human
Can you write a poem for me in the style of Giuseppe Mazzini?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem in the style of Giuseppe Mazzini:
  "Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies."
Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone county, who considers the Journal
a "very valubul" newspaper, writes to enclose us an original
poem, desiring that we kindly accept it for publication, as
"many neghbors and friends is astin' him to have the same
struck off."
Mr. Johnson thoughtfully informs us that he is "no edjucated
man," but that he has, "from childhood up tel old enough to
vote, allus wrote more er less poetry, as many of an albun
in the neghborhood can testify." Again, he says that he
writes "from the hart out"; and there is a touch of genuine
pathos in the frank avowal, "Thare is times when I write the
tears rolls down my cheeks."
In all sincerity, Mr. Johnson, we are glad to publish the
poem you send, and just as you have written it. That is its
greatest charm. Its very defects compose its excellence. You
need no better education than the one from which emanates
"The Old Swimmin'-Hole." It is real poetry, and all the more
tender and lovable for the unquestionable evidence it bears
of having been written "from the hart out." The only thing
we find to--but hold! Let us first lay the poem before the
reader:
The only thing now, Mr. Johnson--as we were about to
observe--the only thing we find to criticise, at all
relative to the poem, is your closing statement to the
effect that "It was wrote to go to the tune of 'The Captin
with his Whiskers!'" You should not have told us that, O
A week later, in the "Journal" of date June 24th, followed this
additional mention of "Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone":
It is a pleasure for us to note that the publication of the
poem of "The Old Swimmin'-Hole," to which the Journal, with
just pride, referred last week, has proved almost as great a
pleasure to its author as to the hosts of delighted readers
who have written in its praise, or called to personally
indorse our high opinion of its poetic value. We have just
received a letter from Mr. Johnson, the author, inclosing us
another lyrical performance, which in many features even
surpasses the originality and spirit of the former effort.
Certainly the least that can be said of it is that it
stands a thorough proof of our first assertion, that the
author, though by no means a man of learning and profound
literary attainments, is none the less a true poet and an
artist. The letter, accompanying this later amaranth of
blooming wildwood verse, we publish in its entirety, assured
that Mr. Johnson's many admirers will be charmed, as we have
been, at the delicious glimpse he gives us of his
inspiration, modes of study, home-life, and surroundings:
"Respected Sir--The paper is here, markin' the old
swimmin'-hole, my poetry which you seem to like so well. I
joy to see it in print, and I thank you, hart and voice, fer
speakin' of its merrits in the way in which you do. I am
glad you thought it was real poetry, as you said in your
artikle. But I make bold to ast you what was your idy in
sayin' I had ortent of told you it went to the tune I spoke
of in my last. I felt highly flatered tel I got that fur.
Was it because you don't know the tune refered to in the
letter? Er wasent some words spelt right er not? Still ef
you hadent of said somepin' aginst it Ide of thought you was
makin' fun. As I said before I well know my own
unedjucation, but I don't think that is any reason the
feelin's of the soul is stunted in theyr growth however.
'Juge not less ye be juged,' says The Good Book, and so say
I, ef I thought you was makin' fun of the lines that I wrote
and which you done me the onner to have printed off in sich
fine style that I have read it over and over again in the
paper you sent, and I would like to have about three more ef
you can spare the same and state by mail what they will come
at. All nature was in tune day before yisterday when your
paper come to hand. It had ben a-raining hard fer some days,
but that morning opened up as clear as a whissel. No clouds
was in the sky, and the air was bammy with the warm sunshine
and the wet smell of the earth and the locus blossoms and
the flowrs and pennyroil and boneset. I got up, the first
one about the place, and went forth to the plesant fields. I
fed the stock with lavish hand and wortered them in merry
glee, they was no bird in all the land no happier than me. I
have jest wrote a verse of poetry in this letter; see ef you
can find it. I also send you a whole poem which was wrote
off the very day your paper come. I started it in the
morning I have so feebly tride to pictur' to you and wound
her up by suppertime, besides doin' a fare day's work around
the place.
"Ef you print this one I think you will like it better than
the other. This ain't a sad poem like the other was, but you
will find it full of careful thought. I pride myself on
that. I also send you 30 cents in stamps fer you to take
your pay out of fer the other papers I said, and also fer
three more with this in it ef you have it printed and
oblige. Ef you don't print this poem, keep the stamps and
send me three more papers with _the other one_ in--makin'
the sum totul of six (6) papers altogether in full. Ever
your true friend,
"N. B.--The tune of this one is 'The Bold Privateer.'"
Simply, in briefest conclusion, the hale, sound, artless, lovable
_Lo! steadfast and serene,
In patient pause between
The seen and the unseen,
What gentle zephyrs fan
Your silken silver hair,--
And what diviner air
Breathes round you like a prayer,
_Can you, in nearer view
Of Glory, pierce the blue
Of happy Heaven through;
And, listening mutely, can
Your senses, dull to us,
Hear Angel-voices thus,
In chorus glorious--
_In your reposeful gaze
The dusk of Autumn days
Is blent with April haze,
As when of old began
The bursting of the bud
Of rosy babyhood--
When all the world was good,
_And yet I find a sly
Little twinkle in your eye;
And your whisperingly shy
Little laugh is simply an
Internal shout of glee
That betrays the fallacy
You'd perpetrate on me,
_So just put up the frown
That your brows are pulling down!
Why, the fleetest boy in town,
As he bared his feet and ran,
Could read with half a glance--
And of keen rebuke, perchance--
Your secret countenance,
_Now, honestly, confess:
Is an old man any less
Than the little child we bless
And caress when we can?
Isn't age but just a place
Where you mask the childish face
To preserve its inner grace,
_Hasn't age a truant day,
Just as that you went astray
In the wayward, restless way,
When, brown with dust and tan,
Your roguish face essayed,
In solemn masquerade,
To hide the smile it made
_Now, fair, and square, and true,
Don't your old soul tremble through,
As in youth it used to do
When it brimmed and overran
With the strange, enchanted sights,
And the splendors and delights
_When, haply, you have fared
Where glad Aladdin shared
His lamp with you, and dared
The Afrite and his clan;
And, with him, clambered through
And filled your pockets, too,
_Or, with Sinbad, at sea--
And in veracity
Who has sinned as bad as he,
Or would, or will, or can?--
Have you listened to his lies,
With open mouth and eyes,
And learned his art likewise,
_And you need not deny
That your eyes were wet as dry,
Reading novels on the sly!
And review them, if you can,
And the same warm tears will fall--
Only faster, that is all--
_O, you were a lucky lad--
Just as good as you were bad!
And the host of friends you had--
And the old School-Teacher, too,
Though he often censured you;
And the girls in pink and blue,
_And--as often you have leant,
In boyish sentiment,
To kiss the letter sent
Wherein the rose's hue
Was red, the violet blue--
And sugar sweet--and you,
_So, to-day, as lives the bloom,
And the sweetness, and perfume
Of the blossoms, I assume,
On the same mysterious plan
The master's love assures,
That the self-same boy endures
In that hale old heart of yours,
_The Delights of our Childhood is soon Passed Away_
Originally contributed to THE FORUM--reprinted here
by permission.
_The delights of our childhood is soon passed away,
And our gloryus youth it departs,--
And yit, dead and burried, they's blossoms of May
Ore theyr medderland graves in our harts.
So, friends of my bare-footed days on the farm,
Whether truant in city er not,
God prosper you same as He's prosperin' me,
Whilse your past haint despised er fergot._
_Oh! they's nothin', at morn, that's as grand unto me
As the glorys of Nachur so fare,--
With the Spring in the breeze, and the bloom in the trees,
And the hum of the bees ev'rywhare!
The green in the woods, and the birds in the boughs,
And the dew spangled over the fields;
And the bah of the sheep and the bawl of the cows
And the call from the house to your meals!_
_Then ho! fer your brekfast! and ho! fer the toil
That waiteth alike man and beast!
Oh! its soon with my team I'll be turnin' up soil,
Whilse the sun shoulders up in the East
Ore the tops of the ellums and beeches and oaks,
To smile his godspeed on the plow,
And the furry and seed, and the Man in his need,
And the joy of the swet of his brow!_
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be--
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;
And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.
You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow--
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;
And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right,
Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!
They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;
Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!
Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
The June is here this mornin', and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
Any banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.
The Summer's put the idy in
My head that I'm a boy again;
And all around's so bright and gay
I want to put my team away,
And jest git out whare I can lay
And soak my hide full of the day!
But work is work, and must be done--
Yit, as I work, I have my fun,
Jest fancyin' these furries here
Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear:--
And as I walk through medder-lands,
And country lanes, and swampy trails
Whare long bullrushes bresh my hands;
And, tilted on the ridered rails
Of deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White"
Whissels his name in high delight,
And whirrs away. I wunder still,
Whichever way a boy's feet will--
Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops
Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer breth,
Heerin' the acorn as it drops--
H'istin' my chin up still as deth,
And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes,
The tree where Mr. Squirrel tries
To hide hisse'f above the limb,
But lets his own tale tell on him.
I wunder on in deeper glooms--
Git hungry, hearin' female cries
From old farm-houses, whare perfumes
Of harvest dinners seems to rise
And ta'nt a feller, hart and brane,
With memories he can't explane.
I wunder through the underbresh,
Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick,
Is picked and printed in the fresh
Black bottom-lands, like wimmern pick
Theyr pie-crusts with a fork, some way,
When bakin' fer camp-meetin' day.
I wunder on and on and on,
Tel my gray hair and beard is gone,
And ev'ry wrinkle on my brow
Is rubbed clean out and shaddered now
With curls as brown and fare and fine
As tenderls of the wild grape-vine
That ust to climb the highest tree
To keep the ripest ones fer me.
I wunder still, and here I am
Wadin' the ford below the dam--
The worter chucklin' round my knee
At hornet-welt and bramble-scratch,
And me a-slippin' 'crost to see
Ef Tyner's plums is ripe, and size
The old man's wortermelon-patch,
With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes.
Then, after sich a day of mirth
And happiness as worlds is wurth--
So tired that heaven seems nigh about,--
The sweetest tiredness on earth
Is to git home and flatten out--
So tired you can't lay flat enugh,
And sorto' wish that you could spred
Out like molasses on the bed,
And jest drip off the aidges in
The dreams that never comes again.
O, Thou that doth all things devise
And fashon fer the best,
He'p us who sees with mortul eyes
To overlook the rest.
They's times, of course, we grope in doubt,
And in afflictions sore;
So knock the louder, Lord, without,
And we'll unlock the door.
Make us to feel, when times looks bad
And tears in pitty melts,
Thou wast the only he'p we had
When they was nothin' else.
Death comes alike to ev'ry man
That ever was borned on earth;
Then let us do the best we can
To live fer all life's wurth.
Ef storms and tempusts dred to see
Makes black the heavens ore,
They done the same in Galilee
Two thousand years before.
But after all, the golden sun
Poured out its floods on them
That watched and waited fer the One
Then borned in Bethlyham.
Also, the star of holy writ
Made noonday of the night,
Whilse other stars that looked at it
Was envious with delight.
The sages then in wurship bowed,
From ev'ry clime so fare;
O, sinner, think of that glad crowd
That congergated thare!
They was content to fall in ranks
With One that knowed the way
From good old Jurden's stormy banks
No matter, then, how all is mixed
In our near-sighted eyes,
All things is fer the best, and fixed
Out straight in Paradise.
Then take things as God sends 'em here,
And, ef we live er die,
Be more and more contenteder,
Without a-astin' why.
O, Thou that doth all things devise
And fashon fer the best,
He'p us who sees with mortul eyes
To overlook the rest.
Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,
And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin--
Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.
Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,
And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew
And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; air you?
They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line;
And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows;
And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,
I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.
It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.
And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best;
But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,
Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west.
You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines--
'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, shore;--
I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,
Which may be a fact you have heerd of before.
But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with care,
You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy,
And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air
As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.
I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound
When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two,
And the friends you love the best is gethered all around--
And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the core fer you!"
And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,
Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight
As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,
And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite.
Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat--
A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands,
Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat,
And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed betwixt
The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,
And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.
Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away
To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,
And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day,
And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a'comin' on.
And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees,
And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,
And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice.
Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,
And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin--
Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.
I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be,
Much posted on philosofy;
But thare is times, when all alone,
I work out idees of my own.
And of these same thare is a few
I'd like to jest refer to you--
Pervidin' that you don't object
To listen clos't and rickollect.
I allus argy that a man
Who does about the best he can
Is plenty good enugh to suit
This lower mundane institute--
No matter ef his daily walk
Is subject fer his neghbor's talk,
And critic-minds of ev'ry whim
Jest all git up and go fer him!
I knowed a feller onc't that had
The yeller-janders mighty bad,--
And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet
Would stop and give him some receet
Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say
He kindo' thought they'd go away
Without no medicin', and boast
That he'd git well without one doste.
He kep' a-yellerin' on--and they
Perdictin' that he'd die some day
Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed,
The feller did, and lost his head,
And wundered in his mind a spell--
Then rallied, and, at last, got well;
But ev'ry friend that said he'd die
Went back on him eternally!
Its natchurl enugh, I guess,
When some gits more and some gits less,
Fer them-uns on the slimmest side
To claim it ain't a fare divide;
And I've knowed some to lay and wait,
And git up soon, and set up late,
To ketch some feller they could hate
Fer goin' at a faster gait.
The signs is bad when folks commence
A-findin' fault with Providence,
And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake
At ev'ry prancin' step they take.
No man is grate tel he can see
How less than little he would be
Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare
He hung his sign out anywhare.
My doctern is to lay aside
Contensions, and be satisfied:
Jest do your best, and praise er blame
That follers that, counts jest the same.
I've allus noticed grate success
Is mixed with troubles, more or less,
And it's the man who does the best
That gits more kicks than all the rest.
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, its then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here--
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock--
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!--
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on _me_--
I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock--
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;
"Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight;
And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.
The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence;
The bee-hives all is quiet; and the little Jersey steer,
When any one comes nigh it, acts so lonesome-like and queer;
And the little Banty chickens kindo' cutters faint and low,
Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they didn't know.
They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees;
And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze;
And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed;
And all the song her red-bird sings is "Little Haly's dead!"
The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass,
That Haly's little sunburnt hands'll ever pull it out.
Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me,
Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tendurly?
I question--and what answer?--only tears, and tears alone,
And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear-drops as my own.
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;
"Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight,
And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.
O, it's many's the scenes which is dear to my mind
As I think of my childhood so long left behind;
The home of my birth, with its old puncheon-floor,
And the bright morning-glorys that growed round the door;
The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off
Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft,
Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me,
And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.
And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake,
I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake,
And the long purple berries that rained on the ground
Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around.
And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade,
I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed
With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee
To foller them off to the mulberry tree.
Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail,
And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail,
And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands,
The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants.
But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore
As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more--
What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me,
With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!
Then its who can fergit the old mulberry tree
That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free
As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out
Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about?
O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay,
Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day,
And a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be,
They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.
Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me,
Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity,
You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart,
Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.
When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you
Had the only consolation that I could listen to--
But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare--
I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away;
I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray;
And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two--
We set thare by the smoke-house--me and you out thare alone--
Me a-thinkin'--you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone--
You a-talkin'--me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago,
And a-writin' "Marthy--Marthy" with my finger in the snow!
William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then;
And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again;
And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say:
"Be rickonciled and bear it--we but linger fer a day!"
At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me--
Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be;
And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here,
In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.
It was better than the meetin', too, that 9-mile talk we had
Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad;
When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare,"
And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike,
In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like--
Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind,
A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of mind!
And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight:--
Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we
Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three--
When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way,
And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.
And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two--
You know we talked about the times when the old road was new:
How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State
Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't _dim_onstrate?
Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past;
But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last;
And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end,
I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.
I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name,
My fiddle?--Well, I kindo' keep her handy, don't you know!
And my fingers was more limber-like and caperish and spry;
Yit I can plonk and plunk and plink,
And tune her up and play,
And jest lean back and laugh and wink
At ev'ry rainy day!
My playin' 's only middlin'--tunes I picked up when a boy--
The kindo'-sorto' fiddlin' that the folks calls "cordaroy";
And so I plunk and plonk and plink,
And rosum-up my bow
And play the tunes that makes you think
The devil's in your toe!
I was allus a romancin', do-less boy, to tell the truth,
A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of my youth,
And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly pranks
That wasn't worth a botton of anybody's thanks!
But they tell me, when I ust to plink
And plonk and plunk and play,
My music seemed to have the kink
O' drivin' cares away!
That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin' love!
And so I pat her neck, and plink
Her strings with lovin' hands,--
And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think
She kindo' understands!
Some sings of the lilly, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;
But what is the lilly and all of the rest
Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?
I never set eyes on a clover-field now,
Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,
But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane
As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;
And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,
Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love
Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.
And so I love clover--it seems like a part
Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;
And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;
And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,
To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,
And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom
While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume.
_Us farmers in the country, as the seasons go and come,
Is purty much like other folks,--we're apt to grumble some!
The Spring's too back'ard fer us, er too for'ard--ary one--
We'll jaw about it anyhow, and have our way er none!
