Rolling Stones Read online

  Rolling Stones

  O'henry

  INTRODUCTION

  THE PEWEE

  [This and the other poems that follow have been found in files of The Rolling Stone, in the Houston Post's Postscripts and in manuscript. There are many others, but these few have been selected rather arbitrarily, to round out this collection.]

  In the hush of the drowsy afternoon,

  When the very wind on the breast of June

  Lies settled, and hot white tracery

  Of the shattered sunlight filters free.

  Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward;

  On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard

  Of the birds that be;

  'Tis the lone Pewee.

  Its note is a sob, and its note is pitched

  In a single key, like a soul bewitched

  To a mournful minstrelsy.

  "Pewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;

  A sad, sweet minor threnody

  That threads the aisles of the dim hot grove

  Like a tale of a wrong or a vanished love;

  And the fancy comes that the wee dun bird

  Perchance was a maid, and her heart was stirred

  By some lover's rhyme

  In a golden time,

  And broke when the world turned false and cold;

  And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew cold

  In some fairy far-off clime.

  And her soul crept into the Pewee's breast;

  And forever she cries with a strange unrest

  For something lost, in the afternoon;

  For something missed from the lavish June;

  For the heart that died in the long ago;

  For the livelong pain that pierceth so:

  Thus the Pewee cries,

  While the evening lies

  Steeped in the languorous still sunshine,

  Rapt, to the leaf and the bough rind the vine

  Of some hopeless paradise.

  "You can tell your paper," the great man said,

  "I refused an interview.

  I have nothing to say on the question, sir;

  Nothing to say to you."

  And then he talked till the sun went down

  And the chickens went to roost;

  And he seized the collar of the poor young man,

  And never his hold he loosed.

  And the sun went down and the moon came up,

  And he talked till the dawn of day;

  Though he said, "On this subject mentioned by you,

  I have nothing whatever to say."

  And down the reporter dropped to sleep

  And flat on the floor he lay;

  And the last he heard was the great man's words,

  "I have nothing at all to say."

  "I push my boat among the reeds;

  I sit and stare about;

  Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds

  Put to a sullen rout.

  I paddle under cypress trees;

  All fearfully I peer

  Through oozy channels when the breeze

  Comes rustling at my ear.

  "The long moss hangs perpetually;

  Gray scalps of buried years;

  Blue crabs steal out and stare at me,

  And seem to gauge my fears;

  I start to hear the eel swim by;

  I shudder when the crane

  Strikes at his prey; I turn to fly,

  At drops of sudden rain.

  "In every little cry of bird

  I hear a tracking shout;

  From every sodden leaf that's stirred

  I see a face frown out;

  My soul shakes when the water rat

  Cowed by the blue snake flies;

  Black knots from tree holes glimmer at

  Me with accusive eyes.

  "Through all the murky silence rings

  A cry not born of earth;

  An endless, deep, unechoing thing

  That owns not human birth.

  I see no colors in the sky

  Save red, as blood is red;

  I pray to God to still that cry

  From pallid lips and dead.

  "One spot in all that stagnant waste

  I shun as moles shun light,

  And turn my prow to make all haste

  To fly before the night.

  A poisonous mound hid from the sun,

  Where crabs hold revelry;

  Where eels and fishes feed upon

  The Thing that once was He.

  "At night I steal along the shore;

  Within my hut I creep;

  But awful stars blink through the door,

  To hold me from my sleep.

  The river gurgles like his throat,

  In little choking coves,

  And loudly dins that phantom note

  From out the awful groves.

  "I shout with laughter through the night:

  I rage in greatest glee;

  My fears all vanish with the light

  Oh! splendid nights they be!

  I see her weep; she calls his name;

  He answers not, nor will;

  My soul with joy is all aflame;

  I laugh, and laugh, and thrill.

  "I count her teardrops as they fall;

  I flout my daytime fears;

  I mumble thanks to God for all

  These gibes and happy jeers.

  But, when the warning dawn awakes,

  Begins my wandering;

  With stealthy strokes through tangled brakes,

  A wasted, frightened thing."

  Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,

  Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;

  Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,

  As o'er the keno board boldly he plays.

  -That's Texas Bill.

  Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,

  Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;

  Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,

  As o'er the keyboard boldly he plays.

  -That's Paderewski.

  There came unto ye editor

  A poet, pale and wan,

  And at the table sate him down,

  A roll within his hand.

  Ye editor accepted it,

  And thanked his lucky fates;

  Ye poet had to yield it up

  To a king full on eights.

  Just now when the whitening blossoms flare

  On the apple trees and the growing grass

  Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;

  With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass

  Of the old farm I am dreaming,

  And softly smiling, seeming

  To see the bright sun beaming

  Upon the old home farm.

  And when I think how we milked the cows,

  And hauled the hay from the meadows low;

  And walked the furrows behind the plows,

  And chopped the cotton to make it grow

  I'd much rather be here dreaming

  And smiling, only seeming

  To see the hot sun gleaming

  Upon the old home farm.

  A Poet sang so wondrous sweet

  That toiling thousands paused and listened long;

  So lofty, strong and noble were his themes,

  It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.

  He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,

  And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears;

  Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,

  And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears,

  The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound,

  Raised o'er the clay of one he'd fondly loved;

  And cursed
the world, and drenched the sod with tears

  And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

  The lullaby boy to the same old tune

  Who abandons his drum and toys

  For the purpose of dying in early June

  Is the kind the public enjoys.

  But, just for a change, please sing us a song,

  Of the sore-toed boy that's fly,

  And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad,

  And positively will not die.

