They’re all awake in Silverton, although it’s half past eight,
And gapes and yawns betray the fact that is mighty late;
The lamp is lit in Wolfard’s store, and Simeral and all
The rest are tilted back in chairs, around the stove and wall.
Saliva hisses on the hearth, and through the open door
Come citizens and cats and dogs until they fill the store;
And on the street the whisper runs like magic up and down:
“Le’s all go up to Wolfard’s store, f’r Davenport’s in town.”
Without a word the old-time friends from almost everywhere
Come dropping in and occupy each cracker box and chair;
And though the clock ticks on and on, until it’s nearly ten,
They never stir, but hungrily live o’er the past again.
The time the dog—of worthless life—was chucked inside a sack
And dropped by night in Silver Creek, and came serenely back
The time the famous Trombone Band won Silverton renown,
Are all discussed, and all enjoyed, when Davenport’s in town.
They do not care in Silverton much for the world outside,
They little know this loved friend is honored far and wide,
They do not know, nor do they care, what Eastern people say,
They only know that Davenport has come to town to-day.
And sitting breathless ’round that stove they listen to him tell
About the days before he bade old Silverton farewell.
To them it matters not at all, if fate may smile or frown,
It’s quite enough for Silverton that Davenport’s in town.