The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Loom of Life, by Cotton Noe.

We played beside the little rill
That flows to larger river;
We heard the mating mocking-birds trill,
The robins piped upon the hill,
And Cupid strung his little bow and filled his little quiver:
Then she, we played, was little Jill,
And I was Jack, her lover.

But floating down the little stream
Toward the larger river,
The rippling of the waves did seem
The fading music of a dream,
For Cupid broke his silver bow and lost his golden quiver;
And Jill forgot the hour supreme
When I was Jack, her lover.

O beauteous maid, my heart is thine;
I lay its dearest offering at thy feet;
I burn its sweetest incense on thy shrine,
For thou, sweet maid, art all divine,
For worship thou art meet.

Let those who never felt the glow
That summer suns have spread o'er flowery meads,
Whose hearts have never thrilled at arch-ed bow,
Or when the cascade's crystal flow
Is sparkling into beads,

Deny thy charms. To me thy smile
Is sweeter boon than untried worlds can yield;
No creed of priests can ever lure me while
Thy wondrous love so free from guile,
Is everywhere revealed.

The severing clouds at early dawn
Blush red as roses bursting into bloom
At thy deft touch; and on the dewy lawn
The drapery of night withdrawn
I find no hint of gloom.

And when at noon the streets I quit
For dappled shade or thickest leafy bower,
Then, blushing, thou dost come with me to sit
And read the poems thou hast writ
In leaf and tint of flower.

At evening walking arm in arm
With thee through glen or by the river's brink,
I watch the shades descend o'er distant farm
And still the world has lost no charm
That soul can wish or think.

The loom of fancy never wove
Beneath the starlit skies of southern seas
A dream of beauty thy enchanting love
On hill or stream or sheltered cove,
Or on the open leas

Has not supplied; and thou, sweet maid,
Dost never weary, but from day to day,
And season unto season, every shade
In sky or cloud is new inlaid
With colors soft or gay.

Yon mountain late enrobed in snow
Thou clothest now in dress of shimmering green;
Ere long another garb wilt thou bestow
Upon her, lest thy lover grow
Aweary of the scene.

And when the sheen of summer sky
Shall fade into October's sombre gray,
And Autumn's gayest flowers a-withered lie,
For me yon mountain thou will tie
Into a rare bouquet.

I dare not look again!
In those vast depths of infinite blue
There are visions of joy and love as true
As ever haunted a poet's ken.
This sordid earth's my lot;
Those dreams must be forgot—
I dare not look again.

I dare not look again!
Those dreams must be forgot
The infinite blue, with its love so true
And the visions I dare not pen.
This sordid earth's my lot.
Heavens! might I but look again!

The flowers closed their autumn bloom
Awhile the bleak winds blew,
And meekly bowing to their doom
They lay in shroud of frozen gloom
The whole long winter through.

There's ever been the same sad tale
To tell of Nature's loves;
Her artful methods never fail
To win the hearts they once assail,
Though she inconstant proves.

Last spring I heard the whisperings low
To modest Daffodil
That won her smile ere yet the snow
Had melted and begun its flow
Adown the little rill.

And soon her soft caresses proved
Too much for Meadow Rue;
And next Anemone was moved;
Spring Beauty whom the nymphs had loved
In shady woods to woo.

But some less trustful, still were slow
To yield their loves' perfume,
Till, melted by the summer's glow,
They let their pent-up passions flow
Through many colored bloom.

But Nature soon withdrew her smile;
I saw their petals pale
And droop, now conscious of the guile
Their fickle lover used the while
She wooed them in the vale.

All winter I had breathed upon
The clos-ed bud of love;
Its milk-white petals, one by one
At last unfolded in the sun
My heart had longed to prove.

And when it reached its full broad blow
It shed a fragrance sweet
From out its bosom lilied snow,—
And incense that the gods I know
Had smiled with joy to greet.

