John Smith, U.S.A.

Excerpt

JOHN SMITH.

  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 handclasp 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—
  I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same.
  I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West—
  I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best.
  His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue,
  And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue;
  Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette—
  Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet;
  I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem
  To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream,
  Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme
  Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime;
  So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"—your pedigree confess
  In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess";
  Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may
  Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A."

  It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago
  Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow;
  Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills
  And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills;
  Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size,
  And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies;
  Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond,
  And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond;
  Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent
  Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent;
  Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir,
  Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire:
  Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week,
  And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak,
  And where our grandmas sleep their sleep—God rest their souls, I say!
  And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U.S.A."

  Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know
  In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow;
  Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn
  Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn;
  You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott—
  Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot;
  And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true
  As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue;
  Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight,
  Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night;
  Whar blooms the furtive 'possum—pride an' glory of the South—
  And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth...!