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Title: A Child-World

Author: James Whitcomb Riley

Release Date: January, 2006 [EBook #9651] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 13, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHILD-WORLD

Produced by David Starner, Maria Cecilia Lim and PG Distributed Proofreaders

A CHILD-WORLD

James Whitcomb Riley

A CHILD-WORLD

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

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

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

*       *       *       *       *

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

CONTENTS

PROEM

THE CHILD-WORLD

THE OLD-HOME FOLKS

ALMON KEEPER

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--THE DREAMER

FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION

BUD'S FAIRY-TALE

A DELICIOUS INTERRUPTION

NOEY'S NIGHT-PIECE

COUSIN RUFUS' STORY

BEWILDERING EMOTIONS

ALEX TELLS A BEAR-STORY

THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE

TOLD BY "THE NOTED TRAVELER"

HEAT-LIGHTNING

UNCLE MART'S POEM

"LITTLE JACK JANITOR"

FINALE

THE CHILD-WORLD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE OLD-HOME FOLKS

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

But Johnty yet--

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

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

Next after Johnty came

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the children had

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

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

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

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

ALMON KEEFER

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

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

But the best

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

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

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

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

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

NOEY BIXLER

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

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

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

And _Alex_ loved him yet

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

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

--But forgive

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

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

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

"A NOTED TRAVELER"

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

A PROSPECTIVE VISIT

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

And by time that each

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

AT NOEY'S HOUSE

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

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

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

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

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

Jason paid

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

"THAT LITTLE DOG"

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

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

"--You say he ain't _there?_--
Well now, I declare!--

Lem me limp out and look! ... I wunder where-- Heuh, Trip!--_Heuh_, Trip!--_Heuh_, Trip!... There-- There he is!--Little sneak!--What-a'-you-'bout?-- There he is--quiled up as meek as a mouse, His tail turnt up like a teakittle-spout, A-sunnin' hisse'f at the side o' the house! Next time you scratch, sir, you'll haf to git in, My fine little feller, the best way you kin! --Noey he learns him sich capers!--And they-- Both of 'em's ornrier every day!-- Both tantalizin' and meaner'n sin-- Allus a--(_Listen there!_)--Jane: Let him in.

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

THE LOEHRS AND THE HAMMONDS

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

Glorious news!--

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

... Again, at candle-light,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE HIRED MAN AND FLORETTY

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

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

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

--"Speakin' o' _bread_--

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

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

"Pore thing!"

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

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

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

It was good

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

"Things to _eat_,"

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

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

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

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

All to himself, The Hired Man thought--"Of course They'll sing Floretty homesick!"

... O strange source

Of ecstasy! O mystery of Song!-- To hear the dear old utterance flow along:--

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

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

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

THE EVENING COMPANY

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Maymie now

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

"And what _kind_

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

He paused to take

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

"W'y, don't _you_ know?"

Asked little Maymie--

But the man looked so

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

MAYMIE'S STORY OF RED RIDING HOOD

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

An' nen--An' so

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

An'--an'--so

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

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

An' nen Riding Hood

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

Nen old Wolf smile

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

An' nen when the old Wolf

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

Nen her old Dran'ma

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

An' so th' old Wolf

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

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

Nen, purty soon

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

An' nen old Wolf nen

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

An' so she think

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

Nen she says,--

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

An' nen Riding Hood

She say "Oh-me-oh-_my_! Dran'ma! what big White long sharp teeth you dot!"

Nen old Wolf says:

"Yes--an' they're thataway," he says--an' drowled-- "They're thataway," he says, "to eat you wiv!" An' nen he ist jump' at her.--

But she _scream_'--

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

An' the big Man

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

LIMITATIONS OF GENIUS

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

"And how comes it," said

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

For quite a little while

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

MR. HAMMOND'S PARABLE

THE DREAMER

I

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

SONG

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

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

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

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

FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION

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

And, answering this desire,

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

... After much whispering

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

"Wild Roved an indian Girl
Brite al Floretty"
deer freind
I now take

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

... There dropped

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

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

And then some one

Of the loud-wrangling boys said--"_Course_ they's none No more, these days!--They's Fairies ust to be, But they're all dead, a hunderd years!" said he.

