A Child-World

James Whitcomb Riley

This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.

http://www.blackmask.com

  • THE CHILD-WORLD
  • THE OLD-HOME FOLKS
  • ALMON KEEFER
  • NOEY BIXLER
  • “A NOTED TRAVELER”
  • A PROSPECTIVE VISIT
  • AT NOEY'S HOUSE
  • “THAT LITTLE DOG”
  • THE LOEHRS AND THE HAMMONDS
  • THE HIRED MAN AND FLORETTY
  • THE EVENING COMPANY
  • MAYMIE'S STORY OF RED RIDING HOOD
  • LIMITATIONS OF GENIUS
  • MR. HAMMOND'S PARABLE
  • FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION
  • BUD'S FAIRY-TALE
  • A DELICIOUS INTERRUPTION
  • NOEY'S NIGHT-PIECE
  • COUSIN RUFUS' STORY
  • BEWILDERING EMOTIONS
  • THE BEAR-STORY
  • THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE
  • TOLD BY “THE NOTED TRAVELER”
  • HEAT-LIGHTNING
  • UNCLE MART'S POEM
  • “LITTLE JACK JANITOR”
  • Produced by David Starner, Maria Cecilia Lim
    and Distributed Proofreaders






    A CHILD-WORLD



    James Whitcomb Riley






    A CHILD-WORLD


    The Child-World—long and long since lost to view—
          A Fairy Paradise!—
      How always fair it was and fresh and new—
        How every affluent hour heaped heart and eyes
          With treasures of surprise!


      Enchantments tangible: The under-brink
          Of dawns that launched the sight
      Up seas of gold: The dewdrop on the pink,
        With all the green earth in it and blue height
          Of heavens infinite:


      The liquid, dripping songs of orchard-birds—
          The wee bass of the bees,—
      With lucent deeps of silence afterwards;
        The gay, clandestine whisperings of the breeze
          And glad leaves of the trees.


           * * * * *


      O Child-World: After this world—just as when
          I found you first sufficed
      My soulmost need—if I found you again,
        With all my childish dream so realised,
          I should not be surprised.



    THE CHILD-WORLD



    A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less,
    To those who knew its boundless happiness.
    A simple old frame house—eight rooms in all—
    Set just one side the center of a small
    But very hopeful Indiana town,—
    The upper-story looking squarely down
    Upon the main street, and the main highway
    From East to West,—historic in its day,
    Known as The National Road—old-timers, all
    Who linger yet, will happily recall
    It as the scheme and handiwork, as well
    As property, of “Uncle Sam,” and tell
    Of its importance, “long and long afore
    Railroads wuz ever dreamp' of!”—Furthermore,
    The reminiscent first Inhabitants
    Will make that old road blossom with romance
    Of snowy caravans, in long parade
    Of covered vehicles, of every grade
    From ox-cart of most primitive design,
    To Conestoga wagons, with their fine
    Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear,
    High names and chiming bells—to childish ear
    And eye entrancing as the glittering train
    Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain.
    And, in like spirit, haply they will tell
    You of the roadside forests, and the yell
    Of “wolfs” and “painters,” in the long night-ride,
    And “screechin' catamounts” on every side.—
    Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes,
    And yet unriddled mysteries of the times
    Called “Good Old.” “And why 'Good Old'?” once a rare
    Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair
    Out of his twinkling eyes and said,—“Well John,
    They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!”


    The old home site was portioned into three
    Distinctive lots. The front one—natively
    Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine
    With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine—
    The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and
    Upon the alley north and south, left hand,
    The old wood-house,—half, trimly stacked with wood,
    And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood
    Steadfastly through all seasons.—Over it,
    Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit,
    And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane—
    And little jack-plane, too—the children's vain
    Possession by pretense—in fancy they
    Manipulating it in endless play,
    Turning out countless curls and loops of bright,
    Fine satin shavings—Rapture infinite!
    Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box
    Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's
    Outline in “curly maple”; and a pair
    Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there.
    Some “patterns,” in thin wood, of shield and scroll,
    Hung higher, with a neat “cane-fishing-pole"
    And careful tackle—all securely out
    Of reach of children, rummaging about.


    Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free
    Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree
    Known as “The Prince's Harvest”—Magic phrase!
    That was a boy's own tree, in many ways!—
    Its girth and height meet both for the caress
    Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness:
    And then its apples, humoring his whim,
    Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him—
    Even in June, impetuous as he,
    They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree.
    And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell!—
    And ho! the lips that feigned to “kiss them well”!


    “The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree,” a stalwart, stood
    In fairly sympathetic neighborhood
    Of this wild princeling with his early gold
    To toss about so lavishly nor hold
    In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once
    All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months.
    Under the spacious shade of this the eyes
    Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies
    Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between,
    And “when the old cat died” they saw but green.
    And, then, there was a cherry-tree.—We all
    And severally will yet recall
    From our lost youth, in gentlest memory,
    The blessed fact—There was a cherry-tree.


        There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows
        Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
        No more its airy visions of pure joy—
          As when you were a boy.


        There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set
        His blue against its white—O blue as jet
        He seemed there then!—But now—Whoever knew
          He was so pale a blue!


        There was a cherry-tree—Our child-eyes saw
        The miracle:—Its pure white snows did thaw
        Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet
          But for a boy to eat.


        There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!—
        There was a bloom of snow—There was a boy—
        There was a Bluejay of the realest blue—
          And fruit for both of you.


    Then the old garden, with the apple-trees
    Grouped 'round the margin, and “a stand of bees"
    By the “white-winter-pearmain”; and a row
    Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so.
    The old grape-arbor in the center, by
    The pathway to the stable, with the sty
    Behind it, and upon it, cootering flocks
    Of pigeons, and the cutest “martin-box”!—
    Made like a sure-enough house—with roof, and doors
    And windows in it, and veranda-floors
    And balusters all 'round it—yes, and at
    Each end a chimney—painted red at that
    And penciled white, to look like little bricks;
    And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks,
    Two tiny little lightning-rods were run
    Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun.
    Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.—
    It may be you can guess who, afterwhile.
    Home in his stall, “Old Sorrel” munched his hay
    And oats and corn, and switched the flies away,
    In a repose of patience good to see,
    And earnest of the gentlest pedigree.
    With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed
    Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed
    Around the edges of the lot outside,
    And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried
    To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred,
    But dropped, k'whop! and scraped the buggy-shed,
    Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair
    Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there.
    Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet
    And whinneying a whinney like a bleat,
    He would pursue himself around the lot
    And—do the whole thing over, like as not!...
    Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread
    And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!
    Above the fences, either side, were seen
    The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green
    Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall
    Alike whitewashed, and order in it all:
    The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade
    And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid
    Aside, were in their places, ready for
    The hand of either the possessor or
    Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan
    Of any tool he might not chance to own.

    THE OLD-HOME FOLKS


    Such was the Child-World of the long-ago—
    The little world these children used to know:—
    Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
    Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
    Inhabiting this wee world all their own.—
    Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
    Of grave command—a general on parade
    Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
    By his proud followers.


                        But Johnty yet—
    After all serious duties—could forget
    The gravity of life to the extent,
    At times, of kindling much astonishment
    About him: With a quick, observant eye,
    And mind and memory, he could supply
    The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
    And at the most unlooked-for times on earth
    Was wont to break into some travesty
    On those around him—feats of mimicry
    Of this one's trick of gesture—that one's walk—
    Or this one's laugh—or that one's funny talk,—
    The way “the watermelon-man” would try
    His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;—
    How he drove into town at morning—then
    At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.


    Though these divertisements of Johnty's were
    Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there
    Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret—
    A spirit of remorse that would not let
    Him rest for days thereafter.—Such times he,
    As some boy said, “jist got too overly
    Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,
    To 'so_ciate with—less'n we 'ud go
    And jine his church!”


                        Next after Johnty came
    His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.—
    And O how white his hair was—and how thick
    His face with freckles,—and his ears, how quick
    And curious and intrusive!—And how pale
    The blue of his big eyes;—and how a tale
    Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still
    Bigger and bigger!—and when “Jack” would kill
    The old “Four-headed Giant,” Bud's big eyes
    Were swollen truly into giant-size.
    And Bud was apt in make-believes—would hear
    His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear
    And memory of both subject and big words,
    That he would take the book up afterwards
    And feign to “read aloud,” with such success
    As caused his truthful elders real distress.
    But he must have big words—they seemed to give
    Extremer range to the superlative—
    That was his passion. “My Gran'ma,” he said,
    One evening, after listening as she read
    Some heavy old historical review—
    With copious explanations thereunto
    Drawn out by his inquiring turn of mind,—
    “My Gran'ma she's read all books—ever' kind
    They is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' sea
    An' Nations of the Earth!—An' she is the
    Historicul-est woman ever wuz!”
    (Forgive the verse's chuckling as it does
    In its erratic current.—Oftentimes
    The little willowy waterbrook of rhymes
    Must falter in its music, listening to
    The children laughing as they used to do.)


        Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow,
          Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray
        That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a
          Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May.


        Ah, my lovely Willow!—Let the Waters lilt your graces,—
          They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above,
        Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places
          Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love.


    Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair,
    And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there.
    Her dignified and “little lady” airs
    Of never either romping up the stairs
    Or falling down them; thoughtful everyway
    Of others first—The kind of child at play
    That “gave up,” for the rest, the ripest pear
    Or peach or apple in the garden there
    Beneath the trees where swooped the airy swing—
    She pushing it, too glad for anything!
    Or, in the character of hostess, she
    Would entertain her friends delightfully
    In her play-house,—with strips of carpet laid
    Along the garden-fence within the shade
    Of the old apple-trees—where from next yard
    Came the two dearest friends in her regard,
    The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu—
    As shy and lovely as the lilies grew
    In their idyllic home,—yet sometimes they
    Admitted Bud and Alex to their play,
    Who did their heavier work and helped them fix
    To have a “Festibul”—and brought the bricks
    And built the “stove,” with a real fire and all,
    And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tall
    And wonderfully smoky—even to
    Their childish aspirations, as it blew
    And swooped and swirled about them till their sight
    Was feverish even as their high delight.
    Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaks
    Of temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks,
    And “amber-colored hair”—his mother said
    'Twas that, when others laughed and called it “red
    And Alex threw things at them—till they'd call
    A truce, agreeing “'t'uz n't red ut-tall!”


    But Alex was affectionate beyond
    The average child, and was extremely fond
    Of the paternal relatives of his
    Of whom he once made estimate like this:—
    I'm only got two brothers,—but my Pa
    He's got most brothers'n you ever saw!—
    He's got seben brothers!—Yes, an' they're all my
    Seben Uncles!—Uncle John, an' Jim,—an' I'
    Got Uncle George, an' Uncle Andy, too,
    An' Uncle Frank, an' Uncle Joe.—An' you
    Know Uncle Mart.—An', all but him, they're great
    Big mens!—An' nen s Aunt Sarah—she makes eight!—
    I'm got eight uncles!—'cept Aunt Sarah can't
    Be ist my uncle 'cause she's ist my aunt!”


    Then, next to Alex—and the last indeed
    Of these five little ones of whom you read—
    Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp,—
    As though her Elfin lips had caught some wisp
    Of floss between them as they strove with speech,
    Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach—
    Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could say
    With looks that made her meaning clear as day.


    And, knowing now the children, you must know
    The father and the mother they loved so:—
    The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed,
    Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside
    The slender little mother, seemed in truth
    A very king of men—since, from his youth,
    To his hale manhood now—(worthy as then,—
    A lawyer and a leading citizen
    Of the proud little town and county-seat—
    His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)—
    He had known outdoor labor—rain and shine—
    Bleak Winter, and bland Summer—foul and fine.
    So Nature had ennobled him and set
    Her symbol on him like a coronet:
    His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.—
    Superior of stature as of grace,
    Even the children by the spell were wrought
    Up to heroics of their simple thought,
    And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straight
    And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate
    The towering ironweed the scythe had spared
    For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared
    It would grow on till it became a tree,
    With cocoanuts and monkeys in—maybe!


    Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe
    And admiration of the father, saw
    A being so exalted—even more
    Like adoration was the love they bore
    The gentle mother.—Her mild, plaintive face
    Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace
    And sweetness luminous when joy made glad
    Her features with a smile; or saintly sad
    As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom
    Of any childish grief, or as a room
    Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn
    Across the window and the sunshine gone.
    Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands,
    Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands
    Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips
    And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips.


    Though heavy household tasks were pitiless,
    No little waist or coat or checkered dress
    But knew her needle's deftness; and no skill
    Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill;
    Or fashioning, in complicate design,
    All rich embroideries of leaf and vine,
    With tiniest twining tendril,—bud and bloom
    And fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfume
    And dainty touch and taste of them, to see
    Their semblance wrought in such rare verity.


    Shrined in her sanctity of home and love,
    And love's fond service and reward thereof,
    Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!—
    Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee
    Her sewing—her workbasket on the floor
    Beside her,—Springtime through the open door
    Balmily stealing in and all about
    The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout
    And laughter of the children at their play,
    And neighbor-children from across the way
    Calling in gleeful challenge—save alone
    One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone—
    The boy, prone on the floor, above a book
    Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look—
    Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell,
    Is lifted, with a light ineffable—
    As though her senses caught no mortal cry,
    But heard, instead, some poem going by.


        The Child-heart is so strange a little thing—
          So mild—so timorously shy and small.—
        When grown-up hearts throb, it goes scampering
          Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all!—
                    It is the veriest mouse
                    That hides in any house—
          So wild a little thing is any Child-heart!


                        Child-heart!—mild heart!—
                        Ho, my little wild heart!—
                  Come up here to me out o' the dark,
                        Or let me come to you!


        So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be.
          With never one maturer heart for friend
        And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy
          And love might lend it comfort to the end,—
                    Whose yearnings, aches and stings.
                    Over poor little things
          Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart.


                        Child-heart!—mild heart!—
                        Ho, my little wild heart!—
                  Come up here to me out o' the dark,
                        Or let me come to you!


        Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad—
          Being so young, nor knowing, as we know.
        The fact from fantasy, the good from bad,
          The joy from woe, the—all that hurts us so!
                    What wonder then that thus
                    It hides away from us?—
          So weak a little thing is any Child-heart!


                        Child-heart!—mild heart!—
                        Ho, my little wild heart!—
                  Come up here to me out o' the dark,
                        Or let me come to you!


        Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need
          To fear us,—we are weaker far than you—
        Tis we who should be fearful—we indeed
          Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do,—
                    Safe, as yourself, withdrawn,
                    Hearing the World roar on
          Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart!


                        Child-heart!—mild heart!—
                        Ho, my little wild heart!—
                  Come up here to me out o' the dark,
                        Or let me come to you!



    The clock chats on confidingly; a rose
    Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws
    A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine
    And shadow, like a Persian-loom design,
    Across the homemade carpet—fades,—and then
    The dear old colors are themselves again.
    Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere—
    The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,
    Their sweet liquidity diluted some
    By dewy orchard spaces they have come:
    Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway—
    The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh
    Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat
    Of sheep and low of cattle through the street—
    A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears,
    First blazed by the heroic pioneers
    Who gave up old-home idols and set face
    Toward the unbroken West, to found a race
    And tame a wilderness now mightier than
    All peoples and all tracts American.
    Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:—
    In mild remoteness falls the household din
    Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump
    Of churning; and the “glung-glung” of the pump,
    With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet
    Of little outlaws, in from field or street:
    The clang of kettle,—rasp of damper-ring
    And bang of cookstove-door—and everything
    That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts
    Its individual wrangling voice and drifts
    In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone
    Of music hungry ear has ever known
    In wildest famished yearning and conceit
    Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!—
    The zest of hunger still incited on
    To childish desperation by long-drawn
    Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew
    And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too,
    Filling the sense with zestful rumors of
    The dear old-fashioned dinners children love:
    Redolent savorings of home-cured meats,
    Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets
    And parsnips—rarest composite entire
    That ever pushed a mortal child's desire
    To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp
    Horseradish—tang that sets the lips awarp
    And watery, anticipating all
    The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.—
    Still add the cinnamony, spicy scents
    Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments
    In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy
    Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie—
    The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all
    The house—upstairs and down—porch, parlor, hall
    And sitting-room—invading even where
    The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air,
    And pauses in his pruning of the trees
    To note the sun minutely and to—sneeze.


