The Gilded Roll

Nosing around in an old box -- packed away,
and lost to memory for years -- an hour ago
I found a musty package of gilt paper, or rather,
a roll it was, with the green-tarnished gold of the
old sheet for the outer wrapper. I picked it up
mechanically to toss it into some obscure corner,
when, carelessly lifting it by one end, a child's tin
whistle dropped therefrom and fell tinkling on the
attic floor. It lies before me on my writing table
now -- and so, too, does the roll entire, though now
a roll no longer, -- for my eager fingers have unrolled
the gilded covering, and all its precious contents
are spread out beneath my hungry eyes.

Here is a scroll of ink-written music. I don't
read music, but I know the dash and swing of the
pen that rained it on the page. Here is a letter,
with the selfsame impulse and abandon in every
syllable; and its melody -- however sweet the other
-- is far more sweet to me. And here are other
letters like it -- three -- five -- and seven, at least. Bob
wrote them from the front, and Billy kept them
for me when I went to join him. Dear boy! Dear
boy!

Here are some cards of bristol-board. Ah! when
Bob came to these there were no blotches then.
What faces -- what expressions! The droll, ridiculous,
good-for-nothing genius, with his "sad mouth,"
as he called it, "upside down," laughing always --
at everything, at big rallies, and mass-meetings and
conventions, county fairs, and floral halls, booths,
watermelon-wagons, dancing-tents, the swing, the
Daguerrean-car, the "lung-barometer," and the air-
gun man. Oh! what a gifted, good-for-nothing boy
Bob was in those old days! And here's a picture
of a girlish face -- a very faded photograph -- even
fresh from "the gallery," five and twenty years ago,
it was a faded thing. But the living face -- how
bright and clear that was! -- for "Doc," Bob's awful
name for her, was a pretty girl, and brilliant, clever,
lovable every way. No wonder Bob fancied her!
And you could see some hint of her jaunty loveliness
in every fairy face he drew, and you could
find her happy ways and dainty tastes unconsciously
assumed in all he did -- the books he read -- the
poems he admired, and those he wrote; and, ringing
clear and pure and jubilant, the vibrant beauty
of her voice could clearly be defined and traced
through all his music. Now, there's the happy pair
of them -- Bob and Doc. Make of them just whatever
your good fancy may dictate, but keep in mind
the stern, relentless ways of destiny.

You are not at the beginning of a novel, only at
the threshold of one of a hundred experiences that
lie buried in the past, and this particular one most
happily resurrected by these odds and ends found
in the gilded roll.

You see, dating away back, the contents of this
package, mainly, were hastily gathered together
after a week's visit out at the old Mills farm; the
gilt paper, and the whistle, and the pictures, they
were Billy's; the music pages, Bob's, or Doc's; the
letters and some other manuscripts were mine.

The Mills girls were great friends of Doc's, and
often came to visit her in town; and so Doc often
visited the Mills's. This is the way that Bob first
got out there, and won them all, and "shaped the
thing" for me, as he would put it; and lastly, we
had lugged in Billy, -- such a handy boy, you know,
to hold the horses on picnic excursions, and to
watch the carriage and the luncheon, and all that. --
"Yes, and," Bob would say, "such a serviceable
boy in getting all the fishing tackle in proper order,
and digging bait, and promenading in our wake up
and down the creek all day, with the minnow-
bucket hanging on his arm, don't you know!"

But jolly as the days were, I think jollier were
the long evenings at the farm. After the supper in
the grove, where, when the weather permitted,
always stood the table ankle-deep in the cool green
plush of the sward; and after the lounge upon the
grass, and the cigars, and the new fish stories, and
the general invoice of the old ones, it was delectable
to get back to the girls again, and in the old
"best room" hear once more the lilt of the old
songs and the staccatoed laughter of the piano
mingling with the alto and falsetto voices of the Mills
girls, and the gallant soprano of the dear girl Doc.

This is the scene I want you to look in upon,
as, in fancy, I do now -- and here are the materials
for it all, husked from the gilded roll:

Bob, the master, leans at the piano now, and Doc
is at the keys, her glad face often thrown up side-
wise toward his own. His face is boyish -- for there
is yet but the ghost of a mustache upon his lip.
His eyes are dark and clear, of over-size when looking
at you, but now their lids are drooped above
his violin, whose melody has, for the time, almost
smoothed away the upward kinkings of the corners
of his mouth. And wonderfully quiet now
is every one, and the chords of the piano, too, are
low and faltering; and so, at last, the tune itself
swoons into the universal hush, and -- Bob is rasping,
in its stead, the ridiculous, but marvelously
perfect imitation of the "priming" of a pump, while
Billy's hands forget the "chiggers" on the bare
backs of his feet, as, with clapping palms, he dances
round the room in ungovernable spasms of delight.