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

"An' how you goin' to prove it!"

"Well, I _kin_!"

Said Bud, with emphasis,--"They's one lives in Our garden--and I see 'im wunst, wiv my Own eyes--_one_ time I did."

"_Oh, what a lie_!"

--"'_Sh!_'"

"Well, nen," said the skeptic--seeing there

The older folks attracted--"Tell us where You saw him, an' all 'bout him!'

"Yes, my son.--

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

Somewhat pale,

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

BUD'S FAIRY-TALE

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

So, one time,

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

Nen _I_ say "Howdy-do!"

An' he say "_I'm_ all hunkey, Nibsey; how Is your folks comin' on?"

An' nen I say

"My name ain't '_Nibsey_,' neever--my name's Bud. An' what's your name?" I says to him.

An'he

Ist laugh an' say "'_Bud's_' awful funny name!" An' he ist laid back on a big bunch o' gwapes An' laugh' an' laugh', he did--like somebody 'Uz tick-el-un his feet!

An' nen I say--

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

But I'm too quick

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

An' nen I says--

"Who's 'old Miss Hoodjicum'?" I says

An'he

Says "Ef you lemme loose I'll tell you."

So

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

An' nen he say,--

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

But I says, "Yes

An' ef I let you loose, you'll run!" I says. An' he says "No, I won't!--I hope may die!" Nen I says, "Cwoss your heart you won't!"

An'he

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

Nen when he git

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

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

An'he

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

An nen he say

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

An' inunder there's a grea'

Big clod, they is--a awful grea' big clod! An' nen he says, "_Roll this-here clod away!_" An' so I roll' the clod away. An' nen It's all wet, where the dew'z inunder where The old clod wuz,--an' nen the Fairy he Git on the wet-place: Nen he say to me "Git on the wet-place, too!" An' nen he say, "Now hold yer breff an' shet yer eyes!" he says, "Tel I say Squinchy-winchy!" Nen he say-- Somepin in Dutch, I guess.--An' nen I felt Like we 'uz sinkin' down--an' sinkin' down!-- Tel purty soon the little Fairy weach An' pinch my nose an' yell at me an' say, "_Squinchy-winchy! Look wherever you please!_" Nen when I looked--Oh! they 'uz purtyest place Down there you ever saw in all the World!-- They 'uz ist flowers an' woses--yes, an' twees Wiv blossoms on an' big ripe apples boff! An' butterflies, they wuz--an' hummin'-birds-- An' 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!--_any_thing!-- Was he not there to thankfully accept Any reception from parental source Save this incomprehensible voicelessness. O but the silence held its very breath! If but the ticking clock would only strike And for an instant drown the whispering, Lisping, sifting sound the katydids Made outside in the grassy nowhere.

Far

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

He moved; and coughed--

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

BEWILDERING EMOTIONS

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

"_But I can't._"

"Well, can't you _try?_"

"Yes, Mister: he kin tell one. Alex, tell The one, you know, 'at you made up so well, About the Bear. He allus tells that one," Said Bud,--"He gits it mixed some 'bout the gun An' ax the Little Boy had, an' apples, too."-- Then Uncle Mart said--"There, now! that'll do!-- Let Alex tell his story his own way!" And Alex, prompted thus, without delay Began.

THE BEAR-STORY

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

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

An' nen the Little Boy

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

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

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

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

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

--An' that's

THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE

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

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

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

TOLD BY "THE NOTED TRAVELER"

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

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

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

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

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

Ah! the toil gone through!

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

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

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

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

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

...Three men

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

--So prevail

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

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

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

HEAT-LIGHTNING

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

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

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

And,

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

"Mænides rehearsed a tale of arms,
And Naso told of curious metat_mur_phoses;
Unnumbered pens have pictured woman's charms,
While crazy _I_'ve made poetry _on purposes!_"

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

UNCLE MART'S POEM

THE OLD SNOW-MAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"LITTLE JACK JANITOR"

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

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