The thaw's set in too suddent; er the frost's stayed in the soil
Too long to give the wheat a chance, and crops is bound to spoil!
And altogether too much rain, er not half rain enugh!_
_Now what I'd like and what you'd like is plane enugh to see:
It's jest to have old Providence drop round on you and me
And ast us what our views is first, regardin' shine er rain,
And post 'em when to shet her off, er let her on again!
And yit I'd ruther, after all--considern other chores
I' got on hands, a-tendin' both to my affares and yours--
I'd ruther miss the blame I'd git, a-rulin' things up thare,
And spend my extry time in praise and gratitude and prayer._
'Ras Wilson, I respect you, 'cause
You're common, like you allus was
Afore you went to town and s'prised
The world by gittin' "reckonized,"
And yit perservin', as I say,
Your common hoss-sense ev'ryway!
And when that name o' yourn occurs
On hand-bills, er in newspapers,
Er letters writ by friends 'at ast
About you, same as in the past,
And neghbors and relations 'low
You're out o' the tall timber now,
And "gittin' thare" about as spry's
The next!--as _I say_, when my eyes,
Er ears, lights on your name, I mind
The first time 'at I come to find
You--and my Rickollection yells,
Jest jubilunt as old sleigh-bells--
"'Ras Wilson! Say! Hold up! and shake
A paw, fer old acquaintance sake!"
My _Rickollection_, more'n like,
Hain't overly too apt to strike
The what's-called "cultchurd public eye"
As wisdom of the deepest dye,--
And yit my _Rickollection_ makes
So blame lots fewer bad mistakes,
Regardin' human-natchur' and
The fellers 'at I've shook theyr hand,
Than my _best jedgemunt's_ done, the day
I've met 'em--'fore I got away,--
'At--Well, 'Ras Wilson, let me grip
_Your_ hand in warmest pardnership!
Dad-burn ye!--Like to jest haul back
A' old flat-hander, jest che-whack!
And take you 'twixt the shoulders, say,
Sometime you're lookin' t'other way!--
Er, maybe whilse you're speakin' to
A whole blame Courthouse-full o' 'thu-
Syastic friends, I'd like to jest
Come in-like and break up the nest
Afore you hatched anuther cheer,
And say: "'Ras, _I_ can't stand hitched here
All night--ner wouldn't ef I could!--
You ust to live at, 's sent some word
Fer you, ef ary chance occurred
To git it to ye,--so ef you
_Kin_ stop, I'm waitin' fer ye to!"
You're common, as I said afore--
You're common, yit oncommon _more_.--
You allus kindo' 'pear, to me,
What all mankind had ort to be--
Jest _natchurl_, and the more hurraws
You git, the less you know the cause--
Like as ef God Hisse'f stood by
Where best on earth hain't half knee-high,
And _seein'_ like, and knowin' _He_
'S the Only Grate Man really,
You're jest content to size your hight
With any feller-man's in sight.--
And even then they's scrubs, like me,
Feels stuck-up, in your company!
Like now:--I want to go with you
Plum out o' town a mile er two
Clean past the Fair-ground whare's some hint
O' pennyrile er peppermint,
And bottom-lands, and timber thick
Enugh to sorto' shade the crick!
I want to _see_ you--want to set
Down somers, whare the grass hain't wet,
And kindo' _breathe_ you, like puore air--
And taste o' your tobacker thare,
And talk and chaw! Talk o' the birds
We've knocked with cross-bows.--Afterwards
Drop, mayby, into some dispute
'Bout "pomgrannies," er cal'mus-root--
And how _they_ growed, and _whare_?--on tree
Er vine?--Who's best boy-memory!--
And wasn't it _gingsang_, insted
O' cal'mus-root, growed like you said?--
Er how to tell a coon-track from
A mussrat's;--er how milksick come--
Er ef _cows_ brung it?--Er why now
We never see no "muley"-cow--
Ner "frizzly"-chicken--ner no "clay-
Bank" mare--ner nothin' thataway!--
And what's come o' the _yellow_-core
Old wortermelons?--hain't no more.--
Tomattusus, the same--all _red_-
Uns nowadays--All past joys fled--
Each and all jest gone k-whizz!
Like our days o' childhood is!
Dag-gone it, 'Ras! they hain't no friend,
It 'pears-like, left to comperhend
Sich things as these but you, and see
How dratted sweet they air to me!
But you, 'at's loved 'em allus, and
Kin sort 'em out and understand
'Em, same as the fine books you've read,
And all fine thoughts you've writ, er said,
Er worked out, through long nights o' rain,
And doubts and fears, and hopes, again,
As bright as morning when she broke,--
You know a teardrop from a joke!
And so, 'Ras Wilson, stop and shake
A paw, fer old acquaintance sake!
I tell you what I'd ruther do--
Ef I only had my ruthers,--
I'd ruther work when I wanted to
Than be bossed round by others;--
I'd ruther kindo' git the swing
O' what was _needed_, first, I jing!
Afore I _swet_ at anything!--
Ef I only had my ruthers;--
In fact I'd aim to be the same
With all men as my brothers;
And they'd all be the same with _me_--
Ef I only had my ruthers.
I wouldn't likely know it all--
Ef I only had my ruthers;--
I'd know _some_ sense, and some base-ball--
Some _old_ jokes, and--some others:
I'd know _some politics_, and 'low
Some tarif-speeches same as now,
Then go hear Nye on "Branes and How
To Detect Theyr Presence." _T'others_,
That stayed away, I'd _let_ 'em stay--
All my dissentin' brothers
Could chuse as shore a kill er cuore,
Ef I only had my ruthers.
The pore 'ud git theyr dues _some_times--
Ef I only had my ruthers,--
And be paid _dollars_ 'stid o' _dimes_,
Fer childern, wives and mothers:
Theyr boy that slaves; theyr girl that sews--
Fer _others_--not herself, God knows!--
The grave's _her_ only change of clothes!
... Ef I only had my ruthers,
They'd all have "stuff" and time enugh
To answer one-another's
Appealin' prayer fer "lovin' care"--
Ef I only had my ruthers.
They'd be few folks 'ud ast fer trust,
Ef I only had my ruthers,
And blame few business-men to bu'st
Theyrselves, er harts of others:
Big Guns that come here durin' Fair-
Week could put up jest anywhare,
And find a full-and-plenty thare,
Ef I only had my ruthers:
The rich and great 'ud 'sociate
With all theyr lowly brothers,
Feelin' _we_ done the honorun--
Ef I only had my ruthers.
Fly away! thou heavenly one!--
I do hail thee on thy flight!
Sorrow? thou hath tasted none--
Perfect joy is yourn by right.
Fly away! and bear our love
To thy kith and kin above!
I can tetch thy finger-tips
Ca'mly, and bresh back the hair
From thy forr'ed with my lips,
And not leave a teardrop thare.--
Weep fer _Tomps and Ruth_--and _me_--
But I can not weep fer _thee_.
It's the curiousest thing in creation,
Whenever I hear that old song
"Do They Miss Me at Home," I'm so bothered,
My life seems as short as it's long!--
Fer ev'rything 'pears like adzackly
It 'peared in the years past and gone,--
When I started out sparkin', at twenty,
And had my first neckercher on!
Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer
Right now than my parents was then,
You strike up that song "Do They Miss Me,"
And I'm jest a youngster again!--
I'm a-standin' back thare in the furries
A-wishin' fer evening to come,
And a-whisperin' over and over
Them words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
You see, _Marthy Ellen she_ sung it
The first time I heerd it; and so,
As she was my very first sweethart,
It reminds me of her, don't you know;--
How her face ust to look, in the twilight,
As I tuck her to Spellin'; and she
Kep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her,
Pine-blank, ef she ever missed _me_!
I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it,
And hear her low answerin' words;
And then the glad chirp of the crickets,
As clear as the twitter of birds;
And the dust in the road is like velvet,
And the ragweed and fennel and grass
Is as sweet as the scent of the lillies
Of Eden of old, as we pass.
"_Do They Miss Me at Home?_" Sing it lower--
And softer--and sweet as the breeze
That powdered our path with the snowy
White bloom of the old locus'-trees!
Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it,
And the echoes 'way over the hill,
Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus
Of stars, and our voices is still.
But oh! "They's a chord in the music
That's missed when _her_ voice is away!"
Though I listen from midnight tel morning,
And dawn tel the dusk of the day!
And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards
And on through the heavenly dome,
With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin'
The words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
"Coon-dog Wess"--he allus went
'Mongst us here by that-air name.
Moved in this-here Settlement
From next county--he laid claim,--
Lived down in the bottoms--whare
_Ust_ to be some coons in thare!--
In nigh Clayton's, next the crick,--
Coons in thare was jest that thick,
He'p him corn-plant any day!--
And, in rostneer-time, be then
Aggin' him to plant again!
