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 smallBut very hopeful Indiana town, --The upper-story looking squarely downUpon the main street, and the main highwayFrom East to West, --historic in its day, Known as The National Road--old-timers, allWho linger yet, will happily recallIt as the scheme and handiwork, as wellAs property, of "Uncle Sam, " and tellOf its importance, "long and long aforeRailroads wuz ever _dreamp_' of!"--Furthermore, The reminiscent first InhabitantsWill make that old road blossom with romanceOf snowy caravans, in long paradeOf covered vehicles, of every gradeFrom ox-cart of most primitive design, To Conestoga wagons, with their fineDeep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear, High names and chiming bells--to childish earAnd eye entrancing as the glittering trainOf some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain. And, in like spirit, haply they will tellYou of the roadside forests, and the yellOf "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 timesCalled "Good Old. " "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rareOld chronicler was asked, who brushed the hairOut 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 threeDistinctive lots. The front one--nativelyFacing to southward, broad and gaudy-fineWith lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine--The dwelling stood in; and behind that, andUpon the alley north and south, left hand, The old wood-house, --half, trimly stacked with wood, And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stoodSteadfastly 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 vainPossession by pretense--in fancy theyManipulating it in endless play, Turning out countless curls and loops of bright, Fine satin shavings--Rapture infinite!Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old boxOf refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock'sOutline in "curly maple"; and a pairOf 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 outOf reach of children, rummaging about. Beside the wood-house, with broad branches freeYet close above the roof, an apple-treeKnown 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 caressOf 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, stoodIn fairly sympathetic neighborhoodOf this wild princeling with his early goldTo toss about so lavishly nor holdIn bounteous hoard to overbrim at onceAll Nature's lap when came the Autumn months. Under the spacious shade of this the eyesOf swinging children saw swift-changing skiesOf 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 allAnd severally will yet recallFrom 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-treesGrouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees"By the "white-winter-pearmain"; and a rowOf currant-bushes; and a quince or so. The old grape-arbor in the center, byThe pathway to the stable, with the styBehind it, and _upon_ it, cootering flocksOf pigeons, and the cutest "martin-box"!--Made like a sure-enough house--with roof, and doorsAnd windows in it, and veranda-floorsAnd balusters all 'round it--yes, and atEach end a chimney--painted red at thatAnd penciled white, to look like little bricks;And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks, Two tiny little lightning-rods were runStraight 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 hayAnd 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 gazedUpon the gambols of a colt that grazedAround the edges of the lot outside, And kicked at nothing suddenly, and triedTo act grown-up and graceful and high-bred, But dropped, _k'whop!_ and scraped the buggy-shed, Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hairUnder the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there. Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feetAnd whinneying a whinney like a bleat, He would pursue himself around the lotAnd--do the whole thing over, like as not!. .. Ah! what a life of constant fear and dreadAnd flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!Above the fences, either side, were seenThe neighbor-houses, set in plots of greenDooryards and greener gardens, tree and wallAlike whitewashed, and order in it all:The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spadeAnd hoe and rake and shovel all, when laidAside, were in their places, ready forThe hand of either the possessor orOf any neighbor, welcome to the loanOf 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 chapsInhabiting this wee world all their own. --Johnty, the leader, with his native toneOf grave command--a general on paradeWhose each punctilious order was obeyedBy his proud followers. But Johnty yet--After all serious duties--could forgetThe gravity of life to the extent, At times, of kindling much astonishmentAbout him: With a quick, observant eye, And mind and memory, he could supplyThe tamest incident with liveliest mirth;And at the most unlooked-for times on earthWas wont to break into some travestyOn those around him--feats of mimicryOf 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 tryHis humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;--How he drove into town at morning--thenAt dusk (alas!) how he drove out again. Though these divertisements of Johnty's wereHailed with a hearty glee and relish, thereAppeared a sense, on his part, of regret--A spirit of remorse that would not letHim rest for days thereafter. --Such times he, As some boy said, "jist got too overlyBlame good fer common boys like us, you know, To '_so_ciate with--less'n we 'ud goAnd jine his church!" Next after Johnty cameHis little tow-head brother, Bud by name. --And O how white his hair was--and how thickHis face with freckles, --and his ears, how quickAnd curious and intrusive!--And how paleThe blue of his big eyes;--and how a taleOf Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them stillBigger and bigger!--and when "Jack" would killThe old "Four-headed Giant, " Bud's big eyesWere swollen truly into giant-size. And Bud was apt in make-believes--would hearHis Grandma talk or read, with such an earAnd memory of both subject and big words, That he would take the book up afterwardsAnd feign to "read aloud, " with such successAs caused his truthful elders real distress. But he _must_ have _big words_--they seemed to giveExtremer range to the superlative--That was his passion. "My Gran'ma, " he said, One evening, after listening as she readSome heavy old historical review--With copious explanations thereuntoDrawn out by his inquiring turn of mind, --"My Gran'ma she's read _all_ books--ever' kindThey is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' seaAn' Nations of the Earth!--An' she is theHistoricul-est woman ever wuz!"(Forgive the verse's chuckling as it doesIn its erratic current. --OftentimesThe little willowy waterbrook of rhymesMust falter in its music, listening toThe 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" airