Second Book of Verse. Field Eugene

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      IN Oberhausen, on a time,

      I fared as might a king;

      And now I feel the muse sublime

      Inspire me to embalm in rhyme

      That succulent and sapid thing

      Behight of gentile and of Jew

      A gosling stew!

      The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best, —

      Soup, cutlet, salad, roast, —

      And I partook with hearty zest,

      And fervently anon I blessed

      That generous and benignant host,

      When suddenly dawned on my view

      A gosling stew!

      I sniffed it coming on apace,

      And as its odors filled

      The curious little dining-place,

      I felt a glow suffuse my face,

      I felt my very marrow thrilled

      With rapture altogether new, —

      'Twas gosling stew!

      These callow birds had never played

      In yonder village pond;

      Had never through the gateway strayed,

      And plaintive spissant music made

      Upon the grassy green beyond:

      Cooped up, they simply ate and grew

      For gosling stew!

      My doctor said I mustn't eat

      High food and seasoned game;

      But surely gosling is a meat

      With tender nourishment replete.

      Leastwise I gayly ate this same;

      I braved dyspepsy – wouldn't you

      For gosling stew?

      I've feasted where the possums grow,

      Roast turkey have I tried,

      The joys of canvasbacks I know,

      And frequently I've eaten crow

      In bleak and chill Novembertide;

      I'd barter all that native crew

      For gosling stew!

      And when from Rhineland I adjourn

      To seek my Yankee shore,

      Back shall my memory often turn,

      And fiercely shall my palate burn

      For sweets I'll taste, alas! no more, —

      Oh, that mein kleine frau could brew

      A gosling stew!

      Vain are these keen regrets of mine,

      And vain the song I sing;

      Yet would I quaff a stoup of wine

      To Oberhausen auf der Rhine,

      Where fared I like a very king:

      And here's a last and fond adieu

      To gosling stew!

      COME, my Lesbia, no repining;

      Let us love while yet we may!

      Suns go on forever shining;

      But when we have had our day,

      Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us,

      And no morrow's dawn awake us.

      Come, in yonder nook reclining,

      Where the honeysuckle climbs,

      Let us mock at Fate's designing,

      Let us kiss a thousand times!

      And if they shall prove too few, dear,

      When they're kissed we'll start anew, dear!

      And should any chance to see us,

      Goodness! how they'll agonize!

      How they'll wish that they could be us,

      Kissing in such liberal wise!

      Never mind their envious whining;

      Come, my Lesbia, no repining!

      TO-DAY I strayed in Charing Cross, as wretched as could be,

      With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea;

      There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed,

      And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast.

      This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by;

      Not one in all the crowd knew me, and not a one knew I.

      "Oh for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh for a friendly face!

      Oh for a hearty hand-clasp in this teeming, desert place!"

      And so soliloquizing, as a homesick creature will,

      Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill,

      And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's,

      Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes.

      The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight

      A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight, —

      The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day, —

      The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U. S. A."

      Wildly I clutched the register, and brooded on that name;

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