This-here "Coon-dog Wess" he come--
Fetchin' 'long 'bout forty-'leven
Ornriest-lookin' hounds, I gum!
Ever mortul-man laid eyes
On sence dawn o' Christian skies!
Wife come traipsin' at the rag-
Tag-and-bobtail of the crowd,
Dogs and childern, with a bag
Corn-meal and some side-meat,--_Proud_
Yit a mild look in her eye.
Well--this "Coon-dog Wess" he jest
Moved in that-air little pen
Of a pole-shed, aidgin' west
On "The Slues o' Death," called then.--
Otter- and mink-hunters ust
To camp thare 'fore game vam-moosd.
Abul-bodied man,--and lots
Call fer _choppers_--and fer hands
To git _cross-ties_ out.--But what's
_Work_ to sich as understands
Ways appinted and is hence
Under special providence?--
"Coon-dog Wess's" holts was _hounds_
And _coon-huntin'_; and he knowed
_His_ own range, and stayed in bounds
And left work for them 'at showed
_Talents_ fer it--same as his
Gifts regardin' coon-dogs is.
Hounds of ev'ry mungerl breed
Ever whelped on earth!--Had these
_Yeller_ kind, with punkin-seed
Marks above theyr eyes--and fleas
Both to sell and keep!--Also
These-here _lop-yeerd_ hounds, you know.--
Yes-and _brindle_ hounds--and long,
Ga'nt hounds, with them eyes they' got
So blame _sorry_, it seems wrong,
'Most, to kick 'em as to not!
Man, though, wouldn't dast, I guess,
Kick a hound fer "Coon-dog Wess"!
'Tended to his own affairs
Stric'ly;--made no brags,--and yit
You could see 'at them hounds' cares
'Peared like _his_,--and he'd a-fit
Fer 'em, same as wife er child!--
Them facts made folks rickonciled,
And not pester him. And then
Word begin to spread 'at he
Had brung in as high as ten
Coon-pelts in one night--and yit
Didn't 'pear to boast of it!
Neghborhood made some complaints
'Bout them plague-gone hounds at night
Howlin' fit to wake the saints,
Clean from dusk tel plum day-light!
But to "Coon-dog Wess" them-thare
Howls was "music in the air"!
Fetched his pelts to Gilson's Store--
Newt he shipped fer him, and said,
Sence _he'd_ cooned thare, he'd shipped more
Than three hunderd pelts!--"By Ned!
Git shet of my _store_," Newt says,
"I'd go in with 'Coon-dog Wess'!"
And the feller 'peared to be
Makin' best and most he could
Of his rale prospairity:--
Bought some household things--and _good_,--
Likewise, wagon-load onc't come
From wharever he'd moved from.
But pore feller's huntin'-days,
'Bout them times, was glidin' past!--
Goes out onc't one night and _stays!_
... Neghbors they turned out, at last,
Headed by his wife and one
Half-starved hound--and search begun.
Boys said, that blame hound, he led
Searchin' party, 'bout a half
Mile ahead, and bellerin', said,
Worse'n ary yearlin' calf!--
Tel, at last, come fur-off sounds
Like the howl of other hounds.
And-sir, shore enugh, them signs
Fetched 'em--in a' hour er two--
Whare the _pack_ was;--and they finds
"Coon-dog Wess" _right thare_;--And you
Would admitted he was right
_Stayin'_, as he had, _all night!_
Facts is, cuttin' down a tree,
The blame thing had sorto' fell
In a twist-like--_mercy me!_
And had ketched him.--Couldn't tell,
Wess said, _how_ he'd managed--yit
He'd got both legs under it!
Fainted and come to, I s'pose,
'Bout a dozen times whilse they
Chopped him out!--And wife she froze
To him!--bresh his hair away
And smile cheerful'--only when
He'd faint.--Cry and kiss him _then_.
Had _his_ nerve!--And nussed him through,--
Neghbors he'pped her--all she'd stand.--
Had a loom, and she could do
Carpet-weavin' railly grand!--
"'Sides," she ust to laugh and say,
"She'd have Wess, now, _night_ and day!"
As fer _him_, he'd say, says-ee,
"I'm resigned to bein' lame:--
They was four coons up that tree,
And hounds got 'em, jest the same!"
'Peared like, one er two legs less
Never worried "Coon-dog Wess"!
We profissied your runnin'-geers 'ud stand a soggy load
And pull her, purty stiddy, up a mighty rocky road:
We been a-watchin' your career sence you could write your name--
Quiled up and tide in dubble bows, lookt like a nest o' snakes!--
A-bein' "_J. C. Ridpath_" when _we_ only called you "_John_."
Your Parents, whilse a-piratin' your way through winter school!
And they was other symptums, too, that pinted, plane as day,
To nothin' short of _College_!--and _one_ was the lovin' way
Your mother had of cheerin' you to efforts brave and strong,
And puttin' more faith in you, as you needed it along:
She'd pat you on the shoulder, er she'd grab you by the hands,
Was battled fer and won fer her and glory of her name.
The likes of _you_ at _College_! But you went thare. How you paid
And not as snug and warm as some 'at hid the other chaps;--
But when it come to _Intullect_--they tell me yourn was dressed
A _leetle_ mite _superber_-like than any of the rest!
Plum at the dashboard of the whole-endurin' Alfabet!
Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days--
Of the times as they ust to be;
"Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakspeare's Plays"
Is a' most too deep fer me!
I want plane facts, and I want plane words,
Of the good old-fashiond ways,
When speech run free as the songs of birds
'Way back in the airly days.
Tell me a tale of the timber-lands--
Of the old-time pioneers;
Somepin' a pore man understands
With his feelin's well as ears.
Tell of the old log house,--about
The loft, and the puncheon flore--
The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out,
And the latch-string thrugh the door.
Tell of the things jest as they was--
They don't need no excuse!--
Don't tetch 'em up like the poets does,
Tel theyr all too fine fer use!--
Say they was 'leven in the fambily--
Two beds, and the chist, below,
And the trundle-beds that each helt three,
And the clock and the old bureau.
Then blow the horn at the old back-door
Tel the echoes all halloo,
And the childern gethers home onc't more,
Jest as they ust to do:
Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes,
With Tomps and Elias, too,
A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums
Blow and blow tel the sound draps low
As the moan of the whipperwill,
And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo,
All sleepin' at Bethel Hill:
Blow and call tel the faces all
Shine out in the back-log's blaze,
And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall
As they did in the airly days.
"Mylo Jones's wife" was all
I heerd, mighty near, last Fall--
Visitun relations down
T'other side of Morgantown!
Mylo Jones's wife she does
This and that, and "those" and "thus"!--
Can't 'bide babies in her sight--
Ner no childern, day and night,
Whoopin' round the premises--
_Ner no nothin' else_, I guess!
Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
She's the boss of her own house!--
Mylo--consequences is--
Stays whare things seem _some_ like _his_,--
Uses, mostly, with the stock--
Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk,
Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
Act, I s'pose, so much like _her_!
Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
She's _perfection_.--Yes they do!
Mylo's wife she says she's found
Home hain't home with _men-folks_ round
When they's work like _hern_ to do--
Picklin' pears and _butchern_, too,
And a-rendern lard, and then
Cookin' fer a pack of men
To come trackin' up the flore
_She's_ scrubbed _tel_ she'll scrub no _more_!--
Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!
Mylo Jones's wife she sews
Carpet-rags and patches clothes
Jest year _in_ and _out_!--and yit
Whare's the livin' use of it?
She asts Mylo that.--And he
Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
With his team;--jest _plows_--and don't
Never sware--like some folks won't!
Think ef _he'd cut loose_, I gum!
'D he'p his heavenly chances some!
Mylo's wife don't see no use,
Ner no reason ner excuse
Fer his pore relations to
Hang round like they allus do!
Thare 'bout onc't a year--and _she_--
She jest _ga'nts_ 'em, folks tells me,
On spiced pears!--Pass Mylo one,
He says "No, he don't chuse none!"
Workin' men like Mylo they
'D ort to have _meat_ ev'ry day!
Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!
Ruther rake a blame caseknife
'Crost my wizzen than to see
Sich a womern rulin' _me_!--
Ruther take and turn in and
Raise a fool mule-colt by hand!
Jest keeps ca'm--like some folks _can_--
And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,
Is _Man's he'pmeet_!--Mercy knows!
He was warned against the _womern_--
She was warned aginst the _man_.--
And ef _that_ won't make a weddin',
W'y, they's nothin' else that can!
Old John Clevenger lets on,
Allus, like he's purty rough
Timber.--He's a grate old John!--
"Rough?"--don't swaller no sich stuff!
Moved here, sence the war was through,
From Ohio--somers near
Old Bucyrus,--loyal, too,
As us "Hoosiers" is to _here_!
Git old John stirred up a bit
On his old home stompin'-ground--
Talks same as he lived thare yit,
When some subject brings it round--
Like, fer instunce, Sund'y last,
Fetched his wife, and et and stayed
All night with us.--Set and gassed
Tel plum midnight--'cause I made
Some remark 'bout "buckeyes" and
"What was buckeyes good fer?"--So,
Like I 'lowed, he waved his hand
And lit in and let me know:--
"'What is Buckeyes good fer?'--What's
_Pineys_ and _fergitmenots_?--
Honeysuckles, and sweet peas,
And sweet-williamsuz, and these
Johnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare,
Growin' round the roots o' trees
In Spring-weather?--what air _they_
Good fer?--kin you tell me--_Hey?_
'Good to look at?' Well they air!
'Specially when _Winter's_ gone,
Clean _dead-certin!_ and the wood's
Green again, and sun feels good's
June!--and shed your blame boots on
The back porch, and lit out to
Roam round like you ust to do,
Bare-foot, up and down the crick,
Whare the buckeyes growed so thick,
And witch-hazel and pop-paws,
And hackberries and black-haws--
With wild pizen-vines jis knit
_Over_ and _en-nunder_ it,
And wove round it all, I jing!
Tel you couldn't hardly stick
A durn _caseknife_ through the thing!
Wriggle round through _that_; and then--
All het-up, and scratched and tanned,
And muskeeter-bit and mean-
Feelin'--all at onc't again,
Come out suddent on a clean
Slopin' little hump o' green
Dry soft grass, as fine and grand
As a pollor-sofy!--And
Jis pile down thare!--and tell _me_
_Anywhares_ you'd ruther be--
'Ceptin' _right thare_, with the wild-
Flowrs all round ye, and your eyes
Smilin' with 'em at the skies,
Happy as a little child!
Well!--right here, _I_ want to say,
Poets kin talk all they please
'Bout 'wild-flowrs, in colors gay,'
And 'sweet blossoms flauntin' theyr
Beauteous fragrunce on the breeze'--
But the sight o' _buckeyes_ jis
Sweet to me as _blossoms_ is!
"I'm _Ohio-born_--right whare
People's _all_ called 'Buckeyes' _thare_--
'Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap's
Biggest in the world, perhaps!--
Ner my head don't stretch my hat
Too much on account o' _that_!--
'Cause it's Natchur's ginerus hand
Sows 'em broadcast ore the land,
With eye-single fer man's good
And the gineral neghborhood!
So _buckeyes_ jis natchurly
'Pears like _kith-and-kin_ to _me_!
'Slike the good old sayin' wuz,
We can't eat 'em, cookd er raw--
Yit, I mind, _tomattusuz_
Wuz considerd pizenus
'Twouldn't take _me_ by supprise,
Someday, ef we et _buckeyes_!
That, though, 's nuther here ner thare!--
_Jis the Buckeye_ whare we air,
In the present times, is what
Ockuppies my lovin' care
And my most perfoundest thought!
... Guess, this minute, what I got
In my pocket, 'at I've packed
Purt'-nigh forty year.--A dry,
Slick and shiny, warped and cracked,
Wilted, weazened old _buckeye_!
What's it _thare_ fer? What's my hart
In my _brest_ fer?--'Cause it's part
Of my _life_--and 'tends to biz--
Like this _buckeye's_ bound to act--
'Cause _it_ 'tends to _Rhumatiz_!
"... Ketched more _rhumatiz_ than _fish_,
Seinen', onc't--and pants froze on
My blame legs!--And ust to wish
I wuz well er _dead and gone_!
Doc give up the case, and shod
His old boss again and stayed
On good roads!--_And thare I laid!_
Pap he tuck some bluegrass sod
Steeped in whisky, bilin'-hot,
And socked _that_ on! Then I got
Sorto' holt o' him, _somehow_--
And I'd _killed_ him, like as not,
Ef I hadn't swooned away!
_Smell my scortcht pelt purt'-nigh now!_
Well--to make a long tale short--
I hung on the blame disease
Like a shavin'-hoss! and sort
O' wore it out by slow degrees--
Tel my legs wuz straight enugh
To poke through my pants again
And kick all the doctor-stuff
In the fi-er-place! Then turned in
And tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore--
Hain't no case o' rhumatiz
Kin subsist whare buckeyes is!"
The hoss he is a splendud beast;
He is man's friend, as heaven desined,
And, search the world from west to east,
No honester you'll ever find!
And yit, like Him who died fer you,
I say, as I theyr charge refute,
"'Fergive; they know not what they do!'"
No wiser animal makes tracks
Upon these earthly shores, and hence
Arose the axium, true as facts,
Extoled by all, as "Good hoss-sense!"
The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,--
You hitch him up a time er two
And lash him, and he'll go his len'th
And kick the dashboard out fer you!
But, treat him allus good and kind,
And never strike him with a stick,
Ner aggervate him, and you'll find
He'll never do a hostile trick.
A hoss whose master tends him right
And worters him with daily care,
Will do your biddin' with delight,
And act as docile as _you_ air.
He'll paw and prance to hear your praise,
Because he's learn't to love you well;
And, though you can't tell what he says,
He'll nicker all he wants to tell.
He knows you when you slam the gate
At early dawn, upon your way
Unto the barn, and snorts elate,
To git his corn, er oats, er hay.
He knows you, as the orphant knows
The folks that loves her like theyr own,
And raises her and "finds" her clothes,
And "schools" her tel a womern-grown!
I claim no hoss will harm a man,
Ner kick, ner run away, cavort,
Stump-suck, er balk, er "catamaran,"
Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.
But when I see the beast abused,
And clubbed around as I've saw some,
I want to see his owner noosed,
And jest yanked up like Absolum!
Of course they's differunce in stock,--
A hoss that has a little yeer,
And slender build, and shaller hock,
Can beat his shadder, mighty near!
Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist
And big in leg and full in flank,
That tries to race, I still insist
He'll have to take the second rank.
And I have jest laid back and laughed,
And rolled and wallered in the grass
At fairs, to see some heavy-draft
Lead out at _first_, yit come in _last_!
Each hoss has his appinted place,--
The heavy hoss should plow the soil;--
The blooded racer, he must race,
And win big wages fer his toil.
I never bet--ner never wrought
Upon my feller-man to bet--
And yit, at times, I've often thought
Of my convictions with regret.
I bless the hoss from hoof to head--
From head to hoof, and tale to mane!--
I bless the hoss, as I have said,
From head to hoof, and back again!
I love my God the first of all,
Then Him that perished on the cross,
And next, my wife,--and then I fall
Down on my knees and love the hoss.
Come listen, good people, while a story I do tell,
Of the sad fate of one which I knew so passing well;
He enlisted at McCordsville, to battle in the South,
And protect his country's union; his name was Ezra House.
He was a young school-teacher, and educated high
In regards to Ray's arithmetic, and also Algebra:
He give good satisfaction, but at his country's call
He dropped his position, his Algebra and all.
"It's oh, I'm going to leave you, kind scholars," he said--
For he wrote a composition the last day and read;
And it brought many tears in the eyes of the school,
To say nothing of his sweetheart he was going to leave so soon.
"I have many recollections to take with me away,
Of the merry transpirations in the school-room so gay;
And of all that's past and gone I will never regret
I went to serve my country at the first of the outset!"
He was a good penman, and the lines that he wrote
On that sad occasion was too fine for me to quote,--
For I was there and heard it, and I ever will recall
It brought the happy tears to the eyes of us all.
And when he left, his sweetheart she fainted away,
And said she could never forget the sad day
When her lover so noble, and gallant and gay,
Said "Fare you well, my true love!" and went marching away.
But he hadn't been gone for more than two months,
When the sad news come--"he was in a skirmish once,
And a cruel Rebel ball had wounded him full sore
In the region of the chin, through the canteen he wore."
But his health recruited up, and his wounds they got well,
But whilst he was in battle at Bull Run or Malvern Hill,
The news come again, so sorrowful to hear--
"A sliver from a bombshell cut off his right ear."
But he stuck to the boys, and it's often he would write,
That "he wasn't afraid for his country to fight."
But oh, had he returned on a furlough, I believe
He would not, to-day, have such cause to grieve.
For in another battle--the name I never heard--
He was guarding the wagons when an accident occurred,--
A comrade who was under the influence of drink,
Shot him with a musket through the right cheek, I think.
But his dear life was spared; but it hadn't been for long,
Till a cruel Rebel colonel come riding along,
And struck him with his sword, as many do suppose,
For his cap-rim was cut off, and also his nose.
But Providence, who watches o'er the noble and the brave,
Snatched him once more from the jaws of the grave;
And just a little while before the close of the war,
He sent his picture home to his girl away so far.
And she fell into decline, and she wrote in reply,
"She had seen his face again and was ready to die";
And she wanted him to promise, when she was in her tomb,
He would only visit that by the light of the moon.
But he never returned at the close of the war,
And the boys that got back said he hadn't the heart;
But he got a position in a powder-mill, and said
He hoped to meet the doom that his country denied.
Most ontimely old man yit!
'Pear-like sometimes he jest _tries_
His fool-self, and takes the bitt
In his teeth and jest de-fies
All perpryties!--Lay and swet
Doin' _nothin'_--only jest
Sorto' speckillatun on
Whare old summertimes is gone,
And 'bout things that he loved best
When a youngster! Heerd him say
_Springtimes_ made him thataway--
Speshully on _Sund'ys_--when
Sun shines out and in again,
And the lonesome old hens they
Git off under the old kern-
Bushes, and in deep concern
_Talk-like to theyrselvs_, and scratch
Kindo' absunt-minded, jest
Like theyr thoughts was fur away
In some neghbor's gyarden-patch
Folks has tended keerfullest!
Heerd the old man dwell on these
Idys time and time again!--
Heerd him claim that orchurd-trees
Bloomin', put the mischief in
His old hart sometimes that bad
And owdacious that he "_had_
To break loose _some_way," says he,
"Ornry as I ust to be!"
Heerd him say one time--when I
Was a sorto' standin' by,
And the air so still and clear,
Heerd the bell fer church clean here!--
Said: "Ef I could climb and set
On the old three-cornerd rail
Old home-place, nigh Maryette',
And-sir! blame ef tear and laugh
Didn't ketch him half and half!
"Oh!" he says, "to wake and be
Bare-foot, in the airly dawn
In the pastur'!--thare," says he,
"Standin' whare the cow's slep' on
The cold, dewy grass that's got
_Print_ of her jest steamy hot
Fer to warm a feller's heels
In a while!--How good it feels!
Nothin' but the _silunce_--see
Nothin' but green woods and clear
Skies and unwrit poetry
By the acre!... Oh!" says he,
"What's this voice of mine?--to seek
To speak out, and yit _can't_ speak!
Takin' his contrairyest leap,
He went on,--"git up, er sleep--
Er whilse feedin', watch the haze
Dancin' 'crost the wheat,--and keep
My pipe goin' laisurely--
Puff and whiff as pleases me,--
Er I'll leave a trail of smoke
Through _the house_!--no one'll say
'_Throw that nasty thing away!_'
'Pear-like nothin' sacerd's broke,
Goin' bare-foot ef I chuse!--
I _have fiddled_;--and dug bait
And _went fishin'_;--pitched hoss-shoes--
Whare they couldn't see us from
The main road.--And I've _beat_ some.
I've set round and had my joke
With the thrashers at the barn--
Er I've he'pped the childern poke
Fer hens'-nests--agged on a match
'Twixt the boys, to watch 'em scratch
And paw round and rip and tare,
And bust buttons and pull hair
To theyr rompin' harts' content--
And me jest a-settin' thare
Hatchin' out more devilment!
"What you s'pose now ort to be
Done with sich a man?" says he--
"Sich a fool-old-man as me!"
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.--
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
Men ginerly, to all intents--
Although they're apt to grumble some--
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come--
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me
Has watched the world enugh to learn
They're not the boss of this concern.
With _some_, of course, it's different--
I've saw _young_ men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestchul ball;--
But all the same, the rain, some way,
Rained jest as hard on picnic day;
Er, when they railly _wanted_ it,
It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existunce, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men--
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then.--
And mayby, whilse you're wundern who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you hain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too--
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waitin' round to do
Before the plowin' 's done:
And mayby, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm--and jest about
The time the corn's a-jintin' out.
These-here _cy-clones_ a-foolin' round--
And back'ard crops!--and wind and rain!--
And yit the corn that's wallerd down
May elbow up again!--
They hain't no sense, as I can see,
Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be
A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.--
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
I like fun--and I like jokes
'Bout as well as most o' folks!--
Like my joke, and like my fun;--
But a joke, I'll state right here,
'S got some p'int--er I don't keer
Fer no joke that hain't got none.--
I hain't got no use, I'll say,
Fer a _pore_ joke, anyway!
F'rinstunce, now, when _some_ folks gits
To relyin' on theyr wits,
Ten to one they git too smart
And _spile_ it all, right at the start!
Feller wants to jest go slow
And do his _thinkin'_ first, you know.
'F I can't think up somepin' good,
I set still and chaw my cood!
'F you _think_ nothin'--jest keep on,
But don't _say_ it--er you're gone!
Oh! Thou that vaileth from all eyes
The glory of Thy face,
And setteth throned behind the skies
In Thy abiding-place:
Though I but dimly recko'nize
Thy purposes of grace;
And though with weak and wavering
Deserts, and vexd with fears,
I lift the hands I can not wring
All dry of sorrow's tears,
Make puore my prayers that daily wing
Theyr way unto Thy ears!
Oh! with the hand that tames the flood
And smooths the storm to rest,
Make ba'mmy dews of all the blood
That stormeth in my brest,
And so refresh my hart to bud
And bloom the loveliest.
Lull all the clammer of my soul
To silunce; bring release
Unto the brane still in controle
Of doubts; bid sin to cease,
And let the waves of pashun roll
And kiss the shores of peace.
Make me to love my feller-man--
Yea, though his bitterness
Doth bite as only adders can--
Let _me_ the fault confess,
And go to him and clasp his hand
And love him none the less.
So keep me, Lord, ferever free
From vane concete er whim;
And he whose pius eyes can see
My faults, however dim,--
Oh! let him pray the least fer me,
And me the most fer him.
Jest rain and snow! and rain again!
And dribble! drip! and blow!
Then snow! and thaw! and slush! and then--
Some more rain and snow!
This morning I was 'most afeard
To _wake_ up--when, I jing!
I seen the sun shine out and heerd
The first bluebird of Spring!--
Mother she'd raised the winder some;--
And in acrost the orchurd come,
Soft as a angel's wing,
A breezy, treesy, beesy hum,
Too sweet fer anything!
The winter's shroud was rent a-part--
The sun bust forth in glee,--
And when that _that bluebird_ sung, my hart
Hopped out o' bed with me!
Pore afflicted Evagene!
Whilse the woods is fresh and green,
And the birds on ev'ry hand
Sings in rapture sweet and grand,--
Thou, of all the joyus train,
Art bedridden, and in pain
Sich as only them can cherish
Who, like flowrs, is first to perish!
When the neghbors brought the word
She was down, the folks inferred
It was jest a cold she'd caught,
Dressin' thinner than she'd ort
Fer the frolicks and the fun
Of the dancin' that she'd done
'Fore the Spring was flush er ary
Blossom on the peach er cherry.
But, last Sund'y, her request
Fer the Church's prayers was jest
Rail hart-renderin' to hear!--
Many was the silunt tear
And the tremblin' sigh, to show
She was dear to us below
On this earth--and _dearer_, even,
When we thought of her a-leavin'!
Sisters prayed, and coted from
Genesis to Kingdom-come
Provin' of her title clear
_They_ claimed, "might be saved, _someway_,
Though she'd danced, and played crowkay,
And wrought on her folks to git her
Fancy shoes that never fit her!"
_Us_ to pray fer _Evagene_!--
With her hart as puore and clean
As a rose is after rain
When the sun comes out again!--
What's the use to pray for _her_?
_She_ don't need no prayin' fer!--
Needed, all her life, more _playin'_
Than she ever needed prayin'!
I jest thought of all she'd been
Sence her _mother_ died, and when
She turned in and done _her_ part--
All _her_ cares on that child-hart!--
Thought of years she'd slaved--and had
Saved the farm--danced and was glad....
Mayby Him who marks the sporry
Will smooth down her wings tomorry!
As it's give' me to percieve,
I most certin'y believe
When a man's jest glad plum through,
God's pleased with him, same as you.
They's a predjudice allus 'twixt country and town
Which I wisht in my hart wasent so.
You take _city_ people, jest square up and down,
And they're mighty good people to know:
And whare's better people a-livin', to-day,
Than us in the _country_?--Yit good
As both of us is, we're divorsed, you might say,
And won't compermise when we could!
Now as nigh into town fer yer Pap, ef you please,
Is the what's called the sooburbs.--Fer thare
You'll at least ketch a whiff of the breeze and a sniff
Of the breth of wild-flowrs ev'rywhare.
