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[Illustration]

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon—­
The land that the Lord’s love rests upon;
Where one may rely on the friends he meets,
And the smiles that greet him along the streets: 
Where the mother that left you years ago
Will lift the hands that were folded so,
And put them about you, with all the love
And tenderness you are dreaming of.

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon—­
Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,—­
Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you,
Will laugh again as he used to do,
Running to meet you, with such a face
As lights like a moon the wondrous place
Where God is living, and glad to live,
Since He is the Master and may forgive.

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon!—­
Stay the hopes we are leaning on—­
You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes
Looking down from the far-away skies,—­
Smile upon us, and reach and take
Our worn souls Home for the old home’s sake.—­
And so Amen,—­for our all seems gone
Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon.

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JACK-IN-THE-BOX

(Grandfather, musing.)

In childish days!  O memory,
  You bring such curious things to me!—­
Laughs to the lip—­tears to the eye,
In looking on the gifts that lie
Like broken playthings scattered o’er
Imagination’s nursery floor! 
Did these old hands once click the key
That let “Jack’s” box-lid upward fly,
And that blear-eyed, fur-whiskered elf
Leap, as though frightened at himself,
And quiveringly lean and stare
At me, his jailer, laughing there?

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A child then!  Now—­I only know
They call me very old; and so
They will not let me have my way,—­
But uselessly I sit all day
Here by the chimney-jamb, and poke
The lazy fire, and smoke and smoke,
And watch the wreaths swoop up the flue,
And chuckle—­ay, I often do—­
Seeing again, all vividly,
Jack-in-the-box leap, as in glee
To see how much he looks like me!

...  They talk.  I can’t hear what they say—­
But I am glad, clean through and through
Sometimes, in fancying that they
Are saying, “Sweet, that fancy strays
In age back to our childish days!”

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THE BOYS

Where are they?—­the friends of my childhood enchanted—­
The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,
  As when we raced over
      Pink pastures of clover,
And mocked the quail’s whir and the bumblebee’s drone?

Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces
  Forever adrift down the years that are flown? 
Am I never to see them romp back to their places,
  Where over the meadow,
      In sunshine and shadow,
The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone?