"Apples Finkey!" Many a name Has a grander sound in the roll of fame;
Many a more resplendent deed Has burst to light in the hour of need;
But never a one from a truer heart, Striving to know and to do its part.
Striving, under his skin of tan, With the years of a lad to act like a man.
And who was "Apples?" I hear you ask.
To trace his descent were indeed a task.
Winding and vague was the family road--And, perhaps, like Topsy, "he only growed."
But into the camp he lolled one noon, Barefoot, and whistling a darky tune, Into the camp of his dusky peers--The gallant negro cavaliers--The Tenth, preparing, at break o' day, To move to the transport down in the bay.
Boom! roared the gun--the ship swung free, With her good prow turned to the Carib Sea.
"Pity it was, for the little cuss, We couldn't take 'Apples' along with us,"
The trooper said, as he walked the deck, And Tampa became a vanishing speck.
What's that? A stir and a creak down there In the piled-up freight--then a tuft of hair, Crinkled and woolly and unshorn--And out popped "Apples" "ez shore's yer born!"
Of course he wasn't provided for In the colonel's roll or the rules of war;
But somehow or other the troop was glad To welcome the little darky lad.
You know how our brave men, white and black, Landed and followed the Spaniard's track;
And the Tenth was there in the very front, Seeking and finding the battle's brunt.
Onward they moved through the living hell Where the enemy's bullets like raindrops fell, Down through the brush, and onward still Till they came to the foot of San Juan hill--Then up they went, with never a fear, And the heights were won with a mad, wild cheer!
And where was "the mascot Finkey" then?
In the surging ranks of the fighting men!
Wherever a trooper was seen to fall, In the open field or the chaparral;
Wherever was found a wounded man;
"Apples" was there with his water and can.
About him the shrapnel burst in vain--He was up and on with his work again.
The sharpshooters rattled a sharp tattoo, The singing mausers around him flew.
But "Apples" was busy--too busy to care For the instant death and the danger there.
Many a parched throat burning hot, Many a victim of Spanish shot, Was blessed that day; ere the fight was won Under the tropical, deadly sun, By the cool drops poured from the water-can Of the dusky lad who was all a man.
In the forward trenches, at close of day, Burning with fever, "Finkey" lay.
He seemed to think through the long, wet night, He still was out in the raging fight, For once he spoke in his troubled sleep;
"I'se comin', Cap., ef my legs'll keep!"
Next day--and the next--and the next--he stayed In the trenches dug by the Spaniard's spade, For the sick and wounded could not get back Over the mountainous, muddy track.
But the troopers gave what they had to give That the little mascot might stick and live.
Over him many a dark face bent, And through it all he was well content--Well content as a soldier should Who had fought his fight and the foe withstood.
Slowly these stern beleaguered men Nursed him back to his strength again, Till one fair day his glad eyes saw A sight that filled him with pride and awe, For there, as he looked on the stronghold down, The flag was hoisted over the town, And none in that host felt a sweeter joy Than "Apples Finkey," the water-boy.
--JOHN JEROME ROONEY, in New York Sun.
Down at the pond in zero weather, To have a fine skate the girls and boys gather.
Even the Baby thinks it a treat, But somehow cannot stay upon his feet.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son, Stole a pig and away he run!
The pig was eat, And Tom was beat, And Tom went roaring down the street.
