Classic Poem

This is a rhyme that our poet writ,
Sitting at peace one day,
With his warring done, and his rifle-gun
Bracketed away.

A little lad in the curly grace
Of summers that numbered three,
With a wrathful trace on his rosy face,
Stood at his mother's knee.

“Mother, get me a rifle-gun,
With a bayonet keen and bright;
There's a fellow that hides in the hills in front,
And him I am bound to fight!

“A fellow that hoots like a hooting owl,
And mocks like a mocking-bird;
A rascal that calls me the meanest names
That ever a fellow heard.

“Now, mother, get me a rifle-gun,
And a jacket of blue or gray,
And I think you'll hear of the prettiest fight,
Or the funniest run-away!”

And the mother, parting the sunny curls,
Smiled in the earnest eyes:
“I know the lad; he of Johnny's age,
And just about Johnny's size.

“He'll never run from your rifle-gun;
We'll try him another way.
Speak lovingly to that lad, my son,
And hear what he has to say.”

Soon, in the porch that faced the hills,
They stood in the waning light,
A voice replied to the voice that cried,
“Johnny, my dear, good-night!”

And Johnny's smile, as he turned away,
Was audible, sweet and clear;
And it was a rather good thing to say,
And a very good thing to hear.

And I hope the world as it grows in grace
Will learn how a war is won;
That Love is still the invincible—
And bracket its rifle-gun.