And Nature now begins again
Her courtship with the flowers;
She chants in groves her minstrel strain,
She smiles, and frowns, and weeps in rain
Of gentle April showers.

And while she tries with song of thrush
Once more those hearts to move,
I've seen her oft relentless crush,—
My bud still blooms forever fresh—
It is the Rose of Love!

His little Blue Dress is hidden away
From the eyes of the vulgar world,—
And the dear little Shoes,—more precious are they
Than silver or gold empearled—
Jewels that lure like the stars above,
Hidden from all but the eyes of love.

I watched him oft with a mother's heart
As he played with his dear little toys;
But now he is gone, and I sit apart
And muse of those vanished joys;—
Dream of his eyes and his beautiful hair,
And thrill with the love of a sweet despair.

The gaze of the vulgar world today
Would only my jewels abuse;
And this is the reason I hid them away,—
The little Blue Dress and the Shoes:
And I pray that in death my eyes may caress
The dear little Shoes and the little Blue Dress.

Clouds of sorrow cannot hide
Gleams of sunshine gilding hours
Of happy memory, sweet as flowers
Ever blooming by the wayside,
Thronged with thorn and thistle.
Reapers binding sheaves of plenty,
Think the golden dreams of twenty
Thrill them deepest; and the whistle
Of some lone love-dreaming bird
In the meadow, wakes to memory
Notes now hushed, but sweeter than the
Ear of mortal ever heard.

'Neath the cliffs near by the river
Long cymes of honey-suckle grew,
Odorous in the air; and the violet, too,
Entangling with the phlox, and ever
Entessellated beds of petal'd mosaic
Stretching out before us, rich
As the drapery of a dream in which
The toil of life was not prosaic.
Neither can the hungry ear
Enfashion music softer, sweeter,
Drawn from lyre, than the meter—
Rippling cascade trickling near.

Where the trailing arbutus filled the cove
With a perfume as sweet as the breath of love,
And the mountain ivy's astral bloom
Made radiant light of the darkest gloom,
A maiden dwelt as stainless the while
As the baytree's bloom in the steep defile;
And she loved a youth with a heart as true
As ever has beaten for me or you.

Soon summer passed and the autumn came
With its goldenrod and its sumac flame,
With its tinge of frost and its blood-red blush
That made every shrub a burning bush.
Then love became passion for maiden and youth;
All vision had vanished and life was now truth;
And they heard a voice in the flaming tree
Which told them that marriage was nature's decree.

When the spring beauties came and winter had fled
Sue Winn and Josh Bell were happily wed;
And the cowslips that bloomed in the side of the glen
Were fragrant as roses in the gardens of men.
Their home was a cabin, the mountain above
Was rugged and rough, and their fortune was love:
But a cabin with love and vigor and health
Is better than sin and a palace of wealth.

The seasons passed by and a few brief years
Brought bountiful crops to these mountaineers;
And their children that played round the great hollyhocks
Wore the sunniest curls and the cleanest of frocks;
And old-fashioned sunflowers smiled at their door
Midst beautiful pinks and pansies galore;
And the mountain redbirds flashed and flew
Around the rude cabin of Josh and Sue.

Ah, little you know, ye daughters of Jove,
The sweetness of poverty wedded to love;
Untrammeled by fashion, unsated by sin,
With the feeling that life and the dewdrop are kin.
Ah, little you know who dwell among men
The freedom and freshness of mountain and glen,
Where the Diva of Nature gives her grand matinee
In the opera of Love from a rich elder spray!

Yet the earth holds few spots where the winds never blow,
And summer's not followed by the bleak winter snow:
But the harvest will fail both the rich and the poor
In the deep fertile valley, on the thin healthy moor,
Thus Susan grew ill and Joshua found
His corn crop was short, his wheat was unsound,
That drouth and disease had stricken his home
With a hand that poverty couldn't overcome.

Ah, little you care who dwell high above
For the hardships of poverty wedded to love;
Whose awful temptations you never can know,
When the unfeeling winds of adversity blow;
When the loved one is lying all helpless abed,
And children are crying and begging for bread.
Yes, little you dream, ye rich sons of Jove
Of the trials of love in a rough mountain cove.

Josh Bell battled bravely, and fought sin and wrong
And the mighty temptation with a heart true and strong;
But Susan grew weaker, till bright bloomed the rose
That ever the blanched cheek of consumption shows.
"I must save her," he cried, "Oh, God, let the cost
Be my life; if she dies, I am lost, I am lost!"
And Joshua Bell smote his breast with a blow
That only the frenzy of a lover can know.
At a deep hour of night when the hoot of the owl
Made the dark glen as lonesome as haunt of a cowl,
Josh Bell left his cabin for a cave in the hill,
And began the erection of a small mountain still.
For weeks here he labored at midnight alone,
With a firm resolution and a heart like a stone:
Then his own golden corn he had gathered in sheaf,
He now husked in darkness and stole like a thief.

Ah, Joshua Bell, the world does not know
The depth of thy grief, the weight of thy woe,—
The conflict of conscience and love in thy breast,
The struggle of duty and shame unconfessed.
Thy act is a crime in the eyes of the law,
No matter the motive, it weighs not a straw;
No matter the liquid distilled be as dew
That drips from the stem and chalice of rue.

But the comforts of life that lessen the pain
Of those whom we love, ease conscience and brain;
And Josh half forgot the cave in the hill,
And the white sparkling liquor that flowed from the still,
When Sue smiled and said, "By thy great sacrifice
Of unceasing toil and love without price,
I am better to-day; with return of the spring
We can labor together where the brown thrushes sing."

Thus Josh kept his secret, and the daffodils came
That bloom but for those unworthy of blame;
And Sue never knew that the gold and the gain
Was purchased with liquor distilled from their grain.
But the sleuth-hounds of law found the cave in the hill
At a late hour of night and raided the still;
Then surrounded the cabin, and woke Josh and Sue
And demanded surrender of the moonshiners, too.

With Winchester rifle Josh leaped from his couch,
"I'll never surrender, nor cower, nor crouch
To cowardly villains that plunder the poor,
In the guise of the law; who crosses my door,
Had best make his peace with the angels above;
By my life I'll protect the darlings I love."
Like a lion at bay, the flash of his eye,
Told the brave mountaineer would shield them or die.

But the torch of the raiders lit a red flame that stung
The stouted hearted Josh like a vile adder's tongue,
Till he rushed from his cabin in madness and swore
He would save Sue and children or sleep nevermore.
But a flash from a rifle sent a ball through his brain,
And Joshua Bell never breathed once again.
And his loved ones perished in the flame and the smoke
Of his own little cabin he had hewn from the oak.

When the morning has climbed up the high eastern hill
And the sunlight is dancing on ripple of rill,
The coroner summons a jury and feigns
An inquest of law o'er the ghastly remains.
The verdict is heard with whoop and hurrah:
"These moonshiners died at the hands of the law;
Let all men beware," the coroner cried,
"The murder of outlaws is just homicide."

The flickering carbon threw a stream
Of bluish light over the sleety street.
Men and women everywhere were hurrying homeward,
Shivering for the comfort that was gleaming
Through many a window from blazing hearths within.
The freezing rain was biting like an adder.
Down the icy thoroughfare,
Muffled deep in furs and ulster,
Madly rushed the Wall-street banker,
Plunging through the storm and shadow,
Impatient for the shelter of his mansion.
No wonder that he heeded not the darkling figure
Of a little homeless waif that crouched
Beneath the jutting frieze and cornice
Of a rich Corinthian window;—
No wonder, for the night was bitter,
And his mansion yet two blocks away!
No wonder either that the wanderer
Neither saw nor heard the banker,
Though his tread was swift and heavy,
For a mighty storm was raging!
Yet above the noise and howling
Of the wind and rain and tempest,
The outcast heard the shoeless footfall
Of a little homeless brother,
Lost amid the blinding shadows.
And soon they slept, secure and thankful,
Though the maddening storm grew fiercer,—
Slept, but dreamed:
The window rose a richer mansion
Than ever sheltered Wall-street banker—
A castle wrought of childish fancy,
More beauteous than the pen of romance
Has pictured of the days of chivalry.
But their little dreaming childhood,
Painted no baronial robber.
Saw no haughty plumed tiara,
Heard no clank in Norman donjon.
In the palace, dream-constructed,
Where the little waifs lay nestled
In each other's arms fraternal,
Love had built a shining altar,
War had laid aside his armor,
And the knights that there assembled
Were their little homeless brothers,
Gathered from the ranks of sorrow,
Orphans, outcasts, gamin, wanderers.

Out of the infinite depths of love,
Floated a spirit song,
Plaintive and sad as coo of dove,
Burdened for sin and wrong;
So tender and sweet the melody,
None heard that song but he.

Out of the days of childhood joys,
Faded the smile of light;
The sun that dazzled other boys,
For him was never bright:
The birds sang sweet on every tree—
All heard their songs but he.

Out of the realms of infinite light,
A song of infinite glee;
The faded smile of joy grew bright,
"Mother is waiting for thee."
So tender and sweet the melody,
None heard that song but he.

In the mountains of Kentucky,
Where the ivy's astral bloom
And the laurel's waxen petals
Shed a rich and rare perfume;
Where the purple rhododendron
And the wild forget-me-not
Bloom in amorous profusion
Round a little mossy grot.
It was there I left Rowena,
She is waiting now for me,
While I linger here impatient,
For my love I long to see.
Oh, but soon I know I'll see her,
And never more we'll part—
In the mountains of Kentucky,
Lives my own, my true sweetheart.

Refrain

She's a fairy, I'll admit, a little airy;
But her eyes are like the blue Aegean sea:
And her auburn hair, it would drive you to despair,
For Rowena's heart is true to none but me.

In the mountains of Kentucky,
Though the grass may not be blue,
Yet the streams are swift and sparkling,
And Rowena's heart is true:
And I love the lofty mountains,
And the deep and darkling coves,
Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer,
And Rowena lives and loves.
'Tis the home, they say, of feudist,
Where the hand of man is red;
But I know a hundred places,
Where blood's as wanton shed:
Yet no spot in all creation
Has a sky of such a hue—
In the mountains of Kentucky
Lives my sweetheart pure and true.

Refrain

In the Blue-grass of Kentucky
Now Rowena waits for me,
With a brood of little fairies
That my heart so longs to see;
For their eyes are bright and sparkling
As the drops of diamond dew—
In the Blue-grass of Kentucky,
Live my sweethearts pure and true:
Yes, I love the lofty mountains,
And the deep and darkling cove,
Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer,
And the sky is bright above;
But one spot to me is dearer
Than all the world apart,
In the Blue-grass of Kentucky,
Lives my own, my true sweetheart.

Refrain

Romance by the little stream,
Where the wild-rose blooms so fair;
Oh, who would mar that happy dream
I see enacted there?
Beauteous orioles are they—
Little timid, tongueless birds—
Each listening to the voiceless lay,
Love strives to put in words.
Roses drop their petals round;
In the air a sweet perfume;
Till time no longer baffles sound—
Eternal love hath burst its bloom!

Oh! couldst thou know her faithful art!
When troubled dreams disturb the brain,
Though rattling sleet be on the pane,
Beneath the window of my heart,
I hear her cheering strain—
My Muse who never will depart
For life's cold wintry rain.

Have you never heard the story of the good old country school
With its rude split-bottomed benches and its ancient dunce's stool?
Where Webster's Blue-back Speller was the only standard text,
And supplied the place of grammar that our late forefathers vexed;
Where they never heard of Latin or the Greek subjunctive mode,
But sang their mult-plication like a patriotic ode?

The Master, he was skinny, with a lean and hungry look;
And a countenance as placid as a frozen winter brook;
His brow was broad and Grecian, and his eye was snell and keen,
And his head was stuffed with knowledge of a dozen books, I ween;
And they say his nose was Roman as the bill of any hawk,
And his boys were all perfection, for they had to walk the chalk.

And yet I've often wondered if they really always walked,
And sat upright like statues, and never laughed or talked,
For I've often heard my father say the model of the school
Got licked at least three times a day as a pretty general rule,
And lament the good old method, as a lost, forgotten art,
Of imparting knowledge in a way that made a fellow smart.

I wish we had the secret now of making boys walk
Instead of always watching for a chance to throw some chalk;
But the art, I think, was buried with the Blue-back Spelling Book,
And the piercing eye of Skinny, that no mortal boy could brook;
'Twas buried with the benches and the ancient dunce's stool
And the grease-glazed paper windows of the good old country school.

It may be through psychology and molly-coddle stuff,
We often talk in institutes, we've lost the power to bluff;
Perhaps 'twas Pestalozzi, Froebel and John Herbart
Who robbed the wand of Skinny of its pedagogic art;
We'll not discuss philosophy, but we know about the chalk,
That no theoretic dream of man can make a boy walk.

Ricollect ol' One-Armed Joe?
Lost it grindin' cane.
Same blame feller 't used to go
Round with Lizy Jane
Grindin' sorghum ever fall.
Lizy Jane wuz Joe's ol' mare;
Never showed her at a fair,
But blamed 'f she couldn't beat all
Ringsters to an ol' cane sweep
That ever stepped a mile. Never fat,
Ring-bone an' bob-tail an' all that,
But law! she made the cane-mill weep!

An' us chillern, we'd allus go
Over where they's grindin' cane
An' git to ride ol' Lizy Jane,
An' hear the jokes of One-Armed Joe;
An' maybe git the sorghum skimmin's,
Thwuzzent allus so many wimmins
Bossin' round, cause One-Armed Joe,
He loved us chillern bettern them.
(Bet he wears a diadem
In the world where preachers go).

Joe had grit and feelin's, too,
An' they wuzzent nothin' he couldn't do,
'Cept to do another harm:
Ketch a possum, kill a bear,
Cuss an' dance, or lead in prayer;
Jump a rope, or skin a cat,
Make a speech or guess a riddle,
Sing a song, or play the fiddle—
No, Joe couldn't quite do that,
Cause One-Armed Joe had lost an arm,
But that's all he couldn't do.

One night dogs treed a coon
Up a leanin' poplar tree;
Joe could by the glimmerin' moon
See the leanin' poplar leant:
Jerked his coat and up he went;
Ketched the possum, let him go,
Slipped his holts and hollered, "Oh!"
An' down into eternity
Limp and warm, fell poor old Joe!
Don't remember One-Armed Joe?
Feller I'll bet the angels know!

I've read of Bob Burdett,
And Billin's, Twain and Bret
And the whole endurin' set
Of funny men, I guess;
But I never yit have found,
No matter how renowned,
A wit that's ever downed
Our Perkins, boys call Wes.

You sildom ketch him lyin';
Not much for speechifyin';
And he 'pears just half-way tryin'
When he does git off his wit:
But dogged if th'aint blame'd few
'Ll probe you through and through,
As Wes is sure to do,
For he allus makes a hit.

He's a humble sort of feller
With an eye as soft and meller
As an apple golden yeller
In the mild September sun:
Kinder quare and unconcerned,
Like he didn't kere a derned,
But many a feller's learned
That Wes is in for fun.

Cheap wits don't make no noise
'Bout Wes, 'cause he destroys
Their wisdom, which annoys
The humorist, more or less.
Unless your jokes 'll fit
You'd best reserve your wit,
And entirely omit,
'Fore Perkins, boys call Wes.

You may boast of landscapes golden
With the harvest's ripenin' grain,
Or of Autumn pensive foldin,
All her flowers to sleep again;
But to me the woods a-ringin'
With the notes of happy birds
When the April buds is springin'
Is a song too sweet for words:
And the beautifullest, since you ask it,
In art or nature's scenes,
Is Kate with knife and basket,
A-getherin' of greens.

It pears to lift the veil of years
And opens up to view,
A scene that brings me soothin' tears
As sweet as tender dew
To grass that suns have withered dry:
I can see her jist as plain,
Though Father Time has dimmed my eye,
And ricollect the pain,
I suffered while she paused a-thinkin'
What such an answer means;
And the "Stay and help us, John," a-winkin'
"Eat our first mess of greens."

I've heard my neighbor Johnson say
His choice was chicken pie;
And Perkins lows he likes to stay
His stomach with a fry:
And Jones, he says, says he, "I think
Good old Kentucky rye
Suits me the best; give me a drink,
Whenever I am dry."
But I have never tasted meat,
Nor cabbage, corn nor beans,
Nor fluid food one half as sweet
As that first mess of greens.

It's not the pictur' near as much
As the thoughts that gethers round,
That always gives the paintin' such
Distinction and renown.
There's nothin' in a grassy knoll
So beautiful to see,
And yit I think within my soul
It beats a flowery lea.
And oh, I'd git Munkasket,
If I only had the means,
To paint me Kate with basket
A-getherin' of greens.

Wes Banks, you know, he teaches school,
Has teached for nigh on forty year,
And I jist want to say right here,
That though he may not fit your rule,
Wes Banks, by jings, he ain't no fool.
And if you bet your dough 'gin Wes,
You'll want your money back, I guess.

Wes Banks, he never wears a tie—
Them things, you know, some call cravats,
Nor collar neither, and jist that's
The very tarnal reason why
I bet on Wes, and that's no lie:
No man can lead Wes by the nose
If he don't wear the latest clothes.

Wes Banks, you know, I'm speakin' uv:
He lives way out on old Line Fork,
As good a place as in New York;
Out where the birds sing lays of love,
The wren, the thrush, the turtle dove—
Sometimes, it seems, because of Wes,
Who loves their music, more or less.

Wes claims that now for forty year
He has prescribed strong peachtree tea
For cusses, which he says that he
Could not intrest except by fear:
Wes makes this claim while standing here
Before his boys now teaching school,
Who can't remember such a rule.

Now Wes, he's awful in his speech:
He says I "seed" and "done" and "haint,"
And lots of things that's wrong and quaint;
But many's them who pray and preach
And go to school and learn to teach
And wear a darned sight better clothes,
Still never learn what Wesly knows.

Well, Wes ain't much at institutes;
Don't like to make a public talk,
And demonstrate with board and chalk.
No, he ain't much on sich disputes;
But Wes at school gits down and roots:
Up here Wes Banks is jist a wag,
With striped candy in a bag.

Old Wes is poor as money goes,
But rich in love and charity;
His heart goes out in sympathy
To barefoot boy with bleeding toes,
And girls in torn and tattered clothes;
And with his heart goes Wes's coin,
To heal the wound and gird the loin.

And this is why tonight I rise
To speak how Wesly Bank's life
Through forty years of schoolroom strife
By living truth has conquered lies,
And made his students good and wise:
You can't size Wes by looks or speech,
No more than some by what they preach.

NATURA

HER EYES

THE ROSE OF LOVE

MY JEWELS

A RECOLLECTION

THE MOONSHINERS

SILHOUETTES

WADE

A SONG

THE BLOOM OF LOVE!

MY MUSE

A HANK OF HOMESPUN

THE SCHOOL OF SKINNY

ONE-ARMED JOE

WES PERKINS

THE FIRST MESS OF GREENS

WES BANKS

PHILOSOPHY AT A BANQUET