Read Ebook: With the Colors Songs of the American Service by Appleton Everard Jack

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IN OTHER KEYS

YOUTH O' THE YEAR

"Write me," she ordered, nodding her head, "A song of the rippling Spring that is gone-- A song that's different from songs that are dead-- Different as sunset is from the dawn. Sparkling with happiness, heavy with dew, Trilling and thrilling, all the way through; Fill it with heaven's own laughing blue-- Write it!" she said. So I wrote it--"Love's Pawn."

I spoke of the sunshine caught in her hair; I sang of the peach blossom's pink in her face; I mentioned the heavenly blue with great care That colored her wonderful eyes. And her grace I likened to that of a slender young tree Bowing and laughing when breezes blow free; In fact, there was naught in the Spring I could see Save this girl who with Love would ever keep pace.

I read it myself--and grew red, I confess, As a good workman should, when a poor job is done; But the joy of her laugh and the sweet, swift caress Overpaid me, a hundred to one!... And then as she stood on the brow of the hill And swayed in the wind, as Youth ever will, I think that I heard her silv'ry laugh trill.... But perish the thought that she'd spoken in fun!

UNFINISHED

The radiant dawn flows up the empty sky, Its singing colors heralding the day, And yet, before the tardy sun is high, Unfinished morning fades and slips away. While Nature holds her fragrant breath at dawn Watching the loveliness she's made--it's gone!

From dew-drenched garden thrills a thrush's call-- That liquid note that all night long was stilled-- The living chalice, brown and bright and small, Seems with the joy of living overfilled-- Then suddenly, unfinished, clear and sweet The song is drowned in noises from the street.

So at the edge of dusk my love for you Would speak to your white soul, would humbly come To tell the age-old story, ever new-- But in the pulsing twilight Love is dumb! Oh, heart of mine, within your quiet breast Unfinished dawn--and song--and love--find rest!

PAID IN ADVANCE

What is the cost of a day in Spring-- A wind-swept, rain-washed golden day? A day that with joy is bubbling-- And dancing adown a world mad-gay?

You've paid for that day with days gone by-- The gloomy days and the days of rain; The days that you'd like to forget--and try-- Days that were tuned to a note of pain.

Others there are who will never forget The lowering clouds and the sodden world, But--though you paid as they paid, eyes wet-- Your banner of courage was still unfurled!

That was the price of this day in June, Paid in advance with a shrug and a smile-- While others complained, you heard a tune, Making the gloomiest day worth while!

WE RODE AT NIGHT

We rode at night, and the cut-steel stars Daggered the black of the quiet sky; Yet Venus had taken the place of Mars In the Scheme of the Silent Worlds on high. The ribbon of road ran straight ahead; The night air whipped your hair and your face, Our hearts kept time to the horses' pace, And we were alive, and our blood was red!

We rode at night.... Though you did not speak I nearer drew--there was none to see-- Love lent me strength to an arm not weak, And I swept you out of your saddle--to me! I rowelled your horse and he thundered on, While in my arms you cuddled, and sighed; And I kissed your hair and lips--and lied When you asked if the coming light was the dawn?

We rode at night; and our love, new-found, Gloried our way, as the pace slowed down; Heart against heart, your fingers wound Close about mine, ere we reached the town. You cared, you cared! Though your firm white hand Was cut by the reins you had held too long, "Dear Cave-man, I love you," you said; "is it wrong?" O, wonderful night in a wonderful land!

We ride no more, for the years have fled, The wine of hot Youth is down to the lees; Broken in body, I dream, instead, Of the gold-shot Past that age ever sees. We ride no more.... Yet the scar is still there On the brave little hand that I kissed that night, And my love is as strong as the hand is white; But I wonder--I wonder--do you still care?

NOW--AND THEN

A thousand years from now, how will this earth Conduct itself? Will there be wars, and men Inventing things? Or will there be a dearth Of ideas Nobody knows. We can surmise, perchance-- But glancing that far oft is quite some glance!

A thousand years from now--in Time's swift flight-- The aeroplane itself may be passe, And transportation on a beam of light The natural and the ordinary way. Men may have bodies made of metals cold To match the hearts and brains those bodies hold!

A thousand years from now--why should we care What Science then brings forth--we won't be here To worry over things or to compare The present with our past--won't that be queer? But men, as now, will hope That each new year will be a better one!

UNDERSTOOD

Out of the ruck and the roar of life He stepped aside to rest one day, And the flowers that grew along the way Lifted him out of the wearisome strife That had claimed his every waking thought For years ... and a miracle had been wrought!

To the end of the day that was full of care The song in his heart was strong and new, And the woman who loved him heard it too: "Now that his soul is awake, I dare Hope that he understands me," she said; But I fear he didn't--until he was dead!

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

"A Merry Christmas!" You who make each day A little less unhappy for some soul Weighted with sorrow; you who have been gay For others' sake--although you paid the toll In the still watches of the weary night, Fighting despair. You who have faced the world With spirit and put cowardice to flight; You, with your rugged banner still unfurled-- "A Merry Christmas!" For in you I see The Vision of the Man that I would be!

THE REASON

The fetching airs you have; the way you sing, dear; The pretty uplift of your round, firm chin; Into my heart the sunshine daily bring, dear; To be downcast when you're here were a sin! Yet ev'ry motion, ev'ry smile and word, dear, I know full well--and lost are their effect. All of your bell-like tones you see, I've heard, dear, When they were meant for me--and came direct.

That golden hair! How well you know its worth, dear, To draw enraptured praise from lovers bold! I, too, know well that from its very birth, dear, Its meshes have entrapped the young and old. Yet, when I watch you laughing, teasing--you, dear, Who have been given such a hold on hearts, I do not thrill as all the others do, dear; Lost on me are your arts!

Not that I'm jealous, indifferent, or cold, dear; Not that I don't approve of all your charms; Not that you're "just a little bit too old," dear; Nor that you are a tiny babe in arms! No, no; you're sweet, and fresh, and fair, dear, Unspoiled, delightful--really "all the rage." But somehow I can't seem to rightly care, dear-- I wooed your mother--when she was your age!

THE MODERN WAY

Of tender missives--decorated treasures-- Of violets and roses, passing sweet; Of throbbing heart-songs, tuned to lilting measures; Of fervent verse--with somewhat halting feet; Of every dainty Valentine that's fashioned You've had a rather goodly share each year; So will you take, in place of love-impassioned Epistles, something quieter, my dear? Three words I'll send--that is, if they're enough To take the place of all that flossy stuff!

Throughout the year life is so full of trouble, Saint Valentine, alas! is shoved aside; Beneath grim work the lover's back must double, And then he lets poor sentiment go slide! We try to think of what you'd have us say, dear, But when we've coaxed a good thought half way out, A money-making idea's in the way, dear, And then Love's gentle troops are put to rout. So--with a business missive in each hand-- Will three words do? Or do you more demand?

BECAUSE--!

This thing of writing "homely verse," With country phrases, jokes and slang; With "jiminies!" "by hecks!" and such, With "backwoods" odor, taste and tang-- This thing, I say, of making light Of country life is funny--Not! I'd like to know where we would be If farms were all to go to pot!

We talk a lot of "backyard farms," "Intensive gard'ning"--"how to raise All vegetables that you need On ten square feet in twenty days." We figure fortunes that six hens Will bring us--if we keep 'em penned; And yet, when farmers are the butt Of jokes, who rises to defend?

I'm weary of this silly pose, This pseudo-humor, sickly wit; I will not laugh or even smile When at the farmers jokesmiths hit. Especially this time of year I do denounce it!

THAT SMILE

I sure do like that kid, although I know He's rotten spoiled, and ought to be suppressed. He's boiling over with boy-nonsense! So The neighbors have no chance to get a rest. Not bad, you understand; just "some unlucky" In getting caught at things, once in a while; Yet when he does, he never runs--he's plucky! But plays that smile of his, that flashing smile.

Sometimes when he has done a foolish thing-- Like "hoeing weeds" with our best garden hose, Or in the rose bed "built a min'rul spring," He's bound to make me peevish, goodness knows! Yet when he tries to "'splain it all" to me, I don't succumb a moment to his guile; I'm stern, as stern, indeed, as I can be-- Until he smiles that mother-given smile!

THE GIFT OF GIFTS

If Antoinette were sitting here before the cheery blaze, And she should ask me what I'd like to-morrow--day of days-- Would not my heart leap to my mouth, as any chap's would do, While leaning down to her pink ear, I softly whispered, "You!"

If Antoinette were just to give me half a chance to say What gift of gifts I'd like the best, how long would I delay In taking her into my arms and keeping her there, too, While earnestly I answer her with one brief, heartfelt "You!"

If Antoinette, dear Antoinette, were simply to suggest That question, don't you think that I would quickly do the rest? Well, you'd be wrong, because, alas! a year ago--or two-- She asked Jim what he wanted, and the lucky chap said "You!"

THE NEIGHBORS

For years and years I practiced-- Tum-tum, tum-tum, tee-tum! Pounding up and down the scale, White keys, black keys-- They all fell beneath my faithful hammering; And then--my pretty neighbor across the street Put in a player-piano that could tear a hole Through classics that I'd never learned even to dent! I was mad--hopping mad-- But I got even with her. I bought a phonograph--cheap-- And some records--not cheap. They made her gargling voice Sound like an imitation with a small i. Then we both laughed--and quit our exercises. To-day she's a moving picture actress, Using her big eyes in a financially-effective way, While I write things in prose or jingle Or verse that is free-on-bail. Sometimes I get by with it; and Sometimes she doesn't spoil a film-- Isn't the public lucky that we didn't Stick to our callings?

UNCLE BILL'S IDEA

I've figgered out that worryin' don't pay a little bit, Fer every feller's got to have some trouble in his day; An' wonderin' what's comin' next don't help to sidetrack hit-- You can't foretell afflictions, or stop 'em, thataway! It's better jest to take what's sent And stand it, ef you ain't content!

Looks like to me that every one has got a large amount Of things to bear that he don't like, as through this life he goes; And though of happy days we're apt to lose the rightful count, Things even up before we die, as every old man knows. There ain't no great monopoly On sickness ner bad luck, I gee!

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