    Then Cousin Rufus comes—the children hear
    His hale voice in the old hall, ringing clear
    As any bell. Always he came with song
    Upon his lips and all the happy throng
    Of echoes following him, even as the crowd
    Of his admiring little kinsmen—proud
    To have a cousin grown—and yet as young
    Of soul and cheery as the songs he sung.


    He was a student of the law—intent
    Soundly to win success, with all it meant;
    And so he studied—even as he played,—
    With all his heart: And so it was he made
    His gallant fight for fortune—through all stress
    Of battle bearing him with cheeriness
    And wholesome valor.


                        And the children had
    Another relative who kept them glad
    And joyous by his very merry ways—
    As blithe and sunny as the summer days,—
    Their father's youngest brother—Uncle Mart.
    The old “Arabian Nights” he knew by heart—
    “Baron Munchausen,” too; and likewise “The
    Swiss Family Robinson.”—And when these three
    Gave out, as he rehearsed them, he could go
    Straight on in the same line—a steady flow
    Of arabesque invention that his good
    Old mother never clearly understood.
    He was to be a printer—wanted, though,
    To be an actor.—But the world was “show"
    Enough for him,—theatric, airy, gay,—
    Each day to him was jolly as a play.
    And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth,
    Were certain.—And, from his apprentice youth,
    He joyed in verse-quotations—which he took
    Out of the old “Type Foundry Specimen Book.”
    He craved and courted most the favor of
    The children.—They were foremost in his love;
    And pleasing them, he pleased his own boy-heart
    And kept it young and fresh in every part.
    So was it he devised for them and wrought
    To life his quaintest, most romantic thought:—
    Like some lone castaway in alien seas,
    He built a house up in the apple-trees,
    Out in the corner of the garden, where
    No man-devouring native, prowling there,
    Might pounce upon them in the dead o' night—
    For lo, their little ladder, slim and light,
    They drew up after them. And it was known
    That Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes alone
    And drew the ladder in, to lie and moon
    Over some novel all the afternoon.
    And one time Johnty, from the crowd below,—
    Outraged to find themselves deserted so—
    Threw bodily their old black cat up in
    The airy fastness, with much yowl and din.
    Resulting, while a wild periphery
    Of cat went circling to another tree,
    And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle Mart
    Loomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart:


          “'Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger!
          What led thee hither 'mongst the types and cases?
          Didst thou not know that running midnight races
        O'er standing types was fraught with imminent danger?
        Did hunger lead thee—didst thou think to find
          Some rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw?
          Vain hope! for none but literary jaw
        Can masticate our cookery for the mind!
    '“


    So likewise when, with lordly air and grace,
    He strode to dinner, with a tragic face
    With ink-spots on it from the office, he
    Would aptly quote more “Specimen-poetry—“
    Perchance like “'Labor's bread is sweet to eat,
    (Ahem!) And toothsome is the toiler's meat.'“


    Ah, could you see them all, at lull of noon!—
    A sort of boisterous lull, with clink of spoon
    And clatter of deflecting knife, and plate
    Dropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight,
    And dragged in place voraciously; and then
    Pent exclamations, and the lull again.—
    The garland of glad faces 'round the board—
    Each member of the family restored
    To his or her place, with an extra chair
    Or two for the chance guests so often there.—
    The father's farmer-client, brought home from
    The courtroom, though he “didn't want to come
    Tel he jist saw he hat to!” he'd explain,
    Invariably, time and time again,
    To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressed
    Another cup of coffee on the guest.—
    Or there was Johnty's special chum, perchance,
    Or Bud's, or both—each childish countenance
    Lit with a higher glow of youthful glee,
    To be together thus unbrokenly,—
    Jim Offutt, or Eck Skinner, or George Carr—
    The very nearest chums of Bud's these are,—
    So, very probably, one of the three,
    At least, is there with Bud, or ought to be.
    Like interchange the town-boys each had known—
    His playmate's dinner better than his own—
    Yet blest that he was ever made to stay
    At Almon Keefer's, any blessed day,
    For any meal!... Visions of biscuits, hot
    And flaky-perfect, with the golden blot
    Of molten butter for the center, clear,
    Through pools of clover-honey—dear-o-dear!
    With creamy milk for its divine “farewell”:
    And then, if any one delectable
    Might yet exceed in sweetness, O restore
    The cherry-cobbler of the days of yore
    Made only by Al Keefer's mother!—Why,
    The very thought of it ignites the eye
    Of memory with rapture—cloys the lip
    Of longing, till it seems to ooze and drip
    With veriest juice and stain and overwaste
    Of that most sweet delirium of taste
    That ever visited the childish tongue,
    Or proved, as now, the sweetest thing unsung.

    ALMON KEEFER


    Ah, Almon Keefer! what a boy you were,
    With your back-tilted hat and careless hair,
    And open, honest, fresh, fair face and eyes
    With their all-varying looks of pleased surprise
    And joyous interest in flower and tree,
    And poising humming-bird, and maundering bee.


    The fields and woods he knew; the tireless tramp
    With gun and dog; and the night-fisher's camp—
    No other boy, save Bee Lineback, had won
    Such brilliant mastery of rod and gun.
    Even in his earliest childhood had he shown
    These traits that marked him as his father's own.
    Dogs all paid Almon honor and bow-wowed
    Allegiance, let him come in any crowd
    Of rabbit-hunting town-boys, even though
    His own dog “Sleuth” rebuked their acting so
    With jealous snarls and growlings.


                        But the best
    Of Almon's virtues—leading all the rest—
    Was his great love of books, and skill as well
    In reading them aloud, and by the spell
    Thereof enthralling his mute listeners, as
    They grouped about him in the orchard grass,
    Hinging their bare shins in the mottled shine
    And shade, as they lay prone, or stretched supine
    Beneath their favorite tree, with dreamy eyes
    And Argo-fandes voyaging the skies.
    “Tales of the Ocean” was the name of one
    Old dog's-eared book that was surpassed by none
    Of all the glorious list.—Its back was gone,
    But its vitality went bravely on
    In such delicious tales of land and sea
    As may not ever perish utterly.
    Of still more dubious caste, “Jack Sheppard” drew
    Full admiration; and “Dick Turpin,” too.
    And, painful as the fact is to convey,
    In certain lurid tales of their own day,
    These boys found thieving heroes and outlaws
    They hailed with equal fervor of applause:
    “The League of the Miami”—why, the name
    Alone was fascinating—is the same,
    In memory, this venerable hour
    Of moral wisdom shorn of all its power,
    As it unblushingly reverts to when
    The old barn was “the Cave,” and hears again
    The signal blown, outside the buggy-shed—
    The drowsy guard within uplifts his head,
    And “'Who goes there?'“ is called, in bated breath—
    The challenge answered in a hush of death,—
    “Sh!—'Barney Gray!'“ And then “'What do you seek?'“
    “'Stables of The League!'“ the voice comes spent and weak,
    For, ha! the Law is on the “Chieftain's” trail—
    Tracked to his very lair!—Well, what avail?
    The “secret entrance” opens—closes.—So
    The “Robber-Captain” thus outwits his foe;
    And, safe once more within his “cavern-halls,”
    He shakes his clenched fist at the warped plank-walls
    And mutters his defiance through the cracks
    At the balked Enemy's retreating backs
    As the loud horde flees pell-mell down the lane,
    And—Almon Keefer is himself again!


    Excepting few, they were not books indeed
    Of deep import that Almon chose to read;—
    Less fact than fiction.—Much he favored those—
    If not in poetry, in hectic prose—
    That made our native Indian a wild,
    Feathered and fine-preened hero that a child
    Could recommend as just about the thing
    To make a god of, or at least a king.
    Aside from Almon's own books—two or three—
    His store of lore The Township Library
    Supplied him weekly: All the books with “or"s—
    Sub-titled—lured him—after “Indian Wars,”
    And “Life of Daniel Boone,”—not to include
    Some few books spiced with humor,—“Robin Hood"
    And rare “Don Quixote.”—And one time he took
    “Dadd's Cattle Doctor.”... How he hugged the book
    And hurried homeward, with internal glee
    And humorous spasms of expectancy!—
    All this confession—as he promptly made
    It, the day later, writhing in the shade
    Of the old apple-tree with Johnty and
    Bud, Noey Bixler, and The Hired Hand—
    Was quite as funny as the book was not....
    O Wonderland of wayward Childhood! what
    An easy, breezy realm of summer calm
    And dreamy gleam and gloom and bloom and balm
    Thou art!—The Lotus-Land the poet sung,
    It is the Child-World while the heart beats young....


        While the heart beats young!—O the splendor of the Spring,
        With all her dewy jewels on, is not so fair a thing!
        The fairest, rarest morning of the blossom-time of May
        Is not so sweet a season as the season of to-day
        While Youth's diviner climate folds and holds us, close caressed,
        As we feel our mothers with us by the touch of face and breast;—
        Our bare feet in the meadows, and our fancies up among
        The airy clouds of morning—while the heart beats young.


        While the heart beats young and our pulses leap and dance.
        With every day a holiday and life a glad romance,—
        We hear the birds with wonder, and with wonder watch their flight—
        Standing still the more enchanted, both of hearing and of sight,
        When they have vanished wholly,—for, in fancy, wing-to-wing
        We fly to Heaven with them; and, returning, still we sing
        The praises of this lower Heaven with tireless voice and tongue,
        Even as the Master sanctions—while the heart beats young.


        While the heart beats young!—While the heart beats young!
        O green and gold old Earth of ours, with azure overhung
        And looped with rainbows!—grant us yet this grassy lap of thine—
        We would be still thy children, through the shower and the shine!
        So pray we, lisping, whispering, in childish love and trust
        With our beseeching hands and faces lifted from the dust
        By fervor of the poem, all unwritten and unsung,
        Thou givest us in answer, while the heart beats young.

    NOEY BIXLER


    Another hero of those youthful years
    Returns, as Noey Bixler's name appears.
    And Noey—if in any special way—
    Was notably good-natured.—Work or play
    He entered into with selfsame delight—
    A wholesome interest that made him quite
    As many friends among the old as young,—
    So everywhere were Noey's praises sung.


    And he was awkward, fat and overgrown,
    With a round full-moon face, that fairly shone
    As though to meet the simile's demand.
    And, cumbrous though he seemed, both eye and hand
    Were dowered with the discernment and deft skill
    Of the true artisan: He shaped at will,
    In his old father's shop, on rainy days,
    Little toy-wagons, and curved-runner sleighs;
    The trimmest bows and arrows—fashioned, too.
    Of “seasoned timber,” such as Noey knew
    How to select, prepare, and then complete,
    And call his little friends in from the street.
    “The very best bow,” Noey used to say,
    “Haint made o' ash ner hick'ry thataway!—
    But you git mulberry—the bearin'-tree,
    Now mind ye! and you fetch the piece to me,
    And lem me git it seasoned; then, i gum!
    I'll make a bow 'at you kin brag on some!
    Er—ef you can't git mulberry,—you bring
    Me a' old locus' hitch-post, and i jing!
    I'll make a bow o' that 'at common bows
    Won't dast to pick on ner turn up their nose!”
    And Noey knew the woods, and all the trees,
    And thickets, plants and myriad mysteries
    Of swamp and bottom-land. And he knew where
    The ground-hog hid, and why located there.—
    He knew all animals that burrowed, swam,
    Or lived in tree-tops: And, by race and dam,
    He knew the choicest, safest deeps wherein
    Fish-traps might flourish nor provoke the sin
    Of theft in some chance peeking, prying sneak,
    Or town-boy, prowling up and down the creek.
    All four-pawed creatures tamable—he knew
    Their outer and their inner natures too;
    While they, in turn, were drawn to him as by
    Some subtle recognition of a tie
    Of love, as true as truth from end to end,
    Between themselves and this strange human friend.
    The same with birds—he knew them every one,
    And he could “name them, too, without a gun.”
    No wonder Johnty loved him, even to
    The verge of worship.—Noey led him through
    The art of trapping redbirds—yes, and taught
    Him how to keep them when he had them caught—
    What food they needed, and just where to swing
    The cage, if he expected them to sing.


    And Bud loved Noey, for the little pair
    Of stilts he made him; or the stout old hair
    Trunk Noey put on wheels, and laid a track
    Of scantling-railroad for it in the back
    Part of the barn-lot; or the cross-bow, made
    Just like a gun, which deadly weapon laid
    Against his shoulder as he aimed, and—“Sping!
    He'd hear the rusty old nail zoon and sing—
    And zip! your Mr. Bluejay's wing would drop
    A farewell-feather from the old tree-top!
    And Maymie loved him, for the very small
    But perfect carriage for her favorite doll—
    A lady's carriage—not a baby-cab,—
    But oilcloth top, and two seats, lined with drab
    And trimmed with white lace-paper from a case
    Of shaving-soap his uncle bought some place
    At auction once.


                        And Alex loved him yet
    The best, when Noey brought him, for a pet,
    A little flying-squirrel, with great eyes—
    Big as a child's: And, childlike otherwise,
    It was at first a timid, tremulous, coy,
    Retiring little thing that dodged the boy
    And tried to keep in Noey's pocket;—till,
    In time, responsive to his patient will,
    It became wholly docile, and content
    With its new master, as he came and went,—
    The squirrel clinging flatly to his breast,
    Or sometimes scampering its craziest
    Around his body spirally, and then
    Down to his very heels and up again.


    And Little Lizzie loved him, as a bee
    Loves a great ripe red apple—utterly.
    For Noey's ruddy morning-face she drew
    The window-blind, and tapped the window, too;
    Afar she hailed his coming, as she heard
    His tuneless whistling—sweet as any bird
    It seemed to her, the one lame bar or so
    Of old “Wait for the Wagon”—hoarse and low
    The sound was,—so that, all about the place,
    Folks joked and said that Noey “whistled bass”—
    The light remark originally made
    By Cousin Rufus, who knew notes, and played
    The flute with nimble skill, and taste as wall,
    And, critical as he was musical,
    Regarded Noey's constant whistling thus
    “Phenominally unmelodious.”
    Likewise when Uncle Mart, who shared the love
    Of jest with Cousin Rufus hand-in-glove,
    Said “Noey couldn't whistle 'Bonny Doon'
    Even! and, he'd bet, couldn't carry a tune
    If it had handles to it!”


                        —But forgive
    The deviations here so fugitive,
    And turn again to Little Lizzie, whose
    High estimate of Noey we shall choose
    Above all others.—And to her he was
    Particularly lovable because
    He laid the woodland's harvest at her feet.—
    He brought her wild strawberries, honey-sweet
    And dewy-cool, in mats of greenest moss
    And leaves, all woven over and across
    With tender, biting “tongue-grass,” and “sheep-sour,”
    And twin-leaved beach-mast, prankt with bud and flower
    Of every gypsy-blossom of the wild,
    Dark, tangled forest, dear to any child.—
    All these in season. Nor could barren, drear,
    White and stark-featured Winter interfere
    With Noey's rare resources: Still the same
    He blithely whistled through the snow and came
    Beneath the window with a Fairy sled;
    And Little Lizzie, bundled heels-and-head,
    He took on such excursions of delight
    As even “Old Santy” with his reindeer might
    Have envied her! And, later, when the snow
    Was softening toward Springtime and the glow
    Of steady sunshine smote upon it,—then
    Came the magician Noey yet again—
    While all the children were away a day
    Or two at Grandma's!—and behold when they
    Got home once more;—there, towering taller than
    The doorway—stood a mighty, old Snow-Man!


    A thing of peerless art—a masterpiece
    Doubtless unmatched by even classic Greece
    In heyday of Praxiteles.—Alone
    It loomed in lordly grandeur all its own.
    And steadfast, too, for weeks and weeks it stood,
    The admiration of the neighborhood
    As well as of the children Noey sought
    Only to honor in the work he wrought.
    The traveler paid it tribute, as he passed
    Along the highway—paused and, turning, cast
    A lingering, last look—as though to take
    A vivid print of it, for memory's sake,
    To lighten all the empty, aching miles
    Beyond with brighter fancies, hopes and smiles.
    The cynic put aside his biting wit
    And tacitly declared in praise of it;
    And even the apprentice-poet of the town
    Rose to impassioned heights, and then sat down
    And penned a panegyric scroll of rhyme
    That made the Snow-Man famous for all time.


