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Title: A Child-World

Author: James Whitcomb Riley

Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9651]

Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Etext produced by David Starner, Maria Cecilia Lim and PG

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHILD-WORLD ***

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.

CONTENTS

A CHILD-WORLD

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"

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 'sociate 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, whatever 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' yellowbirds an' bluebirds—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!—anything!—

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.—

"Mænides rehearsed a tale of arms,

And Naso told of curious metatmurphoses;

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 blooméd 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.]

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Table of Contents

A CHILD-WORLD

James Whitcomb Riley

A CHILD-WORLD

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"

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE