A Requiem

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie,
Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse that you grave for me; Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

The Baffled Champion

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT.

[From Harper's Magazine.]

I could be champeen of our town-
I've licked about a dozen;

I started in on Alferd Brown
An' Alferd's city cousin;
I've licked 'em all exceptin' one.
There's nothin' that I'd ruther
Be doin' than to get it done-
But Pudge is Rosy's brother.
Pudge Jones is twicet as big as me,
But just th' same I'd whip him.
I'd lead my left, then bend my knee
An' whirl my foot an' trip him!
But when Pudge double-dares me to,
I always haf to mosey—

I sometimes wish I'd never knew
That he was kin to Rosy.

Aw, no! She ain't my girl at all!
I see her at th' parties.

Them other fellers has their girls-
Th' crazy bunch o' smarties!

You bet I've licked 'em, every one!
My left swing is a twister,

An' long ago I'd made Pudge run,
But-Rosy is his sister.

Aw, pshaw! Doggone it, now! I am not!
I ain't at all her feller.

Th' last boy told me that, he got

A whack right on th' smeller!
I've whipped lots bigger boys 'n me-
Some run an' told my mother.
An' I can whip Pudge Jones-but he-
Well, he is Rosy's brother.

Woman: A Study*

BY NIXON WATERMAN.

Woman, woman, winsome woman!
Tell us, are you saint or human,
Or a toy Beelzebub has sent us from afar?

We 've thought about you, sighed about you,
Fought about you, cried about you,

Stayed up nights and lied about you, puzzle that you are.

Just when we would dream we've got you
Figured out, as like as not you

Leave us topsy-turvy, guessing what to say or do;
Now we hate you, then caress you,

Now berate you, then we bless you,

But our lives are stale unless you keep us in a stew.

Some there are who really dread you,
Some who long to woo and wed you,
Some would banish you forever to a distant land;
Artists paint you, poets verse you,
Bishops saint you, cynics curse you,

But" for better or for worse you still are in demand.

[From "In a Merry Wood." Copyright, 1902, by Nixon

Waterman.]

There are times you sadly vex us,
Puzzle, plague us and perplex us,

Till we wish you were in-Texas, very far away;
But, although we sadly doubt you,

You've such winsome ways about you

We can never do without you, so we let you stay.

A Fo'cas'le Ballad*

BY NIXON WATERMAN.

I've sailed as far as the winds dare blow,
And I've bunked a while in many a port;
The ships may come and the ships may go,
I've always found the time to court.

And I've learned one thing, and I swear it's true,
That, old or young, or black or white,

If you're good to her she's good to you-
For a woman's square if you treat her right.
Then ho! yo-ho! for the boundless blue!
And ho! yo-ho! for the harbor light!
If you're good to her she's good to you-
For a woman's square if you treat her right.

I've not been half what a sailor should;
But the lads are a careless lot of men,
For the gales they blow us away from good,
And seldom they blow us back again.
Yet never I've met with a sailor lad

Who was true to his lassie day and night
But he found her waiting, good and glad;
For a woman's square if you treat her right.
Then ho! yo-ho! for the boundless blue!
And ho! yo-ho! for the harbor light!
If you're good to her she's good to you-
For a woman's square if you treat her right.

[From "A Book of Verses." Copyright, 1900, Nixon Waterman.]

When the winds are low and the watch is long,
And our ship's asleep in a lazy sea,

I weave me many an idle song

For those who were better than I could be.
And I sing the words I swear are true,

That, old or young, or black or white,
If you're good to her she's good to you-
For a woman's square if you treat her right.
Then ho! yo-ho! for the boundless blue!
And ho! yo-ho! for the harbor light!
If you're good to her she's good to you-
For a woman's square if you treat her right.

An Open Letter to the
Pessimist*

BY NIXON WATERMAN.

Brother-you with growl and frown-
Why don't you move from Grumbletown,
Where everything is tumbled down

And skies are dark and dreary?

Move over into Gladville, where
Your face will don a happy air;
And lay aside that look of care
For smiles all bright and cheery.

In Grumbletown there's not a joy
But has a shadow of alloy
That must its happiness destroy

And make you to regret it.
In Gladville they have not a care
But what it looks inviting there,
And has about it something fair

That makes you glad to get it.

[From "A Book of Verses." Copyright, 1900, Nixon Waterman.]

'Tis strange how different these towns
Of ours are! Good cheer abounds
In one, and gruesome growls and frowns
Are always in the other.

If you your skies of ashen gray

Would change for sunny smiles of May,
From Grumbletown, oh! haste away;
Move into Gladville, brother.

Following the Band*.

BY NIXON WATERMAN.

Life was a joy when I was a boy,
In the days of long ago,

When eye and ear could see and hear

The things it was good to know.

But the kind old earth, once glad with mirth
And pleasures high and grand,
Seems stale and tame since I became
Too big to follow the band.

Yet I daresay earth holds to-day

About as much or more

Of joy and cheer, right now and here,

Than ever it held before.

But by our pride we're now denied

Good gifts on every hand;

We've grown too proud to follow the crowd-
Too big to follow the band.

I'd like to stray in a careless way

Through the broad, green fields of youth,

And wander back along life's track

To the blissful springs of truth.

[From "A Book of Verses." Copyright, 1900, Nixon Waterman.]