They's room fer the childern to play, and grow, too--
And to roll in the grass, er to climb
Up a tree and rob nests, like they _ortent_ to do,
But they'll do _any_how ev'ry time!
My Son-in-law said, when he lived in the town,
He jest natchurly pined, night and day,
Fer a sight of the woods, er a acre of ground
Whare the trees wasent all cleared away!
And he says to me onc't, whilse a-visitin' us
On the farm, "It's not strange, I declare,
That we can't coax you folks, without raisin' a fuss,
To come to town, visitin' thare!"
And says I, "Then git back whare you sorto' _belong_--
And _Madaline_, too,--and yer three
Little childern," says I, "that don't know a birdsong,
Ner a hawk from a chicky-dee-dee!
Git back," I-says-I, "to the blue of the sky
And the green of the fields, and the shine
Of the sun, with a laugh in yer voice and yer eye
As harty as Mother's and mine!"
Well--long-and-short of it,--he's compermised _some_--
He's moved in the sooburbs.--And now
They don't haf to coax, when they want us to come,
'Cause we turn in and go _anyhow_!
Fer thare--well, they's room fer the songs and purfume
Of the grove and the old orchurd-ground,
And they's room fer the childern out thare, and they's room
Fer theyr Gran'pap to waller 'em round!
Through fire and flood this book has passed.--
Fer what?--I hardly dare to ast--
Less'n it's still to pamper me
With extry food fer vanity;--
Fer, sence it's fell in hands as true
As _yourn_ is--and a _Hoosier_ too,--
I'm prouder of the book, I jing!
Than 'fore they tried to burn the thing!
It's lonesome--sorto' lonesome,--it's a _Sund'y-day_, to me,
It 'pears-like--more'n any day I nearly ever see!--
Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the air,
On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lilly thare.
They say, though, Decoration Days is giner'ly observed
'Most _ev'rywhares_--espeshally by soldier-boys that's served.--
But me and Mother's never went--we seldom git away,--
In p'int o' fact, we're _allus_ home on _Decoration Day_.
And citizuns all jinin' in--and little childern, too--
All marchin', under shelter of the old Red White and Blue.--
With roses! roses! roses!--everybody in the town!--
And crowds o' little girls in white, jest fairly loaded down!--
Oh! don't THE BOYS know it, from theyr camp acrost the hill?--
Oh! can't they hear the bugul and the rattle of the drum?--
Ain't they no way under heavens they can rickollect us some?
Ain't they no way we can coax 'em, through the roses, jest to say
We've tried that--me and Mother,--whare Elias takes his rest,
In the orchurd--in his uniform, and hands acrost his brest,
And the flag he died fer, smilin' and a-ripplin' in the breeze
Above his grave--and over that,--_the robin in the trees_!
Still, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the air,
"'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad,
"I've twittered fer rain all day;
And I got up soon,
And hollered tel noon--
But the sun, hit blazed away,
Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
Weary at hart, and sick at soul!
"Dozed away fer an hour,
And I tackled the thing agin:
And I sung, and sung,
Tel I knowed my lung
Was jest about give in;
And _then_, thinks I, ef hit don't rain _now_,
They's nothin' in singin', anyhow!
"Onc't in a while some farmer
Would come a-drivin' past;
And he'd hear my cry,
And stop and sigh--
Tel I jest laid back, at last,
And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oat
Would bust wide open at ever' note!
'Cause a little while ago,
As I kindo' set,
With one eye shet,
And a-singin' soft and low,
A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,
Folks up here at Rossville got up a Lectur' Course:--
All the leadin' citizens they wuz out in force;
Met and talked at Williamses', and 'greed to meet ag'in;
And helt another corkus when the next reports wuz in:
Met ag'in at Samuelses'; and met ag'in at Moore's,
And Johnts putt the shutters up and jest barr'd the door!--
And yit, I'll jest be dagg-don'd! ef't didn't take a week
'Fore we'd settled whare to write to git a man to speak!
Found out whare the "_Bureau_" wuz; and then and thare agreed
To strike whilse the iron's hot and foller up the lead.--
Simp wuz Secatary; so he tuk his pen in hand,
And ast 'em what they'd tax us fer the one on "Holy Land"--
"One of Colonel J. De-Koombs's Abelust and Best
Lectur's," the circ'lar stated, "Give East er West!"
Wanted fifty dollars and his kyar-fare to and from,
And Simp wuz hence instructed fer to write him not to come.
Then we talked and jawed around another week er so,
And writ the "_Bureau_" 'bout the town a-bein' sorto' slow--
Old-fogey-like, and pore as dirt, and lackin' interprise,
And ignornter'n any other, 'cordin' to its size:
Tel finully the "_Bureau_" said they'd send a cheaper man
Nobody knowed his languige, and of course we let him go!
Kindo' then let up a spell--but rallied onc't ag'in,
And writ to price a feller on what's called the "violin"--
A Swede, er Pole, er somepin'--but no matter what he wuz,
Doc Cooper said he'd heerd him, and he wuzn't wuth a kuss!
And then _Burdette_, we tried fer _him_; and Bob he writ to say
He wuz busy writin' ortographts and couldn't git away.
At last--along in Aprile--we signed to take this-here
Bill Nye of Californy, 'at wuz posted to appear
So we made big preperations, and swep' out the church and all!
And night he wuz to lectur', and the neghbors all wuz thare,
And strangers packed along the aisles 'at come from ev'rywhare,
Committee got a telegrapht the preacher read, 'at run--
"Got off at Rossville, _Indiany_, 'stid of Michigun."
In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
And the sun comes out and _stays_,
And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
And you think of yer bare-foot days;
When you _ort_ to work and you want to _not_,
And you and yer wife agrees
When the green gits back in the trees--
Well! work is the least o' _my_ idees
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in
In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
Old gait they bum roun' in;
When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood,
And the crick's riz, and the breeze
Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
And the green gits back in the trees,--
I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
The time when the green gits back in the trees!
When the whole tail-fethers o' Wintertime
Is all pulled out and gone!
And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,
And the swet it starts out on
A feller's forred, a-gittin' down
At the old spring on his knees--
I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun'
When the green gits back in the trees--
Jest a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please--
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
I got to _thinkin'_ of her--both her parunts dead and gone--
And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John
A-livin' all alone thare in that lonesome sorto' way,
And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day!
I'd knowed 'em all, from childern, and theyr daddy from the time
He settled in the neghborhood, and hadn't ary a dime
Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!--
So I got to _thinkin'_ of her--both her parunts dead and gone!
I got to _thinkin'_ of her; and a-wundern what _she_ done
That all _her sisters_ kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,
And her without _no_ chances--and the best girl of the pack--
A' old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!
When none of 'em wuz left, you know, but Evaline and John,
And jest declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline
To not see what a wife they'd git ef they got Evaline!
I got to _thinkin'_ of her: In my great affliction she
Wuz sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neghborly,--
She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,
They'd sometimes _cry_ together--though, fer the most part, she
Would have the child so rickonciled and happy-like 'at we
Felt lonesomer'n ever when she'd putt her bonnet on
And say she'd railly _haf_ to be a-gittin' back to John!
I got to _thinkin'_ of her, as I say,--and more and more
I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,--
Her parunts both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone
And married off, and her a-livin' thare alone with John--
You might say jest a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life
Fer a man 'at hadn't pride enugh to git hisse'f a wife--
'Less some one married _Evaline_ and packed her off some day!--
So I got to _thinkin'_ of her--and--It happened _thataway_.
I' got no patience with blues at all!
And I ust to kindo' talk
Aginst 'em, and claim, tel along last Fall,
They wuz none in the fambly stock;
But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,
That visitud us last year,
He kindo' convinct me differunt
Whilse he wuz a-stayin' here.
From ev'ry-which-way that blues is from,
They'd pester him _ev'ry_-ways;
They'd come to him in the night, and come
On Sundys, and rainy days;
They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time,
And in harvest, and airly Fall,--
But a dos't o' blues in the _Winter_time,
He 'lowed, wuz the worst of all!
Said "All diseases that ever _he_ had--
The mumps, er the rhumatiz--
Er ev'ry-other-day-aigger--bad
As ever the blame thing is!--
Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
Er a felon on his thumb,--
But you keep _the blues_ away from him,
And all o' the rest could come!"
And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below!
Ner a spear o' grass in sight!
And the whole woodpile's clean under snow!
And the days is dark as night!
You can't go out--ner you can't stay in--
Lay down--stand up--ner set!"
And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues
Would double him jest clean shet!
I writ his parunts a postal-kyard
He could stay tel Springtime come;
And Aprile--_first_, as I rickollect--
Wuz the day we shipped him home!
Most o' his _relatives_, sence then,
Has eether give up, er quit,
Er jest died off; but I understand
_He's_ the same old color yit!
