Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 30, 1913. By Judd Mortimer Lewis.

The little boy whom we used to know,
Who came to us when the day burned low,
Who left his swing and his bat and ball
Who left his playmates and games and all
To come and stand by our easy-chair,
To stand before us with yellow hair,
On sturdy legs—with his feet apart,
Before he snuggled against our heart.
Where is he now with his romp and squeal,
With his little hurts that a kiss would heal?

We heard him say his “I lay me down,”
And we pressed our lips to his tousled crown,
Then his father tiptoed across the gloom
And sat him down in the farther room,
While his mother stayed by his side to croon
A soft bye-low to a world-old tune
While he drifted out into Slumberland;
Then we stood and gazed at him, hand in hand,
And—looking backward to where he lay—
It seems ’twas then that he went away.

It seems that he never came back at all
To the rubber cat and the bouncing ball,
To the old rope swing and the games he knew.
A genie touched him—he grew and grew!
From the room where our baby had sunk to sleep
A youth came forth. And his voice is deep
And his eyes are honest, and he his strong!
And while still echoes the bye-low song,
His lips say “Mother!” and then laugh “Dad!”
And we are frightened—but we are glad!

Sometimes we stand in the little room
By the little bed in the evening’s gloom;
And we miss the faltering “lay me down,”
And we’d give the world for the tousled crown
To kiss once more! Oh, Boy! Grown tall,
We are frightened for you at the thought of all
The dangers that wait your unwary feet!
And grieving—for heartaches you’re bound to meet!
But we are proud for the dear world’s sake
Because of the man you are going to make.

From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 22, 1913. By Judd Mortimer Lewis.

I’d love to sit by this machine
    And slowly touch the yielding keys,
Till the whole world should see the sheen
    Of rocky river through the trees;
See the slate cliffs I used to know
    And see the spider-webby span
Of the bridge I knew long ago
    Away back where my life began.

I’d love to take the world with me
    Across my white typewriter keys,
Until the whole wide world should see
    The things I see, feel the same breeze
Upon its cheek; should go and wade
    With me across the shallow ford,
And climb the cliff’s face unafraid,
    And drink with me from the old gourd.

The keys are unresponsive things!
    They never quite interpret right
The song that’s in one heart and sings
    Its throbbing notes out to the night;
The song of youth and gladsome days
    The song of blossomed slopes and bees
The song of sumach bordered ways
    And forest glades and shady trees.

They never can quite make the world
    See the rare color in the air—
As if the sunset banners furled
    Had lost their sweetest color there;
A color red as sweetheart lips!
    A color holding all the gold
Of truant locks; pink as the tips
    Of little fingers known of old.

Let my stiff fingers stray across
    The ivory faces as they may,
I cannot make the branches toss,
    I cannot make the roses sway
The way I’d like the world to see,
    The way I’d like the world to know,
Or the whole world would sing with me
    Sweet love songs of the long ago.