The Little Coat

Here's his ragged "roundabout";Turn the pockets inside out:See; his pen-knife, lost to use,Rusted shut with apple-juice;Here, with marbles, top and string,Is his deadly "devil-sling,"With its rubber, limp at lastAs the sparrows of the past!Beeswax--buckles--leather straps--Bullets, and a box of caps,--Not a thing of all, I guess,But betrays some waywardness--E'en these tickets, blue and red,For the Bible-verses said--Such as this his mem'ry kept--"Jesus wept."

Here's a fishing hook-and-line,Tangled up with wire and twine,And dead angle-worms, and someSlugs of lead and chewing-gum,Blent with scents that can but comeFrom the oil of rhodium.Here--a soiled, yet dainty note,That some little sweetheart wrote,Dotting,--"Vine grows round the stump,"And--"My sweetest sugar lump!"Wrapped in this--a padlock keyWhere he's filed a touch-hole--see!And some powder in a quillCorked up with a liver pill;And a spongy little chunkOf "punk."

Here's the little coat--but O!Where is he we've censured so!Don't you hear us calling, dear?Back! come back, and never fear.--You may wander where you will,Over orchard, field and hill;You may kill the birds, or doAnything that pleases you!Ah, this empty coat of his!Every tatter worth a kiss;Every stain as pure insteadAs the white stars overhead:And the pockets--homes were theyOf the little hands that playNow no more--but, absent, thusBeckon us.