  Lives of great men all remind us

  Rose is red and violet's blue;

  Johnny's got his gun behind us

  'Cause the lamb loved Mary too.

  --Robert Burns' "Hocht Time in the aud Town."

  I'd rather write this, as bad as it is

  Than be Will Shakespeare's shade;

  I'd rather be known as an F. F. V.

  Than in Mount Vernon laid.

  I'd rather count ties from Denver to Troy

  Than to head Booth's old programme;

  I'd rather be special for the New York World

  Than to lie with Abraham.

  For there's stuff in the can, there's Dolly and Fan,

  And a hundred things to choose;

  There's a kiss in the ring, and every old thing

  That a real live man can use.

  I'd rather fight flies in a boarding house

  Than fill Napoleon's grave,

  And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed

  Than be Andre the brave.

  I'd rather distribute a coat of red

  On the town with a wad of dough

  Just now, than to have my cognomen

  Spelled "Michael Angelo."

  For a small live man, if he's prompt on hand

  When the good things pass around,

  While the world's on tap has a better snap

  Than a big man under ground.

  I'm thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned,

  And my heart is heavy and sad

  As I think of the days that by have fled

  Since I was a little lad.

  There rises before me each spot I know

  Of the old home in the dell,

  The fields, and woods, and meadows below

  That memory holds so well.

  The city is pleasant and lively, Ned,

  But what to us is its charm?

  To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead,

  On our childhood's old home farm.

  I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned,

  With your head bowed on your arm,

  For to-morrow at four we'll be jerked out of bed

  To plow on that darned old farm.

  He who, when torrid Summer's sickly glare

  Beat down upon the city's parched walls,

  Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9,

  And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath

  Perspiring, pierced by pangs of prickly heat,

  Wrote variations of the seaside joke

  We all do know and always loved so well,

  And of cool breezes and sweet girls that lay

  In shady nooks, and pleasant windy coves

  Anon

  Will in that self-same room, with tattered quilt

  Wrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands,

  All shivering, fireless, pinched by winter's blasts,

  Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more,

  So that we may expect it not in vain,

  The joke of how with curses deep and coarse

  Papa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.

  So ye

  Who greet with tears this olden favorite,

  Drop one for him who, though he strives to please

  Must write about the things he never sees

  This is the Mexican

  Don Jose Calderon

  One of God's countrymen.

  Land of the buzzard.

  Cheap silver dollar, and

  Cacti and murderers.

  Why has he left his land

  Land of the lazy man,

  Land of the pulque

  Land of the bull fight,

  Fleas and revolution.

  This is the reason,

  Hark to the wherefore;

  Listen and tremble.

  One of his ancestors,

  Ancient and garlicky,

  Probably grandfather,

  Died with his boots on.

  Killed by the Texans,

  Texans with big guns,

  At San Jacinto.

  Died without benefit

  Of priest or clergy;

  Died full of minie balls,

  Mescal and pepper.

  Don Jose Calderon

  Heard of the tragedy.

  Heard of it, thought of it,

  Vowed a deep vengeance;

  Vowed retribution

  On the Americans,

  Murderous gringos,

  Especially Texans.

  "Valga me Dios! que

  Ladrones, diablos,

  Matadores, mentidores,

  Caraccos y perros,

  Voy a matarles,

  Con solos mis manos,

  Toditas sin falta."

  Thus swore the Hidalgo

  Don Jose Calderon.

  He hied him to Austin.

  Bought him a basket,

  A barrel of pepper,

  And another of garlic;

  Also a rope he bought.

  That was his stock in trade;

  Nothing else had he.

  Nor was he rated in

  Dun or in Bradstreet,

  Though he meant business,

  Don Jose Calderon,

  Champion of Mexico,

  Don Jose Calderon,

  Seeker of vengeance.

  With his stout lariat,

  Then he caught swiftly

  Tomcats and puppy dogs,

  Caught them and cooked them,

  Don Jose Calderon,

  Vower of vengeance.

  Now on the sidewalk

  Sits the avenger

  Selling Tamales to

  Innocent purchasers.

  Dire is thy vengeance,

  Oh, Jose Calderon,

  Pitiless Nemesis

  Fearful Redresser

  Of the wrongs done to thy

  Sainted grandfather.

  Now the doomed Texans,

  Rashly hilarious,

  Buy of the deadly wares,

  Buy and devour.

  Rounders at midnight,

  Citizens solid,

  Bankers and newsboys,

  Bootblacks and preachers,

  Rashly importunate,

  Courting destruction.

  Buy and devour.

  Beautiful maidens

  Buy and devour,

  Gentle society youths

  Buy and devour.

  Buy and devour

  This thing called Tamale;

  Made of rat terrier,

  Spitz dog and poodle.

  Maltese cat, boardinghouse

  Steak and red pepper.

  Garlic and tallow,

  Corn meal and shucks.

  Buy without shame

  Sit on store steps and eat,

  Stand on the street and eat,

  Ride on the cars and eat,

  Strewing the shucks around

  Over creation.

  Dire is thy vengeance.

  Don Jose Calderon.

  For the slight thing we did

  Killing thy grandfather.

  What boots it if we killed

  Only one greaser,

  Don Jose Calderon?

  This is your deep revenge,

  You have greased all of us,

  Greased a whole nation

  With your Tamales,

  Don Jose Calderon.

  Santos Esperiton,

  Vincente Camillo,

  Quitana de Rios,

  De Rosa y Ribera.

&nbs
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  O'henry, Rolling Stones

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