direction, and from which he could, at will, extract that which
his imagination saw and felt most. That he occasionally left the
child-world, in which he longed to linger, to wander among the older
children of men, where intuitively the hungry listener follows him into
his Temple of Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him not, can
while away the moments imbibing the genius of his imagination in the
poetry and prose here presented.
Though never possessing an intimate acquaintanceship with Field, owing
largely to the disparity in our ages, still there existed a bond
of friendliness that renders my good opinion of him in a measure
trustworthy. Born in the same city, both students in the same college,
engaged at various times in newspaper work both in St. Louis and
Chicago, residents of the same ward, with many mutual friends, it is not
surprising that I am able to say of him that "the world is better off
that he lived, not in gold and silver or precious jewels, but in the
bestowal of priceless truths, of which the possessor of this book
becomes a benefactor of no mean share of his estate."
Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of childhood or the poems
that lend mirth to the out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome
this unique collection of his choicest wit and humor.
CHARLES WALTER Brown.
Chicago, January, 1905.
CONTENTS.
John Smith
The Fisherman's Feast
To John J. Knickerbocker, Jr.
The Bottle and the Bird
The Man Who Worked with Dana on the "Sun"
A Democratic Hymn
The Blue and the Gray
It is the Printer's Fault
Summer Heat
Plaint of the Missouri 'Coon in the Berlin Zoological Gardens
The Bibliomaniac's Bride
Ezra J. M'Manus to a Soubrette
The Monstrous Pleasant Ballad of the Taylor Pup
Long Meter
To DeWitt Miller
Francois Villon
Lydia Dick
The Tin Bank
In New Orleans
The Peter-Bird
Dibdin's Ghost
An Autumn Treasure-Trove
When the Poet Came
The Perpetual Wooing
My Playmates
Mediaeval Eventide Song
Alaskan Balladry
Armenian Folk-Song--The Stork
The Vision of the Holy Grail
The Divine Lullaby
Mortality
A Fickle Woman
Egyptian Folk-Song
Armenian Folk-Song--The Partridge
Alaskan Balladry, No. 1
Old Dutch Love Song
An Eclogue from Virgil
Horace to Maecenas
Horace's "Sailor and Shade"
Uhland's "Chapel"
"The Happy Isles" of Horace
Horatian Lyrics
Hugo's "Pool in the Forest"
Horace I., 4
Love Song--Heine
Horace II., 3
The Two Coffins
Horace I., 31
Horace to His Lute
Horace I., 22
The "Ars Poetica" of Horace XXIII
Marthy's Younkit
Abu Midjan
The Dying Year
Dead Roses
JOHN SMITH.
To-day I strayed in Charing Cross as wretched as could be
With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea;
There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed
And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast.
This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by--
Not one in all the crowd knew me and not a one knew I!
"Oh, for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh, for a friendly face!
Oh, for a hearty handclasp in this teeming desert place!"
And so, soliloquizing as a homesick creature will,
Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill
And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's,
Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes.
The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight
A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight--
The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day--
The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U.S.A."
Wildly I clutched the register and brooded on that name--
I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same.
I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West--
I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best.
His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue,
And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue;
Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette--
Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet;
I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem
To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream,
Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme
Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime;
So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"--your pedigree confess
In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess";
Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may
Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A."
It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago
Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow;
Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills
And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills;
Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size,
And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies;
Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond,
And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond;
Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent
Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent;
Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir,
Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire:
Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week,
And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak,
And where our grandmas sleep their sleep--God rest their souls, I say!
And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U.S.A."
Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know
In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow;
Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn
Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn;
You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott--
Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot;
And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true
As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue;
Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight,
Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night;
Whar blooms the furtive 'possum--pride an' glory of the South--
And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth!
Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees
And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze,
Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay--
Hyar's lookin' at yo', Colonel "John Smith, U.S.A."!
Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West--
That part of our republic I shall always love the best?
Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine
In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine?
Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side
And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide;
Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat,
Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote,
And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago
(Three-Fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom and Parson Jim, you know)!
Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high
again,
And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then;
The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro,
And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below;
And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way,
Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.
You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall,
And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all!
For when a man sojourns abroad awhile (as I have done)
He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one--
And so they are! For well you know there's nothing in a name---
Our Browns, our Joneses and our Smiths are happily the same;
All represent the spirit of the land across the sea,
All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free!
Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East--
So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least;
Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword or pine,
He is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine!
Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known,
Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone!
And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day
Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U.S.A."
THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.
Of all the gracious gifts of Spring,
Is there another can safely surpass
This delicate, voluptuous thing--
This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid,
What exhalations superfine
Our gustatory nerves pervade,
Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine.
The ancients loved this noble fish,
And, coming from the kitchen fire
All piping hot upon a dish,
What raptures did he not inspire!
"Fish should swim twice," they used to say--
Once in their native vapid brine,
And then a better way--
You understand? Fetch on the wine!
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
How often have I cast for you--
How often sadly seen you scud
Where weeds and pussy willows grew!
How often have you filched my bait!
How often have you snapped my treacherous line!--
Yet here I have you on this plate.
You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_!
And, harkee, garcon! let the blood
Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him--
Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood
This piscatorial pride should swim;
So, were he living, he should say
He gladly died for me and mine,
And, as it was his native spray,
He'd lash the sauce--What, ho! the wine!
I would it were ordained for me
To share your fate, oh finny friend!
I surely were not loath to be
Reserved for such a noble end;
For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
At last reels in his ruthless line,
What were my ecstacy to swim
In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!
And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,
Come hither every year and bring
The boons provocative of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low,
However much I might repine,
I think I might survive the blow
If plied with wine, and still more wine!
TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR.
Whereas, good friend, it doth appear
You do possess the notion
To his awhile away from here
To lands across the ocean;
Now, by these presents we would show
That, wheresoever wend you,
And wheresoever gales may blow,
Our friendship shall attend you.
What though on Scotia's banks and braes
You pluck the bonnie gowan,
Or chat of old Chicago days
O'er Berlin brew with Cowen;
What though you stroll some boulevard
In Paris (c'est la belle ville!),
Or make the round of Scotland Yard
With our lamented Melville?
Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine
True heart from true hearts sever?
No--in this draught of honest wine
We pledge it, comrade--never!
Though mountain waves between us roll,
Come fortune or disaster--
'Twill knit us closer soul to soul
And bind our friendships faster.
So here's a bowl that shall be quaff'd
To loyalty's devotion,
And here's to fortune that shall waft
Your ship across the ocean,
And here's a smile for those who prate
Of Davy Jones's locker,
And here's a pray'r in every fate--
God bless you, Knickerbocker!
THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD.
Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go
To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show,
And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights
We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights;
When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,
He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!"
Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies
Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes!
There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine--
A certain inspiration which I cannot well define!
How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say:
"Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"
But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate--
How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!
You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches
That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes;
To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred
What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird.
Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,
And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay!
What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied
To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside!
And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then
Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!
The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so,
But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know!
The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said,
Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head,
And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred,
Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.
Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right
If ever it has been your wont to train around at night;
How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine,
And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline!
How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast,
And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!
But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly
Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie--
I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong,
Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song;
Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine--
I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!
So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the tell-tale day--
Come hither with your fillets and your wreathes of posies gay;
We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine
Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine,
And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard
Of the large cold bottle, _not_ the small hot bird.
THE MAN WHO WORKED WITH DANA ON THE "SUN".
Thar showed up out 'n Denver in the spring of '81
A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
His name was Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he was a sight ter view
Ez he walked into the orfice 'nd inquired for work to do;
Thar warn't no places vacant then--fer, be it understood,
That was the time when talent flourished at that altitood;
But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the rest
Uv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best--
'Til finally he stated (quite by chance) that he had done
A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we owned that ary cuss
Who'd worked f'r Mr. Dana _must_ be good enough for _us_!
And so we tuk the stranger's word 'nd nipped him while we could,
For if _we didn't_ take him we knew John Arkins _would_--
And Cooper, too, wuz mousin' round for enterprise 'nd brains,
Whenever them commodities blew in across the plains.
At any rate, we nailed him--which made ol' Cooper swear
And Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious curly hair--
But _we_ set back and cackled, 'nd had a power uv fun
With our man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop
Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop;
It seems that Dana was the biggest man you ever saw--
He lived on human bein's 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw!
If he had democratic drugs to take, before he took 'em,
As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he allus shook 'em!
The man that could set down 'nd write like Dana never grew
And the sum of human knowledge wuzn't half what Dana knew.
The consequence appeared to be that nearly everyone
Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun.
This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in--
He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin;
Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus sure to shirk--
He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work!
If any other cuss had played the tricks he dare ter play,
The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day;
But, somehow, folks respected him and stood him to the last,
Considerin' his superior connections in the past;
So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gun
On the man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83--
A very different party from the man we thought ter see!
A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm--
You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm!
A certain hearty manner 'nd a fullness uv the vest
Betokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best;
His face was so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind,
That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind,
And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hair
In promise of the golden crown He meaneth him to wear;
So, uv us boys that met him out 'n Denver there wuz none
But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun.
But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83
His old friend, Cantell Whoppers, disappeared upon a spree;
The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so
(They hadn't been together fer a year or two, you know)
That he borrowed all the stuff he could and started on a bat,
And, strange as it may seem, we didn't see him after that.
So when ol' Dana hove in sight we couldn't understand
Why he didn't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand;
No casual allusion--not a question, no, not one--
For the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!
We broke it gently to him, but he didn't seem surprised--
Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we fellers had surmised;
He said that Whoppers wuz a man he didn't never heerd about,
But he might have carried papers on a Jersey City route--
And then he recollected hearin' Mr. Laflin say
That he fired a man named Whoppers fur bein' drunk one day,
Which, with more likker _underneath_ than money in his vest,
Had started on a freight train fur the great 'nd boundin' West--
But further information or statistics he had none
Uv the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."
We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss--
When we get played fer suckers--why, that's a horse on us!
But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff
To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff
A man who's "worked with Dana"--'nd then we fellers wink
And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think.
It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say
If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away;
And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shun
The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!
But, bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years,
To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears;
An' may I live a thousan', too--a thousan', less a day,
For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away.
And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaff
Nor biographic data put in your epitaph;
But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know
The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe;
You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run
That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun."
A DEMOCRATIC HYMN.
Republicans of differing views
Are pro or con protection;
If that's the issue they would choose,
Why, we have no objection.
The issue we propose concerns
Our hearts and homes more nearly:
A wife to whom the nation turns
And venerates so dearly.
So, confident of what shall be,
Our gallant host advances,
Giving three cheers for Grover C.
And three times three for Frances!
So gentle is that honored dame,
And fair beyond all telling,
The very mention of her name
Sets every breast to swelling.
She wears no mortal crown of gold--
No courtiers fawn around her--
But with their love young hearts and old
In loyalty have crowned her--
And so with Grover and his bride
We're proud to take our chances,
And it's three times three for the twain give we--
But particularly for Frances!
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
The Blue and the Gray collided one day
In the future great town of Missouri,
And if all that we hear is the truth, 'twould appear
That they tackled each other with fury.
While the weather waxed hot they hove and they sot,
Like the scow in the famous old story,
And what made the fight an enjoyable sight
Was the fact that they fought con amore.
They as participants fought in such wise as was taught,
As beseemed the old days of the dragons,
When you led to the dance and defended with lance
The damsel you pledged in your flagons.
In their dialect way the knights of the Gray
Gave a flout at the buckeye bandana,
And the buckeye came back with a gosh-awful whack,
And that's what's the matter with Hannah.
This resisted attack took the Grays all a-back,
And feeling less coltish and frisky,
They resolved to elate the cause of their state,
And also their persons, with whisky.
Having made ample use of the treacherous juice,
Which some folks say stings like an adder,
They went back again at the handkerchief men,
Who slowly got madder and madder.
You can bet it was h--l in the Southern Hotel
And elsewhere, too many to mention,
But the worst of it all was achieved in the hall
Where the President held his convention.
They ripped and they hewed and they, sweating imbrued,
Volleyed and bellowed and thundered;
There was nothing to do until these yawpers got through,
So the rest of us waited and wondered.
As the result of these frays it appears that the Grays,
Who once were as chipper as daisies,
Have changed their complexion to one of dejection,
And at present are bluer than blazes.
IT IS THE PRINTER'S FAULT.
In Mrs. Potter's latest play
The costuming is fine;
Her waist is made decollete--
Her skirt is new design.
SUMMER HEAT.
Nay, why discuss this summer heat,
Of which vain people tell?
Oh, sinner, rather were it meet
To fix thy thoughts on hell!
The punishment ordained for you
In that infernal spot
Is het by Satan's impish crew
And kept forever hot.
Sumatra might be reckoned nice,
And Tophet passing cool,
And Sodom were a cake of ice
Beside that sulphur pool.
An awful stench and dismal wail
Come from the broiling souls,
Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail
Stirs up the brimstone coals.
Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet
That thou shouldst ponder well,
For what, oh, what, is worldly heat
Unto the heat of hell?
PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.
Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know,
And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'coons in plenty grow;
I, too, am a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate
Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble state,
And I, who used to climb around and swing from tree to tree,
Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see.
Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near
While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.
My pedigree is noble--they used my grandsire's skin
To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within--
Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can compare
With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman loves to wear!
Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole,
All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole--
We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings
As we hustled around from day to day in search of bugs and things.