BEST OF ALL

Of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall, Is not silence the best of all?

The deep, sweet hush when the song is closed, And every sound but a voiceless ghost;

And every sigh, as we listening leant, A breathless quiet of vast content?

The laughs we laughed have a purer ring With but their memory echoing;

And the joys we voiced, and the words we said, Seem so dearer for being dead.

So of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall, Is not silence the best of all?

BIN A-FISHIN'

W'en de sun's gone down, un de moon is riz, Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!

It's I's aguine down wha' the by-o is!

Bin a-fishin' all night long!

Chorus

Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!

Bin a-fishin' clean fum de dusk of night Twell away 'long on in de mornin' light.

Bait my hook, un I plunk her down!

Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!

Un I lay dat catfish weigh five pound!

Bin a-fishin' all night long!

Chorus

Folks tells me ut a sucker won't bite, Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!

Yit I lif' out fo' last Chuesday night, Bin a-fishin' all night long!

Chorus

Little fish nibble un de big fish come; Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!

"Go way, little fish! I want some!"

Bin a-fishin' all night long!

Chorus

Sez de bull frog, "D-runk!" sez de ole owl, "Whoo!"

Bin a-fishin'! Bin a-fishin'!

'Spec, Mr. n.i.g.g.e.r, dey's a-meanin' you, Bin a-fishin' all night long!

Chorus

UNCLE DAN'L IN TOWN OVER SUNDAY

I cain't git used to city ways-- Ner never could, I' bet my hat!

Jevver know jes' whur I was raised?-- Raised on a farm! D' ever tell you that?

Was undoubtatly, I declare!

And now, on Sunday--fun to spare Around a farm! Why jes' to set Up on the top three-cornered rail Of Pap's old place, nigh La Fayette, I'd swap my soul off, hide and tail!

You fellers in the city here, You don't know nothin'!--S'pose to-day, This clatterin' Sunday, you waked up Without no jinglin'-janglin' bells, Ner rattlin' of the milkman's cup, Ner any swarm of screechin' birds Like these here English swallers--S'pose Ut you could miss all noise like those, And git shet o' thinkin' of 'em afterwerds, And then, in the country, wake and hear Nothin' but silence--wake and see Nothin' but green woods fur and near?-- What sort o' Sunday would that be?...

Wisht I hed you home with me!

Now think! The laziest of all days-- To git up any time--er sleep-- Er jes' lay round and watch the haze A-dancin' 'crost the wheat, and keep My pipe a-goern laisurely, And puff and whiff as pleases me-- And ef I leave a trail of smoke Clean through the house, no one to say, "Wah! throw that nasty thing away; Hev some regyard fer decency!"

To walk round barefoot, if you choose; Er saw the fiddle--er dig some bait And go a-fishin'--er pitch hoss shoes Out in the shade somewhurs, and wait For dinner-time, with an appet.i.te Ut folks in town cain't equal quite!

To laze around the barn and poke Fer hens' nests--er git up a match Betwixt the boys, and watch 'em scratch And ra.s.sle round, and sweat and swear And quarrel to their hearts' content; And me a-jes' a-settin' there A-hatchin' out more devilment!

What sort o' Sunday would that be?...

Wisht I hed you home with me!

SOLDIERS HERE TO-DAY

I

Soldiers and saviours of the homes we love; Heroes and patriots who marched away, And who marched back, and who marched on above-- All--all are here to-day!

By the dear cause you fought for--you are here; At summons of bugle, and the drum Whose palpitating syllables were ne'er More musical, you come!

Here--by the stars that bloom in fields of blue, And by the bird above with shielding wings; And by the flag that floats out over you, With silken beckonings--

Ay, here beneath its folds are gathered all Who warred unscathed for blessings that it gave-- Still blessed its champion, though it but fall A shadow on his grave!

II

We greet you, Victors, as in vast array You gather from the scenes of strife and death-- From spectral fortress walls where curls away The cannon's latest breath.

We greet you--from the crumbling battlements Where once again the old flag feels the breeze Stroke out its tattered stripes and smooth its rents With rippling ecstasies.

From living tombs where every hope seemed lost-- With famine quarantined by bristling guns-- The prison pens--the guards--the "dead-line" crossed By--riddled skeletons!

From furrowed plains, sown thick with bursting sh.e.l.ls-- From mountain gorge, and toppling crags o'erhead-- From wards of pestilential hospitals, And trenches of the dead.