And then we all laugh; and Billy, taking advantage
of the general tumult, pulls Bob's head down and
whispers, "Git 'em to stay up 'way late to-night! "
And Bob, perhaps remembering that we go back
home to-morrow, winks at the little fellow and whispers,
"You let me manage 'em! Stay up till broad
daylight if we take a notion -- eh? " And Billy
dances off again in newer glee, while the inspired
musician is plunking a banjo imitation on his
enchanted instrument, which is unceremoniously
drowned out by a circus-tune from Doc that is
absolutely inspiring to every one but the barefooted
brother, who drops back listlessly to his old position
on the floor and sullenly renews operations on
his "chigger" claims.

"Thought you was goin' to have pop-corn to-night
all so fast! " he says, doggedly, in the midst of a
momentary lull that has fallen on a game of whist.
And then the oldest Mills girl, who thinks cards stupid
anyhow, says: "That's so, Billy; and we're going
to have it, too; and right away, for this game's
just ending, and I shan't submit to being bored with
another. I say 'pop-corn' with Billy! And after
that," she continues, rising and addressing the party
in general, "we must have another literary and
artistic tournament, and that's been in contemplation
and preparation long enough; so you gentlemen can
be pulling your wits together for the exercises, while
us girls see to the refreshments."

"Have you done anything toward it! " queries
Bob, when the girls are gone, with the alert Billy in
their wake.

"Just an outline," I reply. "How with you?"

"Clean forgot it -- that is, the preparation; but I've
got a little old second-hand idea, if you'll all help me
out with it, that'll amuse us some, and tickle Billy,
I'm certain."

So that's agreed upon; and while Bob produces
his portfolio, drawing paper, pencils and so on, I
turn to my note-book in a dazed way and begin
counting my fingers in a depth of profound abstraction,
from which I am barely aroused by the reappearance
of the girls and Billy.

"Goody, goody, goody! Bob's goin' to make
pictures! " cries Billy, in additional transport to that
the cake pop-corn had produced.

"Now, you girls," says Bob, gently detaching the
affectionate Billy from one leg and moving a chair
to the table, with a backward glance of intelligence
toward the boy, -- "you girls are to help us all you
can, and we can all work; but, as I'll have all the
illustrations to do, I want you to do as many of
the verses as you can -- that'll be easy, you know, --
because the work entire is just to consist of a series
of fool-epigrams, such as, for instance, -- listen,
Billy:

Here lies a young man
Who in childhood began
To swear, and to smoke, and to drink, --
In his twentieth year
He quit swearing and beer,
And yet is still smoking, I think. "

And the rest of his instructions are delivered in
lower tones, that the boy may not hear; and then, all
matters seemingly arranged, he turns to the boy with
-- "And now, Billy, no lookin' over shoulders, you
know, or swinging on my chair-back while I'm at
work. When the pictures are all finished, then you
can take a squint at 'em, and not before. Is that all
hunky, now?"

"Oh! who's a-goin' to look over your shoulder --
only DOC. " And as the radiant Doc hastily quits
that very post, and dives for the offending brother,
he scrambles under the piano and laughs derisively.

And then a silence falls upon the group -- a
gracious quiet, only intruded upon by the very juicy
and exuberant munching of an apple from a remote
fastness of the room, and the occasional thumping
of a bare heel against the floor.

At last I close my note-book with a half slam.

"That means," says Bob, laying down his pencil,
and addressing the girls, -- "that means he's
concluded his poem, and that he's not pleased with it
in any manner, and that he intends declining to read
it, for that self-acknowledged reason, and that he
expects us to believe every affected word of his
entire speech -- "

"Oh, don't! " I exclaim.

"Then give us the wretched production, in all its
hideous deformity!"

And the girls all laugh so sympathetically, and
Bob joins them so gently, and yet with a tone, I
know, that can be changed so quickly to my further
discomfiture, that I arise at once and read, without
apology or excuse, this primitive and very callow
poem recovered here to-day from the gilded roll:

A BACKWARD LOOK

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
And lazily leaning back in my chair,
Enjoying myself in a general way --
Allowing my thoughts a holiday
From weariness, toil and care,
My fancies -- doubtless, for ventilation --
Left ajar the gates of my mind, --
And Memory, seeing the situation
Slipped out in the street of "Auld Lang Syne" --

Wandering ever with tireless feet
Through scenes of silence, and jubilee
Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet
Were thronging the shadowy side of the street
As far as the eye could see;
Dreaming again, in anticipation,
The same old dreams of our boyhood's days
That never come true, from the vague sensation
Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born!
And there was the selfsame clock that ticked
From the close of dusk to the burst of morn,
When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn
And helped when the apples were picked.
And the "chany dog" on the mantel-shelf,
With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,
Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself
Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

And down to the swing in the locust-tree,
Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground,
And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three
Or four such other boys used to be
Doin' "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round":
And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest,
And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed
Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed,
The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

And again I gazed from the old schoolroom
With a wistful look, of a long June day,
When on my cheek was the hectic bloom
Caught of Mischief, as I presume --
He had such a "partial" way,
It seemed, toward me. -- And again I thought
Of a probable likelihood to be
Kept in after school -- for a girl was caught
Catching a note from me.

