Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
    O’er the yielding strings with a practised hand! 
  And the music’s flow never loud but low
    Is the concert note of a fairy band. 
  Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle
  To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.

  When the eve comes on, and our work is done,
    And the sun drops down with a tender glance,
  With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,
    Come the neighbor girls for the evening’s dance,
  And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle—­
  More time than tune—­from the corn-stalk fiddle.

  Then brother Jabez takes the bow,
    While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,
  Then Henry stops by Milly Snow,
    And John takes Nellie Jones’s hand,
  While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,
  And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.

  “Salute your partners,” comes the call,
    “All join hands and circle round,”
  “Grand train back,” and “Balance all,”
    Footsteps lightly spurn the ground. 
  “Take your lady and balance down the middle”
  To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.

  So the night goes on and the dance is o’er,
    And the merry girls are homeward gone,
  But I see it all in my sleep once more,
    And I dream till the very break of dawn
  Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle
  To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.

THE MASTER-PLAYER

  An old, worn harp that had been played
  Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
  Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed,
  To play.  But each in turn had found
  No sweet responsiveness of sound.

  Then Love the Master-Player came
  With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
  The Harp he took all undismayed,
  Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
  And brought forth music sweet and strong.

THE MYSTERY

  I was not; now I am—­a few days hence
  I shall not be; I fain would look before
  And after, but can neither do; some Power
  Or lack of power says “no” to all I would. 
  I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,
  Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright. 
  Whene’er, o’ercoming fear, I dare to move,
  I grope without direction and by chance. 
  Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand
  That draws them ever upward thro’ the gloom. 
  But I—­I hear no voice and touch no hand,
  Tho’ oft thro’ silence infinite I list,
  And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;
  Tho’ oft thro’ fateful darkness do I reach,
  And stretch my hand to find that other hand. 
  I question of th’ eternal bending skies
  That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;
  But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes
  On me, as I one day shall do on them,
  And tell me not the secret that I ask.