The pine-clad hill has a crimson crown Of glittering sunset glows; The roofs of brown in the distant town Are bathed in a blush of rose; The radiant ripples shine and shift In shimmering shreds of gold; The seaweeds lift and drowse and drift, And the jellies fill and fold. The great sun sinks, and the gray fog heaps His cloak on the silent sea; The night-wind creeps where the ocean sleeps, And the wavelets wake in glee; Across the bay, like a silver star, There twinkles the harbor-light, And faint and far from the outer bar The sea-birds call "Good-night." * * * * * INDEX TO FIRST LINES * * * * * A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white Almost every other evenin', jest as reg'lar as the clock "Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,-- For years I've seen the frothy lines go thund'rin' down the shore From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere" Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller! Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind I never was naturally vicious; I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty I'm pretty nearly certain that 't was 'bout two weeks ago,-- I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap In Mother's room still stands the chair In the gleam and gloom of the April weather It's a wonderful world we're in, my dear It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill It stands at the bend where the road has its end Jason White has come ter town Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,-- Little bare feet, sunburned and brown, Little foot, whose lightest pat Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run out-doors and play; My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at; Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation O, it's Christmas Eve, and moonlight, and the Christmas air is chill O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they 're with us once agin Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town Oh, the song of the Sea-- Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth Oh, the wild November wind Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair