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 last     As 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 some     Slugs of lead and chewing-gum,     Blent with scents that can but come     From 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 key     Where he's filed a touch-hole - see!     And some powder in a quill     Corked up with a liver pill;     And a spongy little chunk                         Of "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 do     Anything that pleases you!     Ah, this empty coat of his!     Every tatter worth a kiss;     Every stain as pure instead     As the white stars overhead:     And the pockets - homes were they     Of the little hands that play     Now no more - but, absent, thus                         Beckon us.