This is "The old Home by the Mill"--fer we still call it so,
Although the _old mill_, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
Here, Marg'et!--fetch the man a _tin_ to drink out of! Our spring
All ham-stringed up with rhumatiz, and on in seventy-three.
Jest me and Marg'et lives alone here--like in long ago;
The childern all putt off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' 'way out West somewhare; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.
And youngest one--was allus fer the old home here--but no!--
Her man turns in and he packs _her_ 'way off to Idyho!
I hain't so favor'ble impressed 'bout _dyin'_; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when _us two_ come to die,
Las' July--and, I persume,
As the old Gran'-Jury room
Whare they sot!--
Fight 'twixt Mike and Dock McGreff....
'Pears to me jest like as ef
I'd a-dremp' the whole blame thing--
Allus ha'nts me roun' the gizzard
When they's nightmares on the wing
And a feller's blood's jes' friz!
Seed the row from A to Izzard--
'Cause I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!
Tell you the way it wuz--
And I don't _want_ to see,
Like _some_ fellers does,
When they's goern to be
Any kind o' fuss--
On'y makes a rumpus wuss
Fer to _interfere_
When theyr dander's riz--
Might as lif to _cheer_!
But I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!
I wuz kindo' strayin'
Past the blame saloon--
Heerd some fiddler playin'
That old "Hee-cup tune!"
I'd _stopped_-like, you know,
Fer a minit er so,
And wuz jest about
Whole durn winder-sash fell out!
And thare laid Dock McGreff, and Mike
A-straddlin' him, all bloody-like,
And both a-gittin' down to biz!--
And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!
I wuz the on'y man aroun'--
(Durn old-fogey town!
'Peared more like, to me,
Dog come 'crost the road
And tuk a smell
And putt right back:
Mishler driv by 'ith a load
O' cantalo'pes he couldn't sell--
Too mad, 'i jack!
To even ast
What wuz up, as he went past!
Weather most outrageous hot!--
Fairly hear it sizz
Roun' Dock and Mike--tel Dock he shot,--
And Mike he slacked that grip o' his
And fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz
'Bout half up, a spittin' red,
And shuck his head....
And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!
And Dock he says,
"It hain't no use
He's jest ripped my daylights loose!--
Git that blame-don fiddler to
Let up, and come out here--You
Got some burryin' to do,--
Mike makes _one_, and, I expects,
'Bout ten seconds, I'll make _two_!"
And he drapped back, whare he'd riz,
'Crost Mike's body, black and blue,
Like a great big letter X!--
And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!
Pap had one old-fashioned sayin'
That I'll never quite fergit--
And they's seven growed-up childern
Of us rickollects it yit!--
Settin' round the dinner-table,
Talkin' 'bout our friends, perhaps,
Er abusin' of our neghbors,
I kin hear them words o' Pap's--
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
Pap he'd never argy with us,
Ner cut any subject short
Whilse we all kep' clear o' gossip,
And wuz actin' as we ort:
But ef we'd git out o' order--
Like sometimes a fambly is,--
Faultin' folks, er one another,
Then we'd hear that voice o' his--
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
Wuz no hand hisse'f at talkin'--
Only, as I said, pervidin'
When we'd rile him thataway:
Then he'd allus lose his temper
Spite o' fate, and jerk his head
And slam down his caseknife vicious'
Whilse he glared around and said--
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
Mind last time 'at Pap was ailin'
With a misery in his side,
And had hobbled in the kitchen--
Jest the day before he died,--
Laury Jane she ups and tells him,
"Pap, you're pale as pale kin be--
Hain't ye 'feard them-air cowcumbers
Hain't good fer ye?" And says he,
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
Well! I've saw a-many a sorrow,--
Forty year', through thick and thin;
I've got best,--and I've got _wors'ted_,
Time and time and time ag'in!--
But I've met a-many a trouble
That I hain't run onto twice,
Haltin'-like and thinkin' over
Them-air words o' Pap's advice:
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"
I' b'en a-kindo' "_musin'_," as the feller says, and I'm
About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to know
You git my idy, do you?--_Little_ tads, you understand--
Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a _man_.--
Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day,
And fergettin' all that's in it, wishin' jest the other way!
I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er _dim_onstrate
Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,--
But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,
And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do!--
I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree,
Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders over me;
And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and set
Jest a-thinkin' here, i gravy! tel my eyes is wringin'-wet!
Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the _presunt_, I kin see--
Kindo' like my sight wuz double--all the things that _ust_ to be;
Sets the willer-branches bobbin' "howdy-do" thum _Now_ to _Then_!
The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June,
Thum the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's tune;
And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the snag,
Seems ef they can't--od-rot 'em!--jest do nothin' else but brag!
They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay,
And that sassy little critter jest a-_peckin'_ all the day;
They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the thrush,
And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the brush!
They's music _all around_ me!--And I go back, in a dream
Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep,--and in the stream
That ust to split the medder whare the dandylions growed,
I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the road.
Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!--And they's other fellers, too,
With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and a few
I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out,
With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout"!--
I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam,
And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the dam.
I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill,
And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growlin' still;
And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe,
And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do.
W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul plane
I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane;
And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n "Money-musk"
Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the dusk.
And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, tel I'm
Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the _old_ times,--I de-clare
I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it!" jest as soft as any prayer!
William Williams his name was--er so he said;--Bill Williams they
They was jist a-stoppin' fer dinner. Most of 'em brought ther
drinkin' a little hisse'f, enough to feel it. He didn't drink
cur'ous to see Steve a-he'ppin' pack the feller, after his nearly
Well, of course, them days they wasn't no law o' no account, and
a-howlin' and a-trackin' round the house all the time.
theirse'v's!--That's the reason _I_ jined; it looked so kindo'
intendin' to build when Spring come. And ever'thing went along
wasn't adzackly like home, all cluttered up as they was there at
Bills's. They got along mighty well, though, together; and the
spellin'-matches and the like, and learnin' songs and sich. I
purty--shore!
b'lieved it wasn't his own doin's.
suddent when he seed what was a-goin' on, and heerd the neighbers
strange-like, but the wind was kindo' raisin' and kep' up sich a
moanin' through the trees along the bank 'at we couldn't make out
unbeknownst to us and packed her off. Sich a thing wasn't hardly
"What do you make out of it?" says Ezry. "What's he waitin' fer?"
a-jerkin' up and down like a limber-jack's.
And now comes a part o' this thing 'at'll more'n like tax you to
Her and Williams--that _wasn't_ his name, like he acknowledged,
"_And the common people heard him gladly._"
"... the first warbler, whose sweet breath
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill
The spacious times of great Elizabeth
With sounds that echo still";
or to whom Longfellow alludes, in his matchless sonnet, as
"... the poet of the dawn, who wrote
Made beautiful with song";--
Since Literature must embrace all naturally existing
Therefore we may as rightfully refer to "so-called grammar."
advantages of refined education, training, and association--are
undoubtedly as wholly out of order among _the Unlettered_ as the
A curious thing, indeed, is this factional pride, as made equally
Equally with the perfect English, then, dialect should have full
"Honey dripping from the comb!"
While the author was unfolding to his audience a life and
society unfamiliar to them and entrancing them with
pictures, the reality of which none doubted and the spell
of which none cared to escape, it occurred to me that here
was the solution of all the pother we have recently got into
about the realistic and the ideal schools in fiction. In
"Posson Jone," an awkward camp-meeting country preacher is
the victim of a vulgar confidence game; the scenes are the
street, a drinking-place, a gambling-saloon, a bull-ring,
and a calaboose; there is not a "respectable" character in
it. Where shall we look for a more faithful picture of low
life? Where shall we find another so vividly set forth in
all its sordid details? And yet see how art steps in, with
the wand of genius, to make literature! Over the whole the
author has cast an ideal light; over a picture that, in the
hands of a bungling realist, would have been repellant he
has thrown the idealizing grace that makes it one of the
most charming sketches in the world. Here is nature, as
nature only ought to be in literature, elevated but never
departed from.
So we find dialect, as a branch of Literature, worthy of the high
In no less excellence should the work of Joel Chandler Harris be
reverence. Jealously snatching up the babe and kissing it, she
Thomas Nelson Page, of Virginia, who wrote "Meh Lady"--a positive
"Oh, mother, may I go to school
With brother Charles to-day?
The air is very fine and cool;
Oh, mother, say I may!"
"Hink! Minx! The old witch winks--
The fat begins to fry;
There's nobody home but Jumping Joan,
Father and mother and I."
Though even here the impious poet leaves the scar of grammatical
lawless child, and yet was blessed and chosen in the end for the
PIPES O' PAN (Prose and Verse)