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole --
Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows, --
And we never cared when the water was cold,
And always "ducked" the boy that told
On the fellow that tied the clothes. --
When life went so like a dreamy rhyme,
That it seems to me now that then
The world was having a jollier time
Than it ever will have again.

The crude production is received, I am glad to
note, with some expressions of favor from the company
though Bob, of course, must heartlessly dissipate
my weak delight by saying, "Well, it's certainly
bad enough; though," he goes on with an air
of deepest critical sagacity and fairness, "considered,
as it should be, justly, as the production of a
jour. -poet, why, it might be worse -- that is, a little
worse."

"Probably," I remember saying, -- "probably I
might redeem myself by reading you this little
amateurish bit of verse, enclosed to me in a letter by
mistake, not very long ago. " I here fish an envelope
from my pocket, the address of which all recognize
as in Bob's almost printed writing. He smiles
vacantly at it -- then vividly colors.

"What date? " he stoically asks.

"The date," I suggestively answer, "of your last
letter to our dear Doc, at boarding-school, two days
exactly in advance of her coming home -- this veritable
visit now."

Both Bob and Doc rush at me -- but too late. The
letter and contents have wholly vanished. The
youngest Miss Mills quiets us -- urgently distracting
us, in fact, by calling our attention to the immediate
completion of our joint production; "For now," she
says, "with our new reinforcement, we can, with
becoming diligence, soon have it ready for both printer
and engraver, and then we'll wake up the boy (who
has been fortunately slumbering for the last quarter
of an hour), and present to him, as designed and
intended, this matchless creation of our united
intellects. " At the conclusion of this speech we all go
good-humoredly to work, and at the close of half an
hour the tedious, but most ridiculous, task is
announced completed.

As I arrange and place in proper form here on the
table the separate cards-twenty-seven in number --
I sigh to think that I am unable to transcribe for
you the best part of the nonsensical work -- the
illustrations. All I can give is the written copy of --

BILLY'S ALPHABETICAL ANIMAL SHOW

A WAS an elegant Ape
Who tied up his ears with red tape,
And wore a long veil
Half revealing his tail
Which was trimmed with jet bugles and crape.

B was a boastful old Bear
Who used to say, -- "Hoomh! I declare
I can eat -- if you'll get me
The children, and let me --
Ten babies, teeth, toe-nails and hair! "

C was a Codfish who sighed
When snatched from the home of his pride,
But could he, embrined,
Guess this fragrance behind,
How glad he would be to have died!

D was a dandified Dog
Who said, -- "Though it's raining like fog
I wear no umbrellah,
Me boy, for a fellah
Might just as well travel incog! "

E was an elderly Eel
Who would say, -- "Well, I really feel --
As my grandchildren wriggle
And shout 'I should giggle' --
A trifle run down at the heel! "

F was a Fowl who conceded
SOME hens might hatch more eggs than SHE did, --
But she'd children as plenty
As eighteen or twenty,
And that was quite all that she needed.

G was a gluttonous Goat
Who, dining one day, table d'hote,
Ordered soup-bone, au fait,
And fish, papier-mache,
And a filet of Spring overcoat,

H was a high-cultured Hound
Who could clear forty feet at a bound,
And a coon once averred
That his howl could be heard
For five miles and three-quarters around.

I was an Ibex ambitious
To dive over chasms auspicious;
He would leap down a peak
And not light for a week,
And swear that the jump was delicious.

J was a Jackass who said
He had such a bad cold in his head,
If it wasn't for leaving
The rest of us grieving,
He'd really rather be dead.

K was a profligate Kite
Who would haunt the saloons every night;
And often he ust
To reel back to his roost
Too full to set up on it right.

L was a wary old Lynx
Who would say, -- "Do you know wot I thinks? --
I thinks ef you happen
To ketch me a-nappin'
I'm ready to set up the drinks! "

M was a merry old Mole,
Who would snooze all the day in his hole,
Then -- all night, a-rootin'
Around and galootin' --
He'd sing "Johnny, Fill up the Bowl! "

N was a caustical Nautilus
Who sneered, "I suppose, when they've CAUGHT all us,
Like oysters they'll serve us,
And can us, preserve us,
And barrel, and pickle, and bottle us! "

O was an autocrat Owl --
Such a wise -- such a wonderful fowl!
Why, for all the night through
He would hoot and hoo-hoo,
And hoot and hoo-hooter and howl!

P was a Pelican pet,
Who gobbled up all he could get;
He could eat on until
He was full to the bill,
And there he had lodgings to let!

Q was a querulous Quail,
Who said: "It will little avail
The efforts of those
Of my foes who propose
To attempt to put salt on my tail! "

R was a ring-tailed Raccoon,
With eyes of the tinge of the moon,
And his nose a blue-black,
And the fur on his back
A sad sort of sallow maroon.

S is a Sculpin -- you'll wish
Very much to have one on your dish,
Since all his bones grow
On the outside, and so
He's a very desirable fish.

T was a Turtle, of wealth
Who went round with particular stealth,
"Why," said he, "I'm afraid
Of being waylaid
When I even walk out for my health! "

U was a Unicorn curious,
With one horn, of a growth so LUXURIOUS,
He could level and stab it --
If you didn't grab it --
Clean through you, he was so blamed furious!

V was a vagabond Vulture
Who said: "I don't want to insult yer,
But when you intrude
Where in lone solitude
I'm a-preyin', you're no man o' culture! "

W was a wild WOODchuck,
And you just bet that he COULD "chuck" --
He'd eat raw potatoes,
Green corn, and tomatoes,
And tree roots, and call it all "GOOD chuck! "

X was a kind of X-cuse
Of some-sort-o'-thing that got loose
Before we could name it,
And cage it, and tame it,
And bring it in general use.

Y is the Yellowbird, -- bright
As a petrified lump of starlight,
Or a handful of lightning
Bugs, squeezed in the tight'ning
Pink fist of a boy, at night.

Z is the Zebra, of course! --
A kind of a clown-of-a-horse, --
Each other despising,
Yet neither devising
A way to obtain a divorce!

& here is the famous -- what-is-it?
Walk up, Master Billy, and quiz it:
You've seen the REST of 'em --
Ain't this the BEST of 'em,
Right at the end of your visit?

At last Billy is sent off to bed. It is the prudent
mandate of the old folks: But so loathfully the poor
child goes, Bob's heart goes, too. -- Yes, Bob himself,
to keep the little fellow company for a while, and,
up there under the old rafters, in the pleasant gloom,
lull him to famous dreams with fairy tales. And it
is during this brief absence that the youngest Mills
girl gives us a surprise. She will read a poem, she
says, written by a very dear friend of hers who,
fortunately for us, is not present to prevent her. We
guard door and window as she reads. Doc says she
will not listen; but she does listen, and cries, too --
out of pure vexation, she asserts. The rest of us,
however, cry just because of the apparent honesty
of the poem of --

BEAUTIFUL HANDS

O your hands -- they are strangely fair!
Fair -- for the jewels that sparkle there, --
Fair -- for the witchery of the spell
That ivory keys alone can tell;
But when their delicate touches rest
Here in my own do I love them best
As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

Marvelous -- wonderful -- beautiful hands!
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands
Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine,
Under mysterious touches of thine,
Into such knots as entangle the soul
And fetter the heart under such a control
As only the strength of my love understands --
My passionate love for your beautiful hands.

As I remember the first fair touch
Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,
I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled,
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled --
When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow
As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now! ".
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand,
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved, in the long ago,
And held your hand as I told you so --
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss
And said "I could die for a hand like this! "
Little I dreamed love's fullness yet
Had to ripen when eyes were wet
And prayers were vain in their wild demands
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful Hands! -- O Beautiful Hands!
Could you reach out of the alien lands
Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night
Only a touch -- were it ever so light --
My heart were soothed, and my weary brain
Would lull itself into rest again;
For there is no solace the world commands
Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

Violently winking at the mist that blurs my sight,
I regretfully awaken to the here and now. And is
it possible, I sorrowfully muse, that all this glory
can have fled away? -- that more than twenty long,
long years are spread between me and that happy
night? And is it possible that all the dear old faces
-- Oh, quit it! quit it! Gather the old scraps up and
wad 'em back into oblivion, where they belong!

Yes, but be calm -- be calm! Think of cheerful
things. You are not all alone. BILLY'S living yet.

I know -- and six feet high -- and sag-shouldered --
and owns a tin and stove-store, and can't hear
thunder! BILLY!

And the youngest Mills girl -- she's alive, too.

S'pose I don't know that? I married her!

And Doc. --

BOB married her. Been in California for more
than fifteen years -- on some blasted cattle-ranch, or
something, -- and he's worth a half a million! And
am I less prosperous with this gilded roll?

End of title

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The Gilded Roll

James Whitcomb Riley

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