    And though, as now, the ever warmer sun
    Of summer had so melted and undone
    The perishable figure that—alas!—
    Not even in dwindled white against the grass—
    Was left its latest and minutest ghost,
    The children yet—materially, almost—
    Beheld it—circled 'round it hand-in-hand—
    (Or rather 'round the place it used to stand)—
    With “Ring-a-round-a-rosy! Bottle full
    O' posey!” and, with shriek and laugh, would pull
    From seeming contact with it—just as when
    It was the real-est of old Snow-Men.

    “A NOTED TRAVELER"


    Even in such a scene of senseless play
    The children were surprised one summer-day
    By a strange man who called across the fence,
    Inquiring for their father's residence;
    And, being answered that this was the place,
    Opened the gate, and with a radiant face,
    Came in and sat down with them in the shade
    And waited—till the absent father made
    His noon appearance, with a warmth and zest
    That told he had no ordinary guest
    In this man whose low-spoken name he knew
    At once, demurring as the stranger drew
    A stuffy notebook out and turned and set
    A big fat finger on a page and let
    The writing thereon testify instead
    Of further speech. And as the father read
    All silently, the curious children took
    Exacting inventory both of book
    And man:—He wore a long-napped white fur-hat
    Pulled firmly on his head, and under that
    Rather long silvery hair, or iron-gray—
    For he was not an old man,—anyway,
    Not beyond sixty. And he wore a pair
    Of square-framed spectacles—or rather there
    Were two more than a pair,—the extra two
    Flared at the corners, at the eyes' side-view,
    In as redundant vision as the eyes
    Of grasshoppers or bees or dragonflies.
    Later the children heard the father say
    He was “A Noted Traveler,” and would stay
    Some days with them—In which time host and guest
    Discussed, alone, in deepest interest,
    Some vague, mysterious matter that defied
    The wistful children, loitering outside
    The spare-room door. There Bud acquired a quite
    New list of big words—such as “Disunite,”
    And “Shibboleth,” and “Aristocracy,”
    And “Juggernaut,” and “Squatter Sovereignty,”
    And “Anti-slavery,” “Emancipate,”
    “Irrepressible conflict,” and “The Great
    Battle of Armageddon”—obviously
    A pamphlet brought from Washington, D. C.,
    And spread among such friends as might occur
    Of like views with “The Noted Traveler.”

    A PROSPECTIVE VISIT


    While any day was notable and dear
    That gave the children Noey, history here
    Records his advent emphasized indeed
    With sharp italics, as he came to feed
    The stock one special morning, fair and bright,
    When Johnty and Bud met him, with delight
    Unusual even as their extra dress—
    Garbed as for holiday, with much excess
    Of proud self-consciousness and vain conceit
    In their new finery.—Far up the street
    They called to Noey, as he came, that they,
    As promised, both were going back that day
    To his house with him!


                        And by time that each
    Had one of Noey's hands—ceasing their speech
    And coyly anxious, in their new attire,
    To wake the comment of their mute desire,—
    Noey seemed rendered voiceless. Quite a while
    They watched him furtively.—He seemed to smile
    As though he would conceal it; and they saw
    Him look away, and his lips purse and draw
    In curious, twitching spasms, as though he might
    Be whispering,—while in his eye the white
    Predominated strangely.—Then the spell
    Gave way, and his pent speech burst audible:
    “They wuz two stylish little boys,
      and they wuz mighty bold ones,
    Had two new pairs o' britches made
      out o' their daddy's old ones!”
    And at the inspirational outbreak,
    Both joker and his victims seemed to take
    An equal share of laughter,—and all through
    Their morning visit kept recurring to
    The funny words and jingle of the rhyme
    That just kept getting funnier all the time.

    AT NOEY'S HOUSE


    At Noey's house—when they arrived with him—
    How snug seemed everything, and neat and trim:
    The little picket-fence, and little gate—
    It's little pulley, and its little weight,—
    All glib as clock-work, as it clicked behind
    Them, on the little red brick pathway, lined
    With little paint-keg-vases and teapots
    Of wee moss-blossoms and forgetmenots:
    And in the windows, either side the door,
    Were ranged as many little boxes more
    Of like old-fashioned larkspurs, pinks and moss
    And fern and phlox; while up and down across
    Them rioted the morning-glory-vines
    On taut-set cotton-strings, whose snowy lines
    Whipt in and out and under the bright green
    Like basting-threads; and, here and there between,
    A showy, shiny hollyhock would flare
    Its pink among the white and purple there.—
    And still behind the vines, the children saw
    A strange, bleached, wistful face that seemed to draw
    A vague, indefinite sympathy. A face
    It was of some newcomer to the place.—
    In explanation, Noey, briefly, said
    That it was “Jason,” as he turned and led
    The little fellows 'round the house to show
    Them his menagerie of pets. And so
    For quite a time the face of the strange guest
    Was partially forgotten, as they pressed
    About the squirrel-cage and rousted both
    The lazy inmates out, though wholly loath
    To whirl the wheel for them.—And then with awe
    They walked 'round Noey's big pet owl, and saw
    Him film his great, clear, liquid eyes and stare
    And turn and turn and turn his head 'round there
    The same way they kept circling—as though he
    Could turn it one way thus eternally.


    Behind the kitchen, then, with special pride
    Noey stirred up a terrapin inside
    The rain-barrel where he lived, with three or four
    Little mud-turtles of a size not more
    In neat circumference than the tiny toy
    Dumb-watches worn by every little boy.


    Then, back of the old shop, beneath the tree
    Of “rusty-coats,” as Noey called them, he
    Next took the boys, to show his favorite new
    Pet 'coon—pulled rather coyly into view
    Up through a square hole in the bottom of
    An old inverted tub he bent above,
    Yanking a little chain, with “Hey! you, sir!
    Here's comp'ny come to see you, Bolivur!”
    Explanatory, he went on to say,
    “I named him 'Bolivur' jes thisaway,—
    He looks so round and ovalish and fat,
    'Peared like no other name 'ud fit but that.”


    Here Noey's father called and sent him on
    Some errand. “Wait,” he said—“I won't be gone
    A half a' hour.—Take Bud, and go on in
    Where Jason is, tel I git back agin.”


    Whoever Jason was, they found him there
    Still at the front-room window.—By his chair
    Leaned a new pair of crutches; and from one
    Knee down, a leg was bandaged.—“Jason done
    That-air with one o' these-'ere tools we call
    A 'shin-hoe'—but a foot-adz mostly all
    Hardware-store-keepers calls 'em.”—(Noey made
    This explanation later.)


                        Jason paid
    But little notice to the boys as they
    Came in the room:—An idle volume lay
    Upon his lap—the only book in sight—
    And Johnty read the title,—“Light, More Light,
    There's Danger in the Dark,”—though first and best—
    In fact, the whole of Jason's interest
    Seemed centered on a little dog—one pet
    Of Noey's all uncelebrated yet—
    Though Jason, certainly, avowed his worth,
    And niched him over all the pets on earth—
    As the observant Johnty would relate
    The Jason-episode, and imitate
    The all-enthusiastic speech and air
    Of Noey's kinsman and his tribute there:—

    “THAT LITTLE DOG"


    “That little dog 'ud scratch at that door
    And go on a-whinin' two hours before
    He'd ever let up! There!—Jane: Let him in.—
    (Hah, there, you little rat!) Look at him grin!
            Come down off o' that!—
            W'y, look at him! (Drat
    You! you-rascal-you!
    )—bring me that hat!
    Look out!—He'll snap you!He wouldn't let
    You take it away from him, now you kin bet!
    That little rascal's jist natchurly mean.—
    I tell you, I never (Git out!! ) never seen
    A spunkier little rip! (Scratch to git in,
    And now yer a-scratchin' to git out agin!
    Jane: Let him out!) Now, watch him from here
    Out through the winder!—You notice one ear
    Kindo' in side-out, like he holds it?—Well,
    He's got a tick in it—I kin tell!
            Yes, and he's cunnin'—
            Jist watch him a-runnin',
    Sidelin'—see!—like he ain't 'plum'd true'
    And legs don't 'track' as they'd ort to do:—
    Plowin' his nose through the weeds—I jing!
    Ain't he jist cuter'n anything!


    “W'y, that little dog's got grown-people's sense!—
    See how he gits out under the fence?—
    And watch him a-whettin' his hind-legs 'fore
    His dead square run of a miled er more—
    'Cause Noey's a-comin', and Trip allus knows
    When Noey's a-comin'—and off he goes!—
    Putts out to meet him and—There they come now!
    Well-sir! it's raially singalar how
            That dog kin tell,—
            But he knows as well
    When Noey's a-comin' home!—Reckon his smell
    'Ud carry two miled?—You needn't to smile
    He runs to meet him, ever'-once-n-a-while,
    Two miled and over—when he's slipped away
    And left him at home here, as he's done to-day—
    'Thout ever knowin' where Noey wuz goin'—
    But that little dog allus hits the right way!
    Hear him a-whinin' and scratchin' agin?—
    (Little tormentin' fice!) Jane: Let him in.


            ”—You say he ain't there?
            Well now, I declare!—
    Lem me limp out and look! ... I wunder where—
    Heuh, Trip!—Heuh, Trip!—Heuh, Trip!... There
    There he is!—Little sneak!—What-a'-you-'bout?—
    There he is—quiled up as meek as a mouse,
    His tail turnt up like a teakittle-spout,
    A-sunnin' hisse'f at the side o' the house!
    Next time you scratch, sir, you'll haf to git in,
    My fine little feller, the best way you kin!
    —Noey he learns him sich capers!—And they—
    Both of 'em's ornrier every day!—
    Both tantalizin' and meaner'n sin—
    Allus a—(Listen there!)—Jane: Let him in.


    ”—O! yer so innocent! hangin' yer head!—
    (Drat ye! you'd better git under the bed!)
            —Listen at that!—
            He's tackled the cat!—
    Hah, there! you little rip! come out o' that!—
    Git yer blame little eyes scratched out
    'Fore you know what yer talkin' about!—
    Here! come away from there!—(Let him alone—
    He'll snap you, I tell ye, as quick as a bone!)
    Hi, Trip!—Hey, here!—What-a'-you-'bout!—
    Oo! ouch! 'Ll I'll be blamed!—Blast ye! GIT OUT!
    ... O, it ain't nothin'—jist scratched me, you see.—
    Hadn't no idy he'd try to bite me!
    Plague take him!—Bet he'll not try that agin!—
    Hear him yelp.—(Pore feller!) Jane: Let him in.”

    THE LOEHRS AND THE HAMMONDS


    “Hey, Bud! O Bud!” rang out a gleeful call,—
    The Loehrs is come to your house!” And a small
    But very much elated little chap,
    In snowy linen-suit and tasseled cap,
    Leaped from the back-fence just across the street
    From Bixlers', and came galloping to meet
    His equally delighted little pair
    Of playmates, hurrying out to join him there—
    The Loehrs is come!—The Loehrs is come!” his glee
    Augmented to a pitch of ecstasy
    Communicated wildly, till the cry
    The Loehrs is come!” in chorus quavered high
    And thrilling as some paean of challenge or
    Soul-stirring chant of armied conqueror.
    And who this avant courier of “the Loehrs”?—
    This happiest of all boys out-o'-doors—
    Who but Will Pierson, with his heart's excess
    Of summer-warmth and light and breeziness!
    “From our front winder I 'uz first to see
    'Em all a-drivin' into town!” bragged he—
    “An' seen 'em turnin' up the alley where
    Your folks lives at. An' John an' Jake wuz there
    Both in the wagon;—yes, an' Willy, too;
    An' Mary—Yes, an' Edith—with bran-new
    An' purtiest-trimmed hats 'at ever wuz!—
    An' Susan, an' Janey.—An' the Hammonds-uz
    In their fine buggy 'at they're ridin' roun'
    So much, all over an' aroun' the town
    An' ever'wheres,—them city-people who's
    A-visutin' at Loehrs-uz!”


                        Glorious news!—
    Even more glorious when verified
    In the boys' welcoming eyes of love and pride,
    As one by one they greeted their old friends
    And neighbors.—Nor until their earth-life ends
    Will that bright memory become less bright
    Or dimmed indeed.


                        ... Again, at candle-light,
    The faces all are gathered. And how glad
    The Mother's features, knowing that she had
    Her dear, sweet Mary Loehr back again.—
    She always was so proud of her; and then
    The dear girl, in return, was happy, too,
    And with a heart as loving, kind and true
    As that maturer one which seemed to blend
    As one the love of mother and of friend.
    From time to time, as hand-in-hand they sat,
    The fair girl whispered something low, whereat
    A tender, wistful look would gather in
    The mother-eyes; and then there would begin
    A sudden cheerier talk, directed to
    The stranger guests—the man and woman who,
    It was explained, were coming now to make
    Their temporary home in town for sake
    Of the wife's somewhat failing health. Yes, they
    Were city-people, seeking rest this way,
    The man said, answering a query made
    By some well meaning neighbor—with a shade
    Of apprehension in the answer.... No,—
    They had no children. As he answered so,
    The man's arm went about his wife, and she
    Leant toward him, with her eyes lit prayerfully:
    Then she arose—he following—and bent
    Above the little sleeping innocent
    Within the cradle at the mother's side—
    He patting her, all silent, as she cried.—
    Though, haply, in the silence that ensued,
    His musings made melodious interlude.


        In the warm, health-giving weather
          My poor pale wife and I
        Drive up and down the little town
          And the pleasant roads thereby:
        Out in the wholesome country
         We wind, from the main highway,
        In through the wood's green solitudes—
          Fair as the Lord's own Day.


        We have lived so long together.
          And joyed and mourned as one,
        That each with each, with a look for speech,
          Or a touch, may talk as none
        But Love's elect may comprehend—
          Why, the touch of her hand on mine
        Speaks volume-wise, and the smile of her eyes,
          To me, is a song divine.


        There are many places that lure us:—
          “The Old Wood Bridge” just west
        Of town we know—and the creek below,
          And the banks the boys love best:
        And “Beech Grove,” too, on the hill-top;
          And “The Haunted House” beyond,
        With its roof half off, and its old pump-trough
          Adrift in the roadside pond.


        We find our way to “The Marshes”—
          At least where they used to be;
        And “The Old Camp Grounds”; and “The Indian Mounds,”
          And the trunk of “The Council Tree:"
        We have crunched and splashed through “Flint-bed Ford”;
          And at “Old Big Bee-gum Spring"
        We have stayed the cup, half lifted up.
          Hearing the redbird sing.


        And then, there is “Wesley Chapel,”
          With its little graveyard, lone
        At the crossroads there, though the sun sets fair
          On wild-rose, mound and stone ...
        A wee bed under the willows—
          My wife's hand on my own—
        And our horse stops, too ... And we hear the coo
          Of a dove in undertone.


        The dusk, the dew, and the silence.
          “Old Charley” turns his head
        Homeward then by the pike again,
          Though never a word is said—
        One more stop, and a lingering one—
          After the fields and farms,—
        At the old Toll Gate, with the woman await
          With a little girl in her arms.



    The silence sank—Floretty came to call
    The children in the kitchen, where they all
    Went helter-skeltering with shout and din
    Enough to drown most sanguine silence in,—
    For well indeed they knew that summons meant
    Taffy and popcorn—so with cheers they went.

    THE HIRED MAN AND FLORETTY


    The Hired Man's supper, which he sat before,
    In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-door
    And one leaf of the kitchen-table, was
    Somewhat belated, and in lifted pause
    His dextrous knife was balancing a bit
    Of fried mush near the port awaiting it.


    At the glad children's advent—gladder still
    To find him there—“Jest tickled fit to kill
    To see ye all!” he said, with unctious cheer.—
    “I'm tryin'-like to he'p Floretty here
    To git things cleared away and give ye room
    Accordin' to yer stren'th. But I p'sume
    It's a pore boarder, as the poet says,
    That quarrels with his victuals, so I guess
    I'll take another wedge o' that-air cake,
    Florett', that you're a-learnin' how to bake.”
    He winked and feigned to swallow painfully.—


    “Jest 'fore ye all come in, Floretty she
    Was boastin' 'bout her biscuits—and they air
    As good—sometimes—as you'll find anywhere.—
    But, women gits to braggin' on their bread,
    I'm s'picious 'bout their pie—as Danty said.”
    This raillery Floretty strangely seemed
    To take as compliment, and fairly beamed
    With pleasure at it all.


                        —“Speakin' o' bread
    When she come here to live,” The Hired Man said,—
    “Never ben out o' Freeport 'fore she come
    Up here,—of course she needed 'sperience some.—
    So, one day, when yer Ma was goin' to set
    The risin' fer some bread, she sent Florett
    To borry leaven, 'crost at Ryans'—So,
    She went and asked fer twelve.—She didn't know,
    But thought, whatever 'twuz, that she could keep
    One fer herse'f, she said. O she wuz deep!”


    Some little evidence of favor hailed
    The Hired Man's humor; but it wholly failed
    To touch the serious Susan Loehr, whose air
    And thought rebuked them all to listening there
    To her brief history of the city-man
    And his pale wife—“A sweeter woman than
    She ever saw!”—So Susan testified,—
    And so attested all the Loehrs beside.—
    So entertaining was the history, that
    The Hired Man, in the corner where he sat
    In quiet sequestration, shelling corn,
    Ceased wholly, listening, with a face forlorn
    As Sorrow's own, while Susan, John and Jake
    Told of these strangers who had come to make
    Some weeks' stay in the town, in hopes to gain
    Once more the health the wife had sought in vain:
    Their doctor, in the city, used to know
    The Loehrs—Dan and Rachel—years ago,—
    And so had sent a letter and request
    For them to take a kindly interest
    In favoring the couple all they could—
    To find some home-place for them, if they would,
    Among their friends in town. He ended by
    A dozen further lines, explaining why
    His patient must have change of scene and air—
    New faces, and the simple friendships there
    With them, which might, in time, make her forget
    A grief that kept her ever brooding yet
    And wholly melancholy and depressed,—
    Nor yet could she find sleep by night nor rest
    By day, for thinking—thinking—thinking still \
    Upon a grief beyond the doctor's skill,—
    The death of her one little girl.


                        “Pore thing!”
    Floretty sighed, and with the turkey-wing
    Brushed off the stove-hearth softly, and peered in
    The kettle of molasses, with her thin
    Voice wandering into song unconsciously—
    In purest, if most witless, sympathy.—


                   “'Then sleep no more:
                   Around thy heart
            Some ten-der dream may i-dlee play.
                   But mid-night song,
                   With mad-jick art,
            Will chase that dree muh-way!'“


    “That-air besetment of Floretty's,” said
    The Hired Man,—“singin—she inhairited,—
    Her father wuz addicted—same as her—
    To singin'—yes, and played the dulcimer!
    But—gittin' back,—I s'pose yer talkin' 'bout
    Them Hammondses. Well, Hammond he gits out
    Pattents on things—inventions-like, I'm told—
    And's got more money'n a house could hold!
    And yit he can't git up no pattent-right
    To do away with dyin'.—And he might
    Be worth a million, but he couldn't find
    Nobody sellin' health of any kind!...
    But they's no thing onhandier fer me
    To use than other people's misery.—
    Floretty, hand me that-air skillet there
    And lem me git 'er het up, so's them-air
    Childern kin have their popcorn.”


                        It was good
    To hear him now, and so the children stood
    Closer about him, waiting.


                        “Things to eat,”
    The Hired Man went on, “'s mighty hard to beat!
    Now, when I wuz a boy, we was so pore,
    My parunts couldn't 'ford popcorn no more
    To pamper me with;—so, I hat to go
    Without popcorn—sometimes a year er so!—
    And suffer'n' saints! how hungry I would git
    Fer jest one other chance—like this—at it!
    Many and many a time I've dreamp', at night,
    About popcorn,—all busted open white,
    And hot, you know—and jest enough o' salt
    And butter on it fer to find no fault—
    Oomh!—Well! as I was goin' on to say,—
    After a-dreamin' of it thataway,
    Then havin' to wake up and find it's all
    A dream, and hain't got no popcorn at-tall,
    Ner haint had none—I'd think, 'Well, where's the use! '
    And jest lay back and sob the plaster'n' loose!
    And I have prayed, what_ever happened, it
    'Ud eether be popcorn er death!.... And yit
    I've noticed—more'n likely so have you—
    That things don't happen when you want 'em to.”


    And thus he ran on artlessly, with speech
    And work in equal exercise, till each
    Tureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greased
    The saucers ready for the wax, and seized
    The fragrant-steaming kettle, at a sign
    Made by Floretty; and, each child in line,
    He led out to the pump—where, in the dim
    New coolness of the night, quite near to him
    He felt Floretty's presence, fresh and sweet
    As ... dewy night-air after kitchen-heat.


    There, still, with loud delight of laugh and jest,
    They plied their subtle alchemy with zest—
    Till, sudden, high above their tumult, welled
    Out of the sitting-room a song which held
    Them stilled in some strange rapture, listening
    To the sweet blur of voices chorusing:—


        “'When twilight approaches the season
          That ever is sacred to song,
         Does some one repeat my name over,
          And sigh that I tarry so long?
         And is there a chord in the music
          That's missed when my voice is away?—
         And a chord in each heart that awakens
          Regret at my wearisome stay-ay—
           Regret at my wearisome stay.'“


    All to himself, The Hired Man thought—“Of course
    They'll sing Floretty homesick!”


                        ... O strange source
    Of ecstasy! O mystery of Song!—
    To hear the dear old utterance flow along:—


        “'Do they set me a chair near the table
           When evening's home-pleasures are nigh?—
         When the candles are lit in the parlor.
           And the stars in the calm azure sky.'”...


    Just then the moonlight sliced the porch slantwise,
    And flashed in misty spangles in the eyes
    Floretty clenched—while through the dark—“I jing!”
    A voice asked, “Where's that song 'you'd learn to sing
    Ef I sent you the ballat?'—which I done
    Last I was home at Freeport.—S'pose you run
    And git it—and we'll all go in to where
    They'll know the notes and sing it fer ye there.”
    And up the darkness of the old stairway
    Floretty fled, without a word to say—
    Save to herself some whisper muffled by
    Her apron, as she wiped her lashes dry.


    Returning, with a letter, which she laid
    Upon the kitchen-table while she made
    A hasty crock of “float,”—poured thence into
    A deep glass dish of iridescent hue
    And glint and sparkle, with an overflow
    Of froth to crown it, foaming white as snow.—
    And then—poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare,
    For its delicious complement,—with air
    Of Hebe mortalized, she led her van
    Of votaries, rounded by The Hired Man.

    THE EVENING COMPANY


    Within the sitting-room, the company
    Had been increased in number. Two or three
    Young couples had been added: Emma King,
    Ella and Mary Mathers—all could sing
    Like veritable angels—Lydia Martin, too,
    And Nelly Millikan.—What songs they knew!—


        “'Ever of Thee—wherever I may be,
        Fondly I'm drea-m-ing ever of thee!
    '“


    And with their gracious voices blend the grace
    Of Warsaw Barnett's tenor; and the bass
    Unfathomed of Wick Chapman—Fancy still
    Can feel, as well as hear it, thrill on thrill,
    Vibrating plainly down the backs of chairs
    And through the wall and up the old hall-stairs.—
    Indeed young Chapman's voice especially
    Attracted Mr. Hammond—For, said he,
    Waiving the most Elysian sweetness of
    The ladies' voices—altitudes above
    The man's for sweetness;—but—as contrast, would
    Not Mr. Chapman be so very good
    As, just now, to oblige all with—in fact,
    Some sort of jolly song,—to counteract
    In part, at least, the sad, pathetic trend
    Of music generally. Which wish our friend
    “The Noted Traveler” made second to
    With heartiness—and so each, in review,
    Joined in—until the radiant basso cleared
    His wholly unobstructed throat and peered
    Intently at the ceiling—voice and eye
    As opposite indeed as earth and sky.—
    Thus he uplifted his vast bass and let
    It roam at large the memories booming yet:


        “'Old Simon the Cellarer keeps a rare store
          Of Malmsey and Malvoi-sie,
        Of Cyprus, and who can say how many more?—
          But a chary old so-u-l is he-e-ee—
            A chary old so-u-l is he!
        Of hock and Canary he never doth fail;
        And all the year 'round, there is brewing of ale;—
        Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,
        While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day.'“


    ... And then the chorus—the men's voices all
    Warred in it—like a German Carnival.—
    Even Mrs. Hammond smiled, as in her youth,
    Hearing her husband—And in veriest truth
    “The Noted Traveler's” ever-present hat
    Seemed just relaxed a little, after that,
    As at conclusion of the Bacchic song
    He stirred his “float” vehemently and long.


    Then Cousin Rufus with his flute, and art
    Blown blithely through it from both soul and heart—
    Inspired to heights of mastery by the glad,
    Enthusiastic audience he had
    In the young ladies of a town that knew
    No other flutist,—nay, nor wanted to,
    Since they had heard his “Polly Hopkin's Waltz,”
    Or “Rickett's Hornpipe,” with its faultless faults,
    As rendered solely, he explained, “by ear,”
    Having but heard it once, Commencement Year,
    At “Old Ann Arbor.”


                        Little Maymie now
    Seemed “friends” with Mr. Hammond—anyhow,
    Was lifted to his lap—where settled, she—
    Enthroned thus, in her dainty majesty,
    Gained universal audience—although
    Addressing him alone:—“I'm come to show
    You my new Red-blue pencil; and she says”—
    (Pointing to Mrs. Hammond)—“that she guess'
    You'll make a picture fer me.”


                        “And what kind
    Of picture?” Mr. Hammond asked, inclined
    To serve the child as bidden, folding square
    The piece of paper she had brought him there.—
    “I don't know,” Maymie said—“only ist make
    A little dirl, like me!”


                        He paused to take
    A sharp view of the child, and then he drew—
    Awhile with red, and then awhile with blue—
    The outline of a little girl that stood
    In converse with a wolf in a great wood;
    And she had on a hood and cloak of red—
    As Maymie watched—“Red Riding Hood!” she said.
    “And who's 'Red Riding Hood'?


                        “W'y, don't you know?”
    Asked little Maymie—


                        But the man looked so
    All uninformed, that little Maymie could
    But tell him all about Red Riding Hood.

    MAYMIE'S STORY OF RED RIDING HOOD


    W'y, one time wuz a little-weenty dirl,
    An' she wuz named Red Riding Hood, 'cause her—
    Her Ma she maked a little red cloak fer her
    'At turnt up over her head—An' it 'uz all
    Ist one piece o' red cardinal 'at 's like
    The drate-long stockin's the store-keepers has.—
    O! it 'uz purtiest cloak in all the world
    An' all this town er anywheres they is!
    An' so, one day, her Ma she put it on
    Red Riding Hood, she did—one day, she did—
    An' it 'uz Sund'y—'cause the little cloak
    It 'uz too nice to wear ist ever' day
    An' all the time!—An' so her Ma, she put
    It on Red Riding Hood—an' telled her not
    To dit no dirt on it ner dit it mussed
    Ner nothin'! An'—an'—nen her Ma she dot
    Her little basket out, 'at Old Kriss bringed
    Her wunst—one time, he did. And nen she fill'
    It full o' whole lots an' 'bundance o' good things t' eat
    (Allus my Dran'ma she says ''bundance,' too.)
    An' so her Ma fill' little Red Riding Hood's
    Nice basket all ist full o' dood things t' eat,
    An' tell her take 'em to her old Dran'ma—
    An' not to spill 'em, neever—'cause ef she
    'Ud stump her toe an' spill 'em, her Dran'ma
    She'll haf to punish her!


                        An' nen—An' so
    Little Red Riding Hood she p'omised she
    'Ud be all careful nen an' cross' her heart
    'At she wont run an' spill 'em all fer six—
    Five—ten—two-hundred-bushel-dollars-gold!
    An' nen she kiss her Ma doo'-bye an' went
    A-skippin' off—away fur off frough the
    Big woods, where her Dran'ma she live at.—No!—
    She didn't do a-skippin', like I said:—
    She ist went walkin'—careful-like an' slow—
    Ist like a little lady—walkin' 'long
    As all polite an' nice—an' slow—an' straight—
    An' turn her toes—ist like she's marchin' in
    The Sund'y-School k-session!


                        An'—an'—so
    She 'uz a-doin' along—an' doin' along—
    On frough the drate big woods—'cause her Dran'ma
    She live 'way, 'way fur off frough the big woods
    From her Ma's house. So when Red Riding Hood
    She dit to do there, allus have most fun—
    When she do frough the drate big woods, you know.—
    'Cause she ain't feared a bit o' anything!
    An' so she sees the little hoppty-birds
    'At's in the trees, an' flyin' all around,
    An' singin' dlad as ef their parunts said
    They'll take 'em to the magic-lantern show!
    An' she 'ud pull the purty flowers an' things
    A-growin' round the stumps—An' she 'ud ketch
    The purty butterflies, an' drasshoppers,
    An' stick pins frough 'em—No!—I ist said that!—
    'Cause she's too dood an' kind an' 'bedient
    To hurt things thataway.—She'd ketch 'em, though,
    An' ist play wiv 'em ist a little while,
    An' nen she'd let 'em fly away, she would,
    An' ist skip on adin to her Dran'ma's.


    An' so, while she uz doin' 'long an' 'long,
    First thing you know they 'uz a drate big old
    Mean wicked Wolf jumped out 'at wanted t' eat
    Her up, but dassent to—'cause wite clos't there
    They wuz a Man a-choppin' wood, an' you
    Could hear him.—So the old Wolf he 'uz 'feared
    Only to ist be kind to her.—So he
    Ist 'tended like he wuz dood friends to her
    An' says “Dood-morning, little Red Riding Hood!”—
    All ist as kind!


                        An' nen Riding Hood
    She say “Dood-morning,” too—all kind an' nice—
    Ist like her Ma she learn'—No!—mustn't say
    “Learn,” cause “Learn” it's unproper.—So she say
    It like her Ma she “teached” her.—An'—so she
    Ist says “Dood-morning” to the Wolf—'cause she
    Don't know ut-tall 'at he's a wicked Wolf
    An' want to eat her up!


                        Nen old Wolf smile
    An' say, so kind: “Where air you doin' at?”
    Nen little Red Riding Hood she says: “I'm doin'
    To my Dran'ma's, 'cause my Ma say I might.”
    Nen, when she tell him that, the old Wolf he
    Ist turn an' light out frough the big thick woods,
    Where she can't see him any more. An so
    She think he's went to his house—but he haint,—
    He's went to her Dran'ma's, to be there first—
    An' ketch her, ef she don't watch mighty sharp
    What she's about!


                        An' nen when the old Wolf
    Dit to her Dran'ma's house, he's purty smart,—
    An' so he 'tend-like he's Red Riding Hood,
    An' knock at th' door. An' Riding Hood's Dran'ma
    She's sick in bed an' can't come to the door
    An' open it. So th' old Wolf knock two times.
    An' nen Red Riding Hood's Dran'ma she says
    “Who's there?” she says. An' old Wolf 'tends-like he's
    Little Red Riding Hood, you know, an' make'
    His voice soun' ist like hers, an' says: “It's me,
    Dran'ma—an' I'm Red Riding Hood an' I'm
    Ist come to see you.”


                        Nen her old Dran'ma
    She think it is little Red Riding Hood,
    An' so she say: “Well, come in nen an' make
    You'se'f at home,” she says, “'cause I'm down sick
    In bed, and got the 'ralgia, so's I can't
    Dit up an' let ye in.”


                        An' so th' old Wolf
    Ist march' in nen an' shet the door adin,
    An' drowl, he did, an' splunge up on the bed
    An' et up old Miz Riding Hood 'fore she
    Could put her specs on an' see who it wuz.—
    An' so she never knowed who et her up!


    An' nen the wicked Wolf he ist put on
    Her nightcap, an' all covered up in bed—
    Like he wuz her, you know.


                        Nen, purty soon
    Here come along little Red Riding Hood,
    An' she knock' at the door. An' old Wolf 'tend
    Like he's her Dran'ma; an' he say, “Who's there?”
    Ist like her Dran'ma say, you know. An' so
    Little Red Riding Hood she say “It's me,
    Dran'ma—an' I'm Red Riding Hood and I'm
    Ist come to see you.”


                        An' nen old Wolf nen
    He cough an' say: “Well, come in nen an' make
    You'se'f at home,” he says, “'cause I'm down sick
    In bed, an' got the 'ralgia, so's I can't
    Dit up an' let ye in.”


                        An' so she think
    It's her Dran'ma a-talkin'.—So she ist
    Open' the door an' come in, an' set down
    Her basket, an' taked off her things, an' bringed
    A chair an' clumbed up on the bed, wite by
    The old big Wolf she thinks is her Dran'ma.—
    Only she thinks the old Wolf's dot whole lots
    More bigger ears, an' lots more whiskers, too,
    Than her Dran'ma; an' so Red Riding Hood
    She's kindo' skeered a little. So she says
    “Oh, Dran'ma, what big eyes you dot!” An' nen
    The old Wolf says: “They're ist big thataway
    'Cause I'm so dlad to see you!”


                        Nen she says,—
    “Oh, Dran'ma, what a drate big nose you dot!”
    Nen th' old Wolf says: “It's ist big thataway
    Ist 'cause I smell the dood things 'at you bringed
    Me in the basket!”


                        An' nen Riding Hood
    She say “Oh-me-oh-my! Dran'ma! what big
    White long sharp teeth you dot!”


                        Nen old Wolf says:
    “Yes—an' they're thataway,” he says—an' drowled—
    “They're thataway,” he says, “to eat you wiv!”
    An' nen he ist jump' at her.—


                        But she scream'—
    An' scream', she did—So's 'at the Man
    'At wuz a-choppin' wood, you know,—he hear,
    An' come a-runnin' in there wiv his ax;
    An', 'fore the old Wolf know' what he's about,
    He split his old brains out an' killed him s'quick
    It make' his head swim!—An' Red Riding Hood
    She wuzn't hurt at all!


                        An' the big Man
    He tooked her all safe home, he did, an' tell
    Her Ma she's all right an' ain't hurt at all
    An' old Wolf's dead an' killed—an' ever'thing!—
    So her Ma wuz so tickled an' so proud,
    She divved him all the dood things t' eat they wuz
    'At's in the basket, an' she tell him 'at
    She's much oblige', an' say to “call adin.”
    An' story's honest truth—an' all so, too!

    LIMITATIONS OF GENIUS


    The audience entire seemed pleased—indeed
    Extremely pleased. And little Maymie, freed
    From her task of instructing, ran to show
    Her wondrous colored picture to and fro
    Among the company.


                        “And how comes it,” said
    Some one to Mr. Hammond, “that, instead
    Of the inventor's life you did not choose
    The artist's?—since the world can better lose
    A cutting-box or reaper than it can
    A noble picture painted by a man
    Endowed with gifts this drawing would suggest”—
    Holding the picture up to show the rest.
    There now!” chimed in the wife, her pale face lit
    Like winter snow with sunrise over it,—
    “That's what I'm always asking him.—But he
    Well, as he's answering you, he answers me,—
    With that same silent, suffocating smile
    He's wearing now!”


                        For quite a little while
    No further speech from anyone, although
    All looked at Mr. Hammond and that slow,
    Immutable, mild smile of his. And then
    The encouraged querist asked him yet again
    Why was it, and etcetera—with all
    The rest, expectant, waiting 'round the wall,—
    Until the gentle Mr. Hammond said
    He'd answer with a “parable,” instead—
    About “a dreamer” that he used to know—
    “An artist”—“master”—all—in embryo.

    MR. HAMMOND'S PARABLE


    THE DREAMER


    I


    He was a Dreamer of the Days:
      Indolent as a lazy breeze
    Of midsummer, in idlest ways
      Lolling about in the shade of trees.
    The farmer turned—as he passed him by
      Under the hillside where he kneeled
    Plucking a flower—with scornful eye
      And rode ahead in the harvest field
    Muttering—“Lawz! ef that-air shirk
      Of a boy was mine fer a week er so,
    He'd quit dreamin' and git to work
      And airn his livin'—er—Well! I know!”
    And even kindlier rumor said,
    Tapping with finger a shaking head,—
    “Got such a curious kind o' way—
    Wouldn't surprise me much, I say!”


    Lying limp, with upturned gaze
    Idly dreaming away his days.
    No companions? Yes, a book
    Sometimes under his arm he took
    To read aloud to a lonesome brook.
      And school-boys, truant, once had heard
    A strange voice chanting, faint and dim—
    Followed the echoes, and found it him,
      Perched in a tree-top like a bird,
    Singing, clean from the highest limb;
    And, fearful and awed, they all slipped by
    To wonder in whispers if he could fly.
    “Let him alone!” his father said
      When the old schoolmaster came to say,
    “He took no part in his books to-day—
    Only the lesson the readers read.—
      His mind seems sadly going astray!”
    “Let him alone!” came the mournful tone,
    And the father's grief in his sad eyes shone—
    Hiding his face in his trembling hand,
    Moaning, “Would I could understand!
    But as heaven wills it I accept
    Uncomplainingly!” So he wept.


    Then went “The Dreamer” as he willed,
    As uncontrolled as a light sail filled
    Flutters about with an empty boat
    Loosed from its moorings and afloat:
    Drifted out from the busy quay
    Of dull school-moorings listlessly;
    Drifted off on the talking breeze,
    All alone with his reveries;
    Drifted on, as his fancies wrought—
    Out on the mighty gulfs of thought.



    II


    The farmer came in the evening gray
      And took the bars of the pasture down;
    Called to the cows in a coaxing way,
    “Bess” and “Lady” and “Spot” and “Brown,”
    While each gazed with a wide-eyed stare,
    As though surprised at his coming there—
    Till another tone, in a higher key,
    Brought their obeyance lothfully.


      Then, as he slowly turned and swung
    The topmost bar to its proper rest,
      Something fluttered along and clung
    An instant, shivering at his breast—
      A wind-scared fragment of legal cap,
    Which darted again, as he struck his hand
      On his sounding chest with a sudden slap,
    And hurried sailing across the land.
    But as it clung he had caught the glance
    Of a little penciled countenance,
    And a glamour of written words; and hence,
    A minute later, over the fence,
    “Here and there and gone astray
    Over the hills and far away,”
    He chased it into a thicket of trees
    And took it away from the captious breeze.


    A scrap of paper with a rhyme
    Scrawled upon it of summertime:
    A pencil-sketch of a dairy-maid,
    Under a farmhouse porch's shade,
    Working merrily; and was blent
    With her glad features such sweet content,
    That a song she sung in the lines below
    Seemed delightfully apropos:—


    SONG


        “Why do I sing—Tra-la-la-la-la!
        Glad as a King?—Tra-la-la-la-la!
          Well, since you ask,—
          I have such a pleasant task,
        I can not help but sing!


        “Why do I smile—Tra-la-la-la-la!
        Working the while?—Tra-la-la-la-la!
          Work like this is play,—
          So I'm playing all the day—
        I can not help but smile!


        “So, If you please—Tra-la-la-la-la!
        Live at your ease!—Tra-la-la-la-la!
          You've only got to turn,
          And, you see, its bound to churn—
        I can not help but please!”


    The farmer pondered and scratched his head,
      Reading over each mystic word.—
    “Some o' the Dreamer's work!” he said—
      “Ah, here's more—and name and date
    In his hand-write'!”—And the good man read,—
    “'Patent applied for, July third,
      Eighteen hundred and forty-eight'!”
    The fragment fell from his nerveless grasp—
    His awed lips thrilled with the joyous gasp:
      “I see the p'int to the whole concern,—
      He's studied out a patent churn!”

    FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION


    All seemed delighted, though the elders more,
    Of course, than were the children.—Thus, before
    Much interchange of mirthful compliment,
    The story-teller said his stories “went"
    (Like a bad candle) best when they went out,—
    And that some sprightly music, dashed about,
    Would wholly quench his “glimmer,” and inspire
    Far brighter lights.


                        And, answering this desire,
    The flutist opened, in a rapturous strain
    Of rippling notes—a perfect April-rain
    Of melody that drenched the senses through;—
    Then—gentler—gentler—as the dusk sheds dew,
    It fell, by velvety, staccatoed halts,
    Swooning away in old “Von Weber's Waltz.”
    Then the young ladies sang “Isle of the Sea”—
    In ebb and flow and wave so billowy,—
    Only with quavering breath and folded eyes
    The listeners heard, buoyed on the fall and rise
    Of its insistent and exceeding stress
    Of sweetness and ecstatic tenderness ...
    With lifted finger yet, Remembrance—List!—
    Beautiful isle of the sea!” wells in a mist
    Of tremulous ...


                        ... After much whispering
    Among the children, Alex came to bring
    Some kind of letter—as it seemed to be—
    To Cousin Rufus. This he carelessly
    Unfolded—reading to himself alone,—
    But, since its contents became, later, known,
    And no one “plagued so awful bad,” the same
    May here be given—of course without full name,
    Fac-simile, or written kink or curl
    Or clue. It read:—


          “Wild Roved an indian Girl
        Brite al Floretty"
                         deer freind
                         I now take
    *this* These means to send that Song to you &make
    my Promus good to you in the Regards
    Of doing What i Promust afterwards,
    the notes &Words is both here Printed SOS
    you *kin* can git uncle Mart to read you *them* those
    &cousin Rufus you can git to Play
    the notes fur you on eny Plezunt day
    His Legul Work aint *Pressin* Pressing.
                         Ever thine
        As shore as the Vine
        doth the Stump intwine
        thou art my Lump of Sackkerrine
          Rinaldo Rinaldine
          the Pirut in Captivity.


                        ... There dropped
    Another square scrap.—But the hand was stopped
    That reached for it—Floretty suddenly
    Had set a firm foot on her property—
    Thinking it was the letter, not the song,—
    But blushing to discover she was wrong,
    When, with all gravity of face and air,
    Her precious letter handed to her there
    By Cousin Rufus left her even more
    In apprehension than she was before.
    But, testing his unwavering, kindly eye,
    She seemed to put her last suspicion by,
    And, in exchange, handed the song to him.—


    A page torn from a song-book: Small and dim
    Both notes and words were—but as plain as day
    They seemed to him, as he began to play—
    And plain to all the singers,—as he ran
    An airy, warbling prelude, then began
    Singing and swinging in so blithe a strain,
    That every voice rang in the old refrain:
    From the beginning of the song, clean through,
    Floretty's features were a study to
    The flutist who “read notes” so readily,
    Yet read so little of the mystery
    Of that face of the girl's.—Indeed one thing
    Bewildered him quite into worrying,
    And that was, noticing, throughout it all,
    The Hired Man shrinking closer to the wall,
    She ever backing toward him through the throng
    Of barricading children—till the song
    Was ended, and at last he saw her near
    Enough to reach and take him by the ear
    And pinch it just a pang's worth of her ire
    And leave it burning like a coal of fire.
    He noticed, too, in subtle pantomime
    She seemed to dust him off, from time to time;
    And when somebody, later, asked if she
    Had never heard the song before—“What! me?
    She said—then blushed again and smiled,—
    “I've knowed that song sence Adam was a child!—
    It's jes a joke o' this-here man's.—He's learned
    To read and write a little, and its turned
    His fool-head some—That's all!”


                        And then some one
    Of the loud-wrangling boys said—“Course they's none
    No more, these days!—They's Fairies ust to be,
    But they're all dead, a hunderd years!” said he.


    “Well, there's where you're mustakened!”—in reply
    They heard Bud's voice, pitched sharp and thin and high.—


    “An' how you goin' to prove it!”


                        “Well, I kin!”
    Said Bud, with emphasis,—“They's one lives in
    Our garden—and I see 'im wunst, wiv my
    Own eyes—one time I did.”


                        “Oh, what a lie!”
    —“'Sh!'“


                        “Well, nen,” said the skeptic—seeing there
    The older folks attracted—“Tell us where
    You saw him, an' all 'bout him!'


                        “Yes, my son.—
    If you tell 'stories,' you may tell us one,”
    The smiling father said, while Uncle Mart,
    Behind him, winked at Bud, and pulled apart
    His nose and chin with comical grimace—
    Then sighed aloud, with sanctimonious face,—
        “'How good and comely it is to see
        Children and parents in friendship agree!
    '—
    You fire away, Bud, on your Fairy-tale—
    Your Uncle's here to back you!”


                        Somewhat pale,
    And breathless as to speech, the little man
    Gathered himself. And thus his story ran.

    BUD'S FAIRY-TALE


    Some peoples thinks they ain't no Fairies now
    No more yet!—But they is, I bet! 'Cause ef
    They wuzn't Fairies, nen I' like to know
    Who'd w'ite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' tell
    What Fairies does, an' how their picture looks,
    An' all an' ever'thing! W'y, ef they don't
    Be Fairies anymore, nen little boys
    'U'd ist sleep when they go to sleep an' wont
    Have ist no dweams at all,—'Cause Fairies—good
    Fairies—they're a-purpose to make dweams!
    But they is Fairies—an' I know they is!
    'Cause one time wunst, when its all Summertime,
    An' don't haf to be no fires in the stove
    Er fireplace to keep warm wiv—ner don't haf
    To wear old scwatchy flannen shirts at all,
    An' aint no fweeze—ner cold—ner snow!—An'—an'
    Old skweeky twees got all the gween leaves on
    An' ist keeps noddin', noddin' all the time,
    Like they 'uz lazy an' a-twyin' to go
    To sleep an' couldn't, 'cause the wind won't quit
    A-blowin' in 'em, an' the birds won't stop
    A-singin' so's they kin.—But twees don't sleep,
    I guess! But little boys sleeps—an' dweams, too.—
    An' that's a sign they's Fairies.


                        So, one time,
    When I ben playin' “Store” wunst over in
    The shed of their old stable, an' Ed Howard
    He maked me quit a-bein' pardners, 'cause
    I dwinked the 'tend-like sody-water up
    An' et the shore-nuff cwackers.—W'y, nen I
    Clumbed over in our garden where the gwapes
    Wuz purt'-nigh ripe: An' I wuz ist a-layin'
    There on th' old cwooked seat 'at Pa maked in
    Our arber,—an' so I 'uz layin' there
    A-whittlin' beets wiv my new dog-knife, an'
    A-lookin' wite up through the twimbly leaves—
    An' wuzn't 'sleep at all!—An'-sir!—first thing
    You know, a little Fairy hopped out there!
    A leetle-teenty Fairy!—hope-may-die!
    An' he look' down at me, he did—An' he
    Ain't bigger'n a yellerbird!—an' he
    Say “Howdy-do!” he did—an' I could hear
    Him—ist as plain!


                        Nen I say “Howdy-do!”
    An' he say “I'm all hunkey, Nibsey; how
    Is your folks comin' on?”


                        An' nen I say
    “My name ain't 'Nibsey,' neever—my name's Bud.
    An' what's your name?” I says to him.


                        An'he
    Ist laugh an' say “'Bud's' awful funny name!”
    An' he ist laid back on a big bunch o' gwapes
    An' laugh' an' laugh', he did—like somebody
    'Uz tick-el-un his feet!


                        An' nen I say—
    “What's your name,” nen I say, “afore you bust
    Yo'-se'f a-laughin' 'bout my name?” I says.
    An' nen he dwy up laughin'—kindo' mad—
    An' say “W'y, my name's Squidjicum,” he says.
    An' nen I laugh an' say—“Gee! what a name!”
    An' when I make fun of his name, like that,
    He ist git awful mad an' spunky, an'
    'Fore you know, he ist gwabbed holt of a vine—
    A big long vine 'at's danglin' up there, an'
    He ist helt on wite tight to that, an' down
    He swung quick past my face, he did, an' ist
    Kicked at me hard's he could!


                        But I'm too quick
    Fer Mr. Squidjicum! I ist weached out
    An' ketched him, in my hand—an' helt him, too,
    An' squeezed him, ist like little wobins when
    They can't fly yet an' git flopped out their nest.
    An' nen I turn him all wound over, an'
    Look at him clos't, you know—wite clos't,—'cause ef
    He is a Fairy, w'y, I want to see
    The wings he's got—But he's dwessed up so fine
    'At I can't see no wings.—An' all the time
    He's twyin' to kick me yet: An' so I take
    F'esh holts an' squeeze agin—an' harder, too;
    An' I says, “Hold up, Mr. Squidjicum!
    You're kickin' the w'ong man!” I says; an' nen
    I ist squeeze' him, purt'-nigh my best, I did—
    An' I heerd somepin' bust!—An' nen he cwied
    An' says, “You better look out what you're doin'!—
    You' bust' my spiderweb-suspen'ners, an'
    You' got my woseleaf-coat all cwinkled up
    So's I can't go to old Miss Hoodjicum's
    Tea-party, 's'afternoon!”


                        An' nen I says—
    “Who's 'old Miss Hoodjicum'?” I says


                        An'he
    Says “Ef you lemme loose I'll tell you.”


                        So
    I helt the little skeezics 'way fur out
    In one hand—so's he can't jump down t' th' ground
    Wivout a-gittin' all stove up: an' nen
    I says, “You're loose now.—Go ahead an' tell
    'Bout the 'tea-party' where you're goin' at
    So awful fast!” I says.


                        An' nen he say,—
    “No use to tell you 'bout it, 'cause you won't
    Believe it, 'less you go there your own se'f
    An' see it wiv your own two eyes!” he says.
    An' he says: “Ef you lemme shore-nuff loose,
    An' p'omise 'at you'll keep wite still, an' won't
    Tetch nothin' 'at you see—an' never tell
    Nobody in the world—an' lemme loose—
    W'y, nen I'll take you there!”


                        But I says, “Yes
    An' ef I let you loose, you'll run!” I says.
    An' he says “No, I won't!—I hope may die!”
    Nen I says, “Cwoss your heart you won't!”


                        An'he
    Ist cwoss his heart; an' nen I weach an' set
    The little feller up on a long vine—
    An' he 'uz so tickled to git loose agin,
    He gwab' the vine wiv boff his little hands
    An' ist take an' turn in, he did, an' skin
    'Bout forty-'leven cats!


                        Nen when he git
    Through whirlin' wound the vine, an' set on top
    Of it agin, w'y nen his “woseleaf-coat"
    He bwag so much about, it's ist all tored
    Up, an' ist hangin' strips an' rags—so he
    Look like his Pa's a dwunkard. An' so nen
    When he see what he's done—a-actin' up
    So smart,—he's awful mad, I guess; an' ist
    Pout out his lips an' twis' his little face
    Ist ugly as he kin, an' set an' tear
    His whole coat off—an' sleeves an' all.—An' nen
    He wad it all togevver an' ist throw
    It at me ist as hard as he kin dwive!


    An' when I weach to ketch him, an' 'uz goin'
    To give him 'nuvver squeezin', he ist flewed
    Clean up on top the arber!
    —'Cause, you know,
    They wuz wings on him—when he tored his coat
    Clean off—they wuz wings under there. But they
    Wuz purty wobbly-like an' wouldn't work
    Hardly at all—'Cause purty soon, when I
    Throwed clods at him, an' sticks, an' got him shooed
    Down off o' there, he come a-floppin' down
    An' lit k-bang! on our old chicken-coop,
    An' ist laid there a-whimper'n' like a child!
    An' I tiptoed up wite clos't, an' I says “What's
    The matter wiv ye, Squidjicum?”


                        An'he
    Says: “Dog-gone! when my wings gits stwaight agin,
    Where you all cwumpled 'em,” he says, “I bet
    I'll ist fly clean away an' won't take you
    To old Miss Hoodjicum's at all!” he says.
    An' nen I ist weach out wite quick, I did,
    An' gwab the sassy little snipe agin—
    Nen tooked my topstwing an' tie down his wings
    So's he can't fly, 'less'n I want him to!
    An' nen I says: “Now, Mr. Squidjicum,
    You better ist light out,” I says, “to old
    Miss Hoodjicum's, an' show me how to git
    There, too,” I says; “er ef you don't,” I says,
    “I'll climb up wiv you on our buggy-shed
    An' push you off!” I says.


                        An nen he say
    All wight, he'll show me there; an' tell me nen
    To set him down wite easy on his feet,
    An' loosen up the stwing a little where
    It cut him under th' arms. An' nen he says,
    “Come on!” he says; an' went a-limpin' 'long
    The garden-path—an' limpin' 'long an' 'long
    Tel—purty soon he come on 'long to where's
    A grea'-big cabbage-leaf. An' he stoop down
    An' say “Come on inunder here wiv me!”
    So I stoop down an' crawl inunder there,
    Like he say.


                        An' inunder there's a grea'
    Big clod, they is—a awful grea' big clod!
    An' nen he says, “Roll this-here clod away!
    An' so I roll' the clod away. An' nen
    It's all wet, where the dew'z inunder where
    The old clod wuz,—an' nen the Fairy he
    Git on the wet-place: Nen he say to me
    “Git on the wet-place, too!” An' nen he say,
    “Now hold yer breff an' shet yer eyes!” he says,
    “Tel I say Squinchy-winchy!” Nen he say—
    Somepin in Dutch, I guess.—An' nen I felt
    Like we 'uz sinkin' down—an' sinkin' down!—
    Tel purty soon the little Fairy weach
    An' pinch my nose an' yell at me an' say,
    Squinchy-winchy! Look wherever you please!
    Nen when I looked—Oh! they 'uz purtyest place
    Down there you ever saw in all the World!—
    They 'uz ist flowers an' woses—yes, an' twees
    Wiv blossoms on an' big ripe apples boff!
    An' butterflies, they wuz—an' hummin'-birds—
    An' yellow_birds an' blue_birds—yes, an' red!
    An' ever'wheres an' all awound 'uz vines
    Wiv ripe p'serve-pears on 'em!—Yes, an' all
    An' ever'thing 'at's ever gwowin' in
    A garden—er canned up—all ripe at wunst!—
    It wuz ist like a garden—only it
    'Uz little tit o' garden—'bout big wound
    As ist our twun'el-bed is.—An' all wound
    An' wound the little garden's a gold fence—
    An' little gold gate, too—an' ash-hopper
    'At's all gold, too—an' ist full o' gold ashes!
    An' wite in th' middle o' the garden wuz
    A little gold house, 'at's ist 'bout as big
    As ist a bird-cage is: An' in the house
    They 'uz whole-lots more Fairies there—'cause I
    Picked up the little house, an 'peeked in at
    The winders, an' I see 'em all in there
    Ist buggin' wound! An' Mr. Squidjicum
    He twy to make me quit, but I gwab him,
    An' poke him down the chimbly, too, I did!—
    An' y'ort to see him hop out 'mongst 'em there!
    Ist like he 'uz the boss an' ist got back!—
    “Hain't ye got on them-air dew-dumplin's yet?”
    He says.


                  An' they says no.


                        An' nen he says
    Better git at 'em nen!” he says, “wite quick—
    'Cause old Miss Hoodjicum's a-comin'!


                        Nen
    They all set wound a little gold tub—an'
    All 'menced a-peelin' dewdwops, ist like they
    'Uz peaches.—An', it looked so funny, I
    Ist laugh' out loud, an' dwopped the little house,—
    An' 't busted like a soap-bubble!—An't skeered
    Me so, I—I—I—I,—it skeered me so,
    I—ist waked up.—No! I ain't ben asleep
    An' dream it all, like you think,—but it's shore
    Fer-certain fact an' cwoss my heart it is!

    A DELICIOUS INTERRUPTION


    All were quite gracious in their plaudits of
    Bud's Fairy; but another stir above
    That murmur was occasioned by a sweet
    Young lady-caller, from a neighboring street,
    Who rose reluctantly to say good-night
    To all the pleasant friends and the delight
    Experienced,—as she had promised sure
    To be back home by nine. Then paused, demure,
    And wondered was it very dark.—Oh, no!
    She had come by herself and she could go
    Without an escort. Ah, you sweet girls all!
    What young gallant but comes at such a call,
    Your most abject of slaves! Why, there were three
    Young men, and several men of family,
    Contesting for the honor—which at last
    Was given to Cousin Rufus; and he cast
    A kingly look behind him, as the pair
    Vanished with laughter in the darkness there.


    As order was restored, with everything
    Suggestive, in its way, of “romancing,”
    Some one observed that now would be the chance
    For Noey to relate a circumstance
    That he—the very specious rumor went—
    Had been eye-witness of, by accident.
    Noey turned pippin-crimson; then turned pale
    As death; then turned to flee, without avail.—
    There! head him off! Now! hold him in his chair!—
    Tell us the Serenade-tale, now, Noey.—There!

    NOEY'S NIGHT-PIECE


    “They ain't much 'tale' about it!” Noey said.—
    “K'tawby grapes wuz gittin' good-n-red
    I rickollect; and Tubb Kingry and me
    'Ud kindo' browse round town, daytime, to see
    What neighbers 'peared to have the most to spare
    'At wuz git-at-able and no dog there
    When we come round to git 'em, say 'bout ten
    O'clock at night when mostly old folks then
    Wuz snorin' at each other like they yit
    Helt some old grudge 'at never slep' a bit.
    Well, at the Pars'nige—ef ye'll call to mind,—
    They's 'bout the biggest grape-arber you'll find
    'Most anywheres.—And mostly there, we knowed
    They wuz k'tawbies thick as ever growed—
    And more'n they'd p'serve.—Besides I've heerd
    Ma say k'tawby-grape-p'serves jes 'peared
    A waste o' sugar, anyhow!—And so
    My conscience stayed outside and lem me go
    With Tubb, one night, the back-way, clean up through
    That long black arber to the end next to
    The house, where the k'tawbies, don't you know,
    Wuz thickest. And t'uz lucky we went slow,—
    Fer jest as we wuz cropin' tords the gray-
    End, like, of the old arber—heerd Tubb say
    In a skeered whisper, 'Hold up! They's some one
    Jes slippin' in here!—and looks like a gun
    He's carryin'!' I golly! we both spread
    Out flat aginst the ground!


                        “'What's that?' Tubb said.—
    And jest then—'plink! plunk! plink!' we heerd something
    Under the back-porch-winder.—Then, i jing!
    Of course we rickollected 'bout the young
    School-mam 'at wuz a-boardin' there, and sung,
    And played on the melodium in the choir.—
    And she 'uz 'bout as purty to admire
    As any girl in town!—the fac's is, she
    Jest wuz, them times, to a dead certainty,
    The belle o' this-here bailywick!—But—Well,—
    I'd best git back to what I'm tryin' to tell:—
    It wuz some feller come to serenade
    Miss Wetherell: And there he plunked and played
    His old guitar, and sung, and kep' his eye
    Set on her winder, blacker'n the sky!—
    And black it stayed.—But mayby she wuz 'way
    From home, er wore out—bein' Saturday!


    “It seemed a good-'eal longer, but I know
    He sung and plunked there half a' hour er so
    Afore, it 'peared like, he could ever git
    His own free qualified consents to quit
    And go off 'bout his business. When he went
    I bet you could a-bought him fer a cent!


    “And now, behold ye all!—as Tubb and me
    Wuz 'bout to raise up,—right in front we see
    A feller slippin' out the arber, square
    Smack under that-air little winder where
    The other feller had been standin'.—And
    The thing he wuz a-carryin' in his hand
    Wuzn't no gun at all!—It wuz a flute,—
    And whoop-ee! how it did git up and toot
    And chirp and warble, tel a mockin'-bird
    'Ud dast to never let hisse'f be heerd
    Ferever, after sich miracalous, high
    Jim-cracks and grand skyrootics played there by
    Yer Cousin Rufus!—Yes-sir; it wuz him!—
    And what's more,—all a-suddent that-air dim
    Dark winder o' Miss Wetherell's wuz lit
    Up like a' oyshture-sign, and under it
    We see him sort o' wet his lips and smile
    Down 'long his row o' dancin' fingers, while
    He kindo' stiffened up and kinked his breath
    And everlastin'ly jest blowed the peth
    Out o' that-air old one-keyed flute o' his.
    And, bless their hearts, that's all the 'tale' they is!”


    And even as Noey closed, all radiantly
    The unconscious hero of the history,
    Returning, met a perfect driving storm
    Of welcome—a reception strangely warm
    And unaccountable, to him, although
    Most gratifying,—and he told them so.
    “I only urge,” he said, “my right to be
    Enlightened.” And a voice said: “Certainly:
    During your absence we agreed that you
    Should tell us all a story, old or new,
    Just in the immediate happy frame of mind
    We knew you would return in.”


                        So, resigned,
    The ready flutist tossed his hat aside—
    Glanced at the children, smiled, and thus complied.

    COUSIN RUFUS' STORY


    My little story, Cousin Rufus said,
    Is not so much a story as a fact.
    It is about a certain willful boy—
    An aggrieved, unappreciated boy,
    Grown to dislike his own home very much,
    By reason of his parents being not
    At all up to his rigid standard and
    Requirements and exactions as a son
    And disciplinarian.


                        So, sullenly
    He brooded over his disheartening
    Environments and limitations, till,
    At last, well knowing that the outside world
    Would yield him favors never found at home,
    He rose determinedly one July dawn—
    Even before the call for breakfast—and,
    Climbing the alley-fence, and bitterly
    Shaking his clenched fist at the woodpile, he
    Evanished down the turnpike.—Yes: he had,
    Once and for all, put into execution
    His long low-muttered threatenings—He had
    Run off!—He had—had run away from home!


    His parents, at discovery of his flight,
    Bore up first-rate—especially his Pa,—
    Quite possibly recalling his own youth,
    And therefrom predicating, by high noon,
    The absent one was very probably
    Disporting his nude self in the delights
    Of the old swimmin'-hole, some hundred yards
    Below the slaughter-house, just east of town.
    The stoic father, too, in his surmise
    Was accurate—For, lo! the boy was there!


    And there, too, he remained throughout the day—
    Save at one starving interval in which
    He clad his sunburnt shoulders long enough
    To shy across a wheatfield, shadow-like,
    And raid a neighboring orchard—bitterly,
    And with spasmodic twitchings of the lip,
    Bethinking him how all the other boys
    Had homes to go to at the dinner-hour—
    While he—alas!—he had no home!—At least
    These very words seemed rising mockingly,
    Until his every thought smacked raw and sour
    And green and bitter as the apples he
    In vain essayed to stay his hunger with.
    Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boys
    Returned rejuvenated for the long
    Wet revel of the feverish afternoon.—
    Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swam
    And spluttered, in their weltering merriment,
    He tried to laugh, too,—but his voice was hoarse
    And sounded to him like some other boy's.
    And then he felt a sudden, poking sort
    Of sickness at the heart, as though some cold
    And scaly pain were blindly nosing it
    Down in the dreggy darkness of his breast.
    The tensioned pucker of his purple lips
    Grew ever chillier and yet more tense—
    The central hurt of it slow spreading till
    It did possess the little face entire.
    And then there grew to be a knuckled knot—
    An aching kind of core within his throat—
    An ache, all dry and swallowless, which seemed
    To ache on just as bad when he'd pretend
    He didn't notice it as when he did.
    It was a kind of a conceited pain—
    An overbearing, self-assertive and
    Barbaric sort of pain that clean outhurt
    A boy's capacity for suffering—
    So, many times, the little martyr needs
    Must turn himself all suddenly and dive
    From sight of his hilarious playmates and
    Surreptitiously weep under water.


                        Thus
    He wrestled with his awful agony
    Till almost dark; and then, at last—then, with
    The very latest lingering group of his
    Companions, he moved turgidly toward home—
    Nay, rather oozed that way, so slow he went,—
    With lothful, hesitating, loitering,
    Reluctant, late-election-returns air,
    Heightened somewhat by the conscience-made resolve
    Of chopping a double-armful of wood
    As he went in by rear way of the kitchen.
    And this resolve he executed;—yet
    The hired girl made no comment whatsoever,
    But went on washing up the supper-things,
    Crooning the unutterably sad song, “Then think,
    Oh, think how lonely this heart must ever be!

    Still, with affected carelessness, the boy
    Ranged through the pantry; but the cupboard-door
    Was locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stick
    And went out on the porch.—At least the pump,
    He prophesied, would meet him kindly and
    Shake hands with him and welcome his return!
    And long he held the old tin dipper up—
    And oh, how fresh and pure and sweet the draught!
    Over the upturned brim, with grateful eyes
    He saw the back-yard, in the gathering night,
    Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good:
    The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinked
    A sort of sallow gladness over his
    Home-coming, with this softening of the heart.
    He did not leave the dipper carelessly
    In the milk-trough.—No: he hung it back upon
    Its old nail thoughtfully—even tenderly.
    All slowly then he turned and sauntered toward
    The rain-barrel at the corner of the house,
    And, pausing, peered into it at the few
    Faint stars reflected there. Then—moved by some
    Strange impulse new to him—he washed his feet.
    He then went in the house—straight on into
    The very room where sat his parents by
    The evening lamp.—The father all intent
    Reading his paper, and the mother quite
    As intent with her sewing. Neither looked
    Up at his entrance—even reproachfully,—
    And neither spoke.


                        The wistful runaway
    Drew a long, quavering breath, and then sat down
    Upon the extreme edge of a chair. And all
    Was very still there for a long, long while.—
    Yet everything, someway, seemed restful-like
    And homey and old-fashioned, good and kind,
    And sort of kin to him!—Only too still!
    If somebody would say something—just speak
    Or even rise up suddenly and come
    And lift him by the ear sheer off his chair—
    Or box his jaws—Lord bless 'em!—any_thing!—
    Was he not there to thankfully accept
    Any reception from parental source
    Save this incomprehensible voicelessness.
    O but the silence held its very breath!
    If but the ticking clock would only strike
    And for an instant drown the whispering,
    Lisping, sifting sound the katydids
    Made outside in the grassy nowhere.


                        Far
    Down some back-street he heard the faint halloo
    Of boys at their night-game of “Town-fox,”
    But now with no desire at all to be
    Participating in their sport—No; no;—
    Never again in this world would he want
    To join them there!—he only wanted just
    To stay in home of nights—Always—always—
    Forever and a day!


                        He moved; and coughed—
    Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yet
    No vaguest of parental notice or
    Solicitude in answer—no response—
    No word—no look. O it was deathly still!—
    So still it was that really he could not
    Remember any prior silence that
    At all approached it in profundity
    And depth and density of utter hush.
    He felt that he himself must break it: So,
    Summoning every subtle artifice
    Of seeming nonchalance and native ease
    And naturalness of utterance to his aid,
    And gazing raptly at the house-cat where
    She lay curled in her wonted corner of
    The hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airily
    And said: “I see you've got the same old cat!”

    BEWILDERING EMOTIONS


    The merriment that followed was subdued—
    As though the story-teller's attitude
    Were dual, in a sense, appealing quite
    As much to sorrow as to mere delight,
    According, haply, to the listener's bent
    Either of sad or merry temperament.—
    “And of your two appeals I much prefer
    The pathos,” said “The Noted Traveler,”—
    “For should I live to twice my present years,
    I know I could not quite forget the tears
    That child-eyes bleed, the little palms nailed wide,
    And quivering soul and body crucified....
    But, bless 'em! there are no such children here
    To-night, thank God!—Come here to me, my dear!”
    He said to little Alex, in a tone
    So winning that the sound of it alone
    Had drawn a child more lothful to his knee:—
    “And, now-sir, I'll agree if you'll agree,—
    You tell us all a story, and then I
    Will tell one.”


                  “But I can't.


                        “Well, can't you try?
    “Yes, Mister: he kin tell one. Alex, tell
    The one, you know, 'at you made up so well,
    About the Bear. He allus tells that one,”
    Said Bud,—“He gits it mixed some 'bout the gun
    An' ax the Little Boy had, an' apples, too.”—
    Then Uncle Mart said—“There, now! that'll do!—
    Let Alex tell his story his own way!”
    And Alex, prompted thus, without delay
    Began.

    THE BEAR-STORY


    THAT ALEX “IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F"


    W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went out
    In the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out
    'Way in the grea'-big woods—he did.—An' he
    Wuz goin'along—an'goin'along, you know,
    An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go “Wooh!”—
    Ist thataway—“Woo-ooh!” An' he wuz skeered,
    He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree—
    A grea'-big tree, he did,—a sicka-more tree.
    An' nen he heerd it agin: an' he looked round,
    An' 't'uz a Bear!—a grea'-big, shore-nuff Bear!—
    No: 't'uz two Bears, it wuz—two grea'-big Bears—
    One of 'em wuz—ist one's a grea'-big Bear.—
    But they ist boff went “Wooh! ”—An' here they come
    To climb the tree an' git the Little Boy
    An'eat him up!


                        An' nen the Little Boy
    He 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here come
    The grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to git
    The Little Boy an' eat him up—Oh, no!
    It 'uzn't the Big Bear 'at clumb the tree—
    It 'uz the Little Bear. So here he come
    Climbin' the tree—an' climbin' the tree! Nen when
    He git wite clos't to the Little Boy, w'y nen
    The Little Boy he ist pulled up his gun
    An' shot the Bear, he did, an' killed him dead!
    An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down out
    The tree—away clean to the ground, he did
    Spling-splung! he falled plum down, an' killed him, too!
    An' lit wite side o' where the' Big Bear's at.


    An' nen the Big Bear's awful mad, you bet!—
    'Cause—'cause the Little Boy he shot his gun
    An' killed the Little Bear.—'Cause the Big Bear
    He—he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa.—An' so here
    He come to climb the big old tree an' git
    The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' when
    The Little Boy he saw the grea'-big Bear
    A-comin', he 'uz badder skeered, he wuz,
    Than any time! An' so he think he'll climb
    Up higher—'way up higher in the tree
    Than the old Bear kin climb, you know.—But he—
    He can't climb higher 'an old Bears kin climb,—
    'Cause Bears kin climb up higher in the trees
    Than any little Boys In all the Wo-r-r-ld!


    An' so here come the grea'-big Bear, he did,—
    A-climbin' up—an' up the tree, to git
    The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' so
    The Little Boy he clumbed on higher, an' higher.
    An' higher up the tree—an' higher—an' higher—
    An' higher'n iss-here house is!—An' here come
    Th' old Bear—clos'ter to him all the time!—
    An' nen—first thing you know,—when th' old Big Bear
    Wuz wite clos't to him—nen the Little Boy
    Ist jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's mouf
    An' shot an' killed him dead!—No; I fergot,—
    He didn't shoot the grea'-big Bear at all—
    'Cause they 'uz no load in the gun, you know—
    'Cause when he shot the Little Bear, w'y, nen
    No load 'uz anymore nen in the gun!


    But th' Little Boy clumbed higher up, he did—
    He clumbed lots higher—an' on up higher—an' higher
    An' higher—tel he ist can't climb no higher,
    'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'way
    Up in the teeny-weeny tip-top of
    The tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don't
    Be keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nen
    He look around—An' here come th' old Bear!
    An' so the Little Boy make up his mind
    He's got to ist git out o' there some way!—
    'Cause here come the old Bear!—so clos't, his bref's
    Purt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it is
    Aginst his bare feet—ist like old “Ring's” bref
    When he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired.
    So when th' old Bear's so clos't—the Little Boy
    Ist gives a grea'-big jump fer 'nother tree—
    No!—no he don't do that!—I tell you what
    The Little Boy does:—W'y, nen—w'y, he—Oh, yes
    The Little Boy he finds a hole up there
    'At's in the tree
    —an' climbs in there an' hides
    An' nen the old Bear can't find the Little Boy
    Ut-tall!—But, purty soon th' old Bear finds
    The Little Boy's gun 'at's up there—'cause the gun
    It's too tall to tooked wiv him in the hole.
    So, when the old Bear find' the gun, he knows
    The Little Boy ist hid 'round somers there,—
    An' th' old Bear 'gins to snuff an' sniff around,
    An' sniff an' snuff around—so's he kin find
    Out where the Little Boy's hid at.—An' nen—nen—
    Oh, yes!—W'y, purty soon the old Bear climbs
    'Way out on a big limb—a grea'-long limb,—
    An' nen the Little Boy climbs out the hole
    An' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!... Nen
    The old Bear falls k-splunge! clean to the ground
    An' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did!


    An' nen the Little Boy he git his gun
    An' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree agin—
    No!—no, he didn't git his gun—'cause when
    The Bear falled, nen the gun falled, too—An' broked
    It all to pieces, too!—An' nicest gun!—
    His Pa ist buyed it!—An' the Little Boy
    Ist cried, he did; an' went on climbin' down
    The tree—an' climbin' down—an' climbin' down!—
    An'-sir! when he 'uz purt'-nigh down,—w'y, nen
    The old Bear he jumped up agin!—an he
    Ain't dead ut-tall—ist 'tendin' thataway,
    So he kin git the Little Boy an' eat
    Him up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smart
    To climb clean down the tree.—An' the old Bear
    He can't climb up the tree no more—'cause when
    He fell, he broke one of his—He broke all
    His legs!—an' nen he couldn't climb! But he
    Ist won't go 'way an' let the Little Boy
    Come down out of the tree. An' the old Bear
    Ist growls 'round there, he does—ist growls an' goes
    Wooh! woo-ooh!” all the time! An' Little Boy
    He haf to stay up in the tree—all night—
    An' 'thout no supper neever!—Only they
    Wuz apples on the tree!—An' Little Boy
    Et apples—ist all night—an' cried—an' cried!
    Nen when 'tuz morning th' old Bear went “Wooh!
    Agin, an' try to climb up in the tree
    An' git the Little Boy.—But he can't
    Climb t'save his soul, he can't!—An' oh! he's mad!
    He ist tear up the ground! an' go “Woo-ooh!
    An'—Oh,yes!—purty soon, when morning's come
    All light—so's you kin see, you know,—w'y, nen
    The old Bear finds the Little Boy's gun, you know,
    'At's on the ground.—(An' it ain't broke ut-tall—
    I ist said that!) An' so the old Bear think
    He'll take the gun an' shoot the Little Boy:—
    But Bears they don't know much 'bout shootin' guns:
    So when he go to shoot the Little Boy,
    The old Bear got the other end the gun
    Agin his shoulder, 'stid o' th'other end—
    So when he try to shoot the Little Boy,
    It shot the Bear, it did—an' killed him dead!
    An' nen the Little Boy dumb down the tree
    An' chopped his old wooly head off:—Yes, an' killed
    The other Bear agin, he did—an' killed
    All boff the bears, he did—an' tuk 'em home
    An' cooked 'em, too, an' et 'em!


                        —An' that's

    THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE


    The greeting of the company throughout
    Was like a jubilee,—the children's shout
    And fusillading hand-claps, with great guns
    And detonations of the older ones,
    Raged to such tumult of tempestuous joy,
    It even more alarmed than pleased the boy;
    Till, with a sudden twitching lip, he slid
    Down to the floor and dodged across and hid
    His face against his mother as she raised
    Him to the shelter of her heart, and praised
    His story in low whisperings, and smoothed
    The “amber-colored hair,” and kissed, and soothed
    And lulled him back to sweet tranquillity—
    “And 'ats a sign 'at you're the Ma fer me!”
    He lisped, with gurgling ecstasy, and drew
    Her closer, with shut eyes; and feeling, too,
    If he could only purr now like a cat,
    He would undoubtedly be doing that!


    “And now”—the serious host said, lifting there
    A hand entreating silence;—“now, aware
    Of the good promise of our Traveler guest
    To add some story with and for the rest,
    I think I favor you, and him as well,
    Asking a story I have heard him tell,
    And know its truth,in each minute detail:"
    Then leaning on his guest's chair, with a hale
    Hand-pat by way of full indorsement, he
    Said, “Yes—the Free-Slave story—certainly.”


    The old man, with his waddy notebook out,
    And glittering spectacles, glanced round about
    The expectant circle, and still firmer drew
    His hat on, with a nervous cough or two:
    And, save at times the big hard words, and tone
    Of gathering passion—all the speaker's own,—
    The tale that set each childish heart astir
    Was thus told by “The Noted Traveler.”

    TOLD BY “THE NOTED TRAVELER"


    Coming, clean from the Maryland-end
    Of this great National Road of ours,
    Through your vast West; with the time to spend,
    Stopping for days in the main towns, where
    Every citizen seemed a friend,
    And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers,—
    I found no thing that I might narrate
    More singularly strange or queer
    Than a thing I found in your sister-state
    Ohio,—at a river-town—down here
    In my notebook: Zanesville—situate
    On the stream Muskingum—broad and clear,
    And navigable, through half the year,
    North, to Coshocton; south, as far
    As Marietta.
    —But these facts are
    Not of the story, but the scene
    Of the simple little tale I mean
    To tell directly—from this, straight through
    To the end that is best worth listening to:


    Eastward of Zanesville, two or three
    Miles from the town, as our stage drove in,
    I on the driver's seat, and he
    Pointing out this and that to me,—
    On beyond us—among the rest—
    A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng
    Of little children, which he “guessed"
    Was a picnic, as we caught their thin
    High laughter, as we drove along,
    Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly
    He turned and asked, with a curious grin,
    What were my views on Slavery? “Why?”
    I asked, in return, with a wary eye.
    “Because,” he answered, pointing his whip
    At a little, whitewashed house and shed
    On the edge of the road by the grove ahead,—
    “Because there are two slaves there,” he said—
    “Two Black slaves that I've passed each trip
    For eighteen years.—Though they've been set free,
    They have been slaves ever since!” said he.
    And, as our horses slowly drew
    Nearer the little house in view,
    All briefly I heard the history
    Of this little old Negro woman and
    Her husband, house and scrap of land;
    How they were slaves and had been made free
    By their dying master, years ago
    In old Virginia; and then had come
    North here into a free state—so,
    Safe forever, to found a home—
    For themselves alone?—for they left South there
    Five strong sons, who had, alas!
    All been sold ere it came to pass
    This first old master with his last breath
    Had freed the parents.—(He went to death
    Agonized and in dire despair
    That the poor slave children might not share
    Their parents' freedom. And wildly then
    He moaned for pardon and died. Amen!)


    Thus, with their freedom, and little sum
    Of money left them, these two had come
    North, full twenty long years ago;
    And, settling there, they had hopefully
    Gone to work, in their simple way,
    Hauling—gardening—raising sweet
    Corn, and popcorn.—Bird and bee
    In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree
    Singing with them throughout the slow
    Summer's day, with its dust and heat—
    The crops that thirst and the rains that fail;
    Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low,
    And hand-made hominy might find sale
    In the near town-market; or baking pies
    And cakes, to range in alluring show
    At the little window, where the eyes
    Of the Movers' children, driving past,
    Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew
    Into a halt that would sometimes last
    Even the space of an hour or two—
    As the dusty, thirsty travelers made
    Their noonings there in the beeches' shade
    By the old black Aunty's spring-house, where,
    Along with its cooling draughts, were found
    Jugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer,
    Served with her gingerbread-horses there,
    While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'round
    Till the children's rapture knew no bound,
    As she sang and danced for them, quavering clear
    And high the chant of her old slave-days—


        “Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so',
        Dancin' on yo' sandy flo'!”


    Even so had they wrought all ways
    To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,—
    And with what ultimate end in view?—
    They were saving up money enough to be
    Able, in time, to buy their own
    Five children back.


                        Ah! the toil gone through!
    And the long delays and the heartaches, too,
    And self-denials that they had known!
    But the pride and glory that was theirs
    When they first hitched up their shackly cart
    For the long, long journey South.—The start
    In the first drear light of the chilly dawn,
    With no friends gathered in grieving throng,—
    With no farewells and favoring prayers;
    But, as they creaked and jolted on,
    Their chiming voices broke in song—


        “'Hail, all hail! don't you see the stars a-fallin'?
                Hail, all hail! I'm on my way.
                         Gideon[1] am
                         A healin' ba'm—
                I belong to the blood-washed army.
                         Gideon am
                         A healin' ba'm—
                         On my way!'“


    And their return!—with their oldest boy
    Along with them! Why, their happiness
    Spread abroad till it grew a joy
    Universal—It even reached
    And thrilled the town till the Church was stirred
    Into suspecting that wrong was wrong!—
    And it stayed awake as the preacher preached
    A Real “Love"-text that he had not long
    To ransack for in the Holy Word.


    And the son, restored, and welcomed so,
    Found service readily in the town;
    And, with the parents, sure and slow,
    He went “saltin' de cole cash down.”


    So with the next boy—and each one
    In turn, till four of the five at last
    Had been bought back; and, in each case,
    With steady work and good homes not
    Far from the parents, they chipped in
    To the family fund, with an equal grace.
    Thus they managed and planned and wrought,
    And the old folks throve—Till the night before
    They were to start for the lone last son
    In the rainy dawn—their money fast
    Hid away in the house,—two mean,
    Murderous robbers burst the door.
    ...Then, in the dark, was a scuffle—a fall—
    An old man's gasping cry—and then
    A woman's fife-like shriek.


                        ...Three men
    Splashing by on horseback heard
    The summons: And in an instant all
    Sprung to their duty, with scarce a word.
    And they were in time—not only to save
    The lives of the old folks, but to bag
    Both the robbers, and buck-and-gag
    And land them safe in the county-jail—
    Or, as Aunty said, with a blended awe
    And subtlety,—“Safe in de calaboose whah
    De dawgs caint bite 'em!”


                        —So prevail
    The faithful!—So had the Lord upheld
    His servants of both deed and prayer,—
    HIS the glory unparalleled—
    Theirs the reward,—their every son
    Free, at last, as the parents were!
    And, as the driver ended there
    In front of the little house, I said,
    All fervently, “Well done! well done!”
    At which he smiled, and turned his head
    And pulled on the leaders' lines and—“See!”
    He said,—“'you can read old Aunty's sign?”
    And, peering down through these specs of mine
    On a little, square board-sign, I read:


        “Stop, traveler, if you think it fit,
        And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit.
        The rocky spring is very clear,
        And soon converted into beer.”


    And, though I read aloud, I could
    Scarce hear myself for laugh and shout
    Of children—a glad multitude
    Of little people, swarming out
    Of the picnic-grounds I spoke about.—
    And in their rapturous midst, I see
    Again—through mists of memory—
    A black old Negress laughing up
    At the driver, with her broad lips rolled
    Back from her teeth, chalk-white, and gums
    Redder than reddest red-ripe plums.
    He took from her hand the lifted cup
    Of clear spring-water, pure and cold,
    And passed it to me: And I raised my hat
    And drank to her with a reverence that
    My conscience knew was justly due
    The old black face, and the old eyes, too—
    The old black head, with its mossy mat
    Of hair, set under its cap and frills
    White as the snows on Alpine hills;
    Drank to the old black smile, but yet
    Bright as the sun on the violet,—
    Drank to the gnarled and knuckled old
    Black hands whose palms had ached and bled
    And pitilessly been worn pale
    And white almost as the palms that hold
    Slavery's lash while the victim's wail
    Fails as a crippled prayer might fail.—
    Aye, with a reverence infinite,
    I drank to the old black face and head—
    The old black breast with its life of light—
    The old black hide with its heart of gold.

    HEAT-LIGHTNING


    There was a curious quiet for a space
    Directly following: and in the face
    Of one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glow
    Of the heat-lightning that pent passions throw
    Long ere the crash of speech.—He broke the spell—
    The host:—The Traveler's story, told so well,
    He said, had wakened there within his breast
    A yearning, as it were, to know the rest
    That all unwritten sequence that the Lord
    Of Righteousness must write with flame and sword,
    Some awful session of His patient thought—
    Just then it was, his good old mother caught
    His blazing eye—so that its fire became
    But as an ember—though it burned the same.
    It seemed to her, she said, that she had heard
    It was the Heavenly Parent never erred,
    And not the earthly one that had such grace:
    “Therefore, my son,” she said, with lifted face
    And eyes, “let no one dare anticipate
    The Lord's intent. While He waits, we will wait"
    And with a gust of reverence genuine
    Then Uncle Mart was aptly ringing in—


        “'If the darkened heavens lower,
          Wrap thy cloak around thy form;
        Though the tempest rise in power,
          God is mightier than the storm!
    '“


    Which utterance reached the restive children all
    As something humorous. And then a call
    For him to tell a story, or to “say
    A funny piece.” His face fell right away:
    He knew no story worthy. Then he must
    Declaim for them: In that, he could not trust
    His memory. And then a happy thought
    Struck some one, who reached in his vest and brought
    Some scrappy clippings into light and said
    There was a poem of Uncle Mart's he read
    Last April in “The Sentinel.” He had
    It there in print, and knew all would be glad
    To hear it rendered by the author.


                        And,
    All reasons for declining at command
    Exhausted, the now helpless poet rose
    And said: “I am discovered, I suppose.
    Though I have taken all precautions not
    To sign my name to any verses wrought
    By my transcendent genius, yet, you see,
    Fame wrests my secret from me bodily;
    So I must needs confess I did this deed
    Of poetry red-handed, nor can plead
    One whit of unintention in my crime—
    My guilt of rhythm and my glut of rhyme.—


        “Maenides rehearsed a tale of arms,
          And Naso told of curious metat_mur_phoses;
        Unnumbered pens have pictured woman's charms,
          While crazy I've made poetry on purposes!


    In other words, I stand convicted—need
    I say—by my own doing, as I read.

    UNCLE MART'S POEM


    THE OLD SNOW-MAN


    Ho! the old Snow-Man
      That Noey Bixler made!
    He looked as fierce and sassy
      As a soldier on parade!—
    'Cause Noey, when he made him,
      While we all wuz gone, you see,
    He made him, jist a-purpose,
      Jist as fierce as he could be!—
        But when we all got ust to him,
          Nobody wuz afraid
        Of the old Snow-Man
          That Noey Bixler made!


    'Cause Noey told us 'bout him
      And what he made him fer:—
    He'd come to feed, that morning
      He found we wuzn't here;
    And so the notion struck him,
      When we all come taggin' home
    'Tud s'prise us ef a' old Snow-Man
      'Ud meet us when we come!
    So, when he'd fed the stock, and milked,
      And ben back home, and chopped
    His wood, and et his breakfast, he
      Jist grabbed his mitts and hopped
    Right in on that-air old Snow-Man
      That he laid out he'd make
    Er bust a trace a-tryin'—jist
      Fer old-acquaintance sake!—
        But work like that wuz lots more fun.
          He said, than when he played!
        Ho! the old Snow-Man
          That Noey Bixler made!


    He started with a big snow-ball,
      And rolled it all around;
    And as he rolled, more snow 'ud stick
      And pull up off the ground.—
    He rolled and rolled all round the yard—
      'Cause we could see the track,
    All wher' the snow come off, you know,
      And left it wet and black.
    He got the Snow-Man's legs-part rolled—
      In front the kitchen-door,—
    And then he hat to turn in then
      And roll and roll some more!—
    He rolled the yard all round agin,
      And round the house, at that—
    Clean round the house and back to wher'
      The blame legs-half wuz at!
        He said he missed his dinner, too—
          Jist clean fergot and stayed
        There workin'. Ho! the old Snow-Man
          That Noey Bixler made!


    And Noey said he hat to hump
      To git the top-half on
    The legs-half!—When he did, he said,
      His wind wuz purt'-nigh gone.—
    He said, I jucks! he jist drapped down
      There on the old porch-floor
    And panted like a dog!—And then
      He up! and rolled some more!—
    The last batch—that wuz fer his head,—
      And—time he'd got it right
    And clumb and fixed it on, he said—
      He hat to quit fer night!—
    And then, he said, he'd kep' right on
      Ef they'd ben any moon
    To work by! So he crawled in bed—
      And could a-slep' tel noon,
        He wuz so plum wore out! he said,—
          But it wuz washin'-day,
        And hat to cut a cord o' wood
          'Fore he could git away!


    But, last, he got to work agin,—
      With spade, and gouge, and hoe,
    And trowel, too—(All tools 'ud do
      What Noey said, you know!)
    He cut his eyebrows out like cliffs—
      And his cheekbones and chin
    Stuck furder out—and his old nose
      Stuck out as fur-agin!
    He made his eyes o' walnuts,
      And his whiskers out o' this
    Here buggy-cushion stuffin'—moss,
      The teacher says it is.
    And then he made a' old wood'-gun,
      Set keerless-like, you know,
    Acrost one shoulder—kindo' like
      Big Foot, er Adam Poe—
        Er, mayby, Simon Girty,
          The dinged old Renegade!
        Wooh! the old Snow-Man
          That Noey Bixler made!


    And there he stood, all fierce and grim,
      A stern, heroic form:
    What was the winter blast to him,
      And what the driving storm?—
    What wonder that the children pressed
      Their faces at the pane
    And scratched away the frost, in pride
      To look on him again?—
        What wonder that, with yearning bold,
          Their all of love and care
        Went warmest through the keenest cold
          To that Snow-Man out there!


    But the old Snow-Man—
      What a dubious delight
    He grew at last when Spring came on
      And days waxed warm and bright.—
    Alone he stood—all kith and kin
      Of snow and ice were gone;—
    Alone, with constant teardrops in
      His eyes and glittering on
    His thin, pathetic beard of black—
      Grief in a hopeless cause!—
    Hope—hope is for the man that dies
      What for the man that thaws!
        O Hero of a hero's make!—
          Let marble melt and fade,
        But never you—you old Snow-Man
          That Noey Bixler made!

    “LITTLE JACK JANITOR"


    And there, in that ripe Summer-night, once more
    A wintry coolness through the open door
    And window seemed to touch each glowing face
    Refreshingly; and, for a fleeting space,
    The quickened fancy, through the fragrant air,
    Saw snowflakes whirling where the roseleaves were,
    And sounds of veriest jingling bells again
    Were heard in tinkling spoons and glasses then.


    Thus Uncle Mart's old poem sounded young
    And crisp and fresh and clear as when first sung,
    Away back in the wakening of Spring
    When his rhyme and the robin, chorusing,
    Rumored, in duo-fanfare, of the soon
    Invading johnny-jump-ups, with platoon
    On platoon of sweet-williams, marshaled fine
    To bloomed blarings of the trumpet-vine.


    The poet turned to whisperingly confer
    A moment with “The Noted Traveler.”
    Then left the room, tripped up the stairs, and then
    An instant later reappeared again,
    Bearing a little, lacquered box, or chest,
    Which, as all marked with curious interest,
    He gave to the old Traveler, who in
    One hand upheld it, pulling back his thin
    Black lustre coat-sleeves, saying he had sent
    Up for his “Magic Box,” and that he meant
    To test it there—especially to show
    The Children. “It is empty now, you know.”—
    He humped it with his knuckles, so they heard
    The hollow sound—“But lest it be inferred
    It is not really empty, I will ask
    Little Jack Janitor, whose pleasant task
    It is to keep it ship-shape.”


                        Then he tried
    And rapped the little drawer in the side,
    And called out sharply “Are you in there, Jack?”
    And then a little, squeaky voice came back,—
    Of course I'm in here—ain't you got the key
    Turned on me!


                        Then the Traveler leisurely
    Felt through his pockets, and at last took out
    The smallest key they ever heard about!—
    It,wasn't any longer than a pin:
    And this at last he managed to fit in
    The little keyhole, turned it, and then cried,
    “Is everything swept out clean there inside?”
    Open the drawer and see!—Don't talk to much;
    Or else
    ,” the little voice squeaked, “talk in Dutch—
    You age me, asking questions!


                        Then the man
    Looked hurt, so that the little folks began
    To feel so sorry for him, he put down
    His face against the box and had to frown.—
    “Come, sir!” he called,—“no impudence to me!
    You've swept out clean?”


                        “Open the drawer and see!
    And so he drew the drawer out: Nothing there,
    But just the empty drawer, stark and bare.
    He shoved it back again, with a shark click.—


    Ouch!” yelled the little voice—“un-snap it—quick!—
    You've got my nose pinched in the crack!


                        And then
    The frightened man drew out the drawer again,
    The little voice exclaiming, “Jeemi-nee!—
    Say what you want, but please don't murder me!



    “Well, then,” the man said, as he closed the drawer
    With care, “I want some cotton-batting for
    My supper! Have you got it?”


                        And inside,
    All muffled like, the little voice replied,
    Open the drawer and see!


                        And, sure enough,
    He drew it out, filled with the cotton stuff.
    He then asked for a candle to be brought
    And held for him: and tuft by tuft he caught
    And lit the cotton, and, while blazing, took
    It in his mouth and ate it, with a look
    Of purest satisfaction.


                        “Now,” said he,
    “I've eaten the drawer empty, let me see
    What this is in my mouth:” And with both hands
    He began drawing from his lips long strands
    Of narrow silken ribbons, every hue
    And tint;—and crisp they were and bright and new
    As if just purchased at some Fancy-Store.
    “And now, Bub, bring your cap,” he said, “before
    Something might happen!” And he stuffed the cap
    Full of the ribbons. “There, my little chap,
    Hold tight to them,” he said, “and take them to
    The ladies there, for they know what to do
    With all such rainbow finery!”


                        He smiled
    Half sadly, as it seemed, to see the child
    Open his cap first to his mother..... There
    Was not a ribbon in it anywhere!
    Jack Janitor!” the man said sternly through
    The Magic Box—“Jack Janitor, did you
    Conceal those ribbons anywhere?”


                        “Well, yes,
    The little voice piped—“but you'd never guess
    The place I hid 'em if you'd guess a year!



    “Well, won't you tell me?”


                        “Not until you clear
    Your mean old conscience
    ” said the voice, “and make
    Me first do something for the Children's sake.



    “Well, then, fill up the drawer,” the Traveler said,
    “With whitest white on earth and reddest red!—
    Your terms accepted—Are you satisfied?”


    Open the drawer and see!” the voice replied.


    Why, bless my soul!”—the man said, as he drew
    The contents of the drawer into view—
    “It's level-full of candy!—Pass it 'round—
    Jack Janitor shan't steal that, I'll be bound!”—
    He raised and crunched a stick of it and smacked
    His lips.—“Yes, that is candy, for a fact!—
    And it's all yours!


                        And how the children there
    Lit into it!—O never anywhere
    Was such a feast of sweetness!


                        “And now, then,”
    The man said, as the empty drawer again
    Slid to its place, he bending over it,—
    “Now, then, Jack Janitor, before we quit
    Our entertainment for the evening, tell
    Us where you hid the ribbons—can't you?”


                        “Well,
    The squeaky little voice drawled sleepily—
    Under your old hat, maybe.—Look and see!


    All carefully the man took off his hat:
    But there was not a ribbon under that.—
    He shook his heavy hair, and all in vain
    The old white hat—then put it on again:
    “Now, tell me, honest, Jack, where did you hide
    The ribbons?”


                        “Under your hat” the voice replied.—
    Mind! I said 'under' and not 'in' it.—Won't
    You ever take the hint on earth?—or don't
    You want to show folks where the ribbons at?—
    Law! but I'm sleepy!—Under—unner your hat!



    Again the old man carefully took off
    The empty hat, with an embarrassed cough,
    Saying, all gravely to the children: “You
    Must promise not to laugh—you'll all want to—
    When you see where Jack Janitor has dared
    To hide those ribbons—when he might have spared
    My feelings.—But no matter!—Know the worst—
    Here are the ribbons, as I feared at first.”—
    And, quick as snap of thumb and finger, there
    The old man's head had not a sign of hair,
    And in his lap a wig of iron-gray
    Lay, stuffed with all that glittering array
    Of ribbons ... “Take 'em to the ladies—Yes.
    Good-night to everybody, and God bless
    The Children.”


                        In a whisper no one missed
    The Hired Man yawned: “He's a vantrilloquist"


           * * * * *


    So gloried all the night Each trundle-bed
    And pallet was enchanted—each child-head
    Was packed with happy dreams. And long before
    The dawn's first far-off rooster crowed, the snore
    Of Uncle Mart was stilled, as round him pressed
    The bare arms of the wakeful little guest
    That he had carried home with him....


                         “I think,”
    An awed voice said—“(No: I don't want a dwink.—
    Lay still.)—I think 'The Noted Traveler' he
    'S the inscrutibul-est man I ever see!”



    [Footnote 1: Gilead—evidently.—[Editor.]