_Inscribed to Bruce Campbell, who read_ Tom Sawyer _with me in the old house_ Beneath Time’s roaring cannon Many walls fall down. But though the guns break every stone, Level every town:-- Within our Grandma’s old front hall Some wonders flourish yet:-- The Pavement of Verona, Where stands young Juliet, The roof of Blue-beard’s palace, And Kublai Khan’s wild ground, The cave of young Aladdin, Where the jewel-flowers were found, And the garden of old Sparta Where little Helen played, The grotto of Miranda That Prospero arrayed, And the cave, by the Mississippi, Where Becky Thatcher strayed. On that Indiana stairway Gleams Cinderella’s shoe. Upon that mighty mountainside Walks Snow-white in the dew. Upon that grassy hillside Trips shining Nicolette:-- That stairway of remembrance Time’s cannon will not get-- That chattering slope of glory Our little cousins made, That hill by the Mississippi Where Becky Thatcher strayed. Spring beauties on that cliffside, Love in the air, While the soul’s deep Mississippi Sweeps on, forever fair. And he who enters in the cave, Nothing shall make afraid, The cave by the Mississippi Where Tom and Becky strayed. THE FAIRY FROM THE APPLE-SEED Oh apple-seed I planted in a silly shallow place In a bowl of wrought silver, with Sangamon earth within it, Oh baby tree that came, without an apple on it, A tree that grew a tiny height, but thickened on apace, With bossy glossy arms, and leaves of trembling lace. One night the trunk was rent, and the heavy bowl rocked round, The boughs were bending here and there, with a curious locust sound, And a tiny dryad came, from out the doll tree, And held the boughs in ivory hands, And waved her black hair round, And climbed, and ate with merry words The sudden fruit it bore. And in the leaves she hides and sings And guards my study door. She guards it like a watchdog true And robbers run away. Her eyes are lifted spears all night, But dove-eyes in the day. And she is stranger, stronger Than the funny human race. Lovelier her form, and holier her face. She feeds me flowers and fruit With a quaint grace. She dresses in the apple-leaves As delicate as lace. This girl that came from Sangamon earth In a bowl of silver bright From an apple-seed I planted in a silly shallow place. A HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN Guns salute, and crows and pigeons fly, Bronzed, Homeric bards go striding by, Shouting “Glory” amid the cannonade:-- It is the cross-roads Resurrection Parade. Actors, craftsmen, builders, join the throng, Painters, sculptors, florists tramp along, Farm-boys prance, in tinsel, tin and jade:-- It is the cross-roads Love and Laughter Crusade.