Miss her dreadful, don’t we, boy? 
Day do’n’t seem to bring no joy
  With the dawn;
Look’s if night was everywhere,—­
But there’s glory over there
  Where she’s gone.

Seems as if my heart would break,
But I love yer for her sake,
    Don’t I, Jim? 
See him sit and purr and blink,
Don’t yer bet he knows I think
    Lots of him?

* * * * *

IN MOTHER’S ROOM

In Mother’s room still stands the chair
Beside the sunny window, where
  The flowers she loved now lightly stir
  In April’s breeze, as though they were
Forlorn without her loving care.

Her books, her work-box, all are there,
And still the snowy curtains bear
  The soft, sweet scent of lavender
    In Mother’s room.

Oh, spot so cool, and fresh, and fair,
Where dwelt a soul so pure and rare,
  On me your fragrant peace confer,
  Make my life sweet with thoughts of her,
As lavender makes sweet the air
    In Mother’s room.

* * * * *

SUNSET-LAND

Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,—­
  If you look, as the sun sinks low,
Where the cloud-hills rise in the western skies,
  Each one with its crest aglow,
O’er the rosy sea, where the purple isles
  Have beaches of golden sand,
To the fleecy height of the great cloud, white,
You may catch a gleam of the twinkling light
  At the harbor of Sunset-land.

It’s a wonderful place, little boy, little boy,
  And its city is Sugarplum Town,
Where the slightest breeze through the candy trees
  Will tumble the bon-bons down;
Where the fountains sprinkle their lemonade
  In syrupy, cooling streams;
And they pave each street with a goody, sweet,
And mark them off in a manner neat,
  With borders of chocolate creams.

It’s a children’s town, little boy, little boy,
  With a great big jail, you know,
Where “grown-ups” stay who are heard to say,
  “Now don’t!” or “You mustn’t do so.” 
And half of the time it is Fourth of July,
  And ’tis Christmas all the rest,
With plenty of toys that will make a noise,
For Santa is king of this realm of joys,
  And knows what a lad likes best.

Shall I tell you the way, little boy, little boy,
  To get to this country, bright? 
When you’re snug in bed, and your prayers are said,
  You must shut up your eyelids tight;
And wait till the sleepy old Sandman comes
  And gives you his kindly hand,
And then you’ll float in a drowsy boat,
O’er the sea of rose to the cloud, remote,
  And the wonderful Sunset-land.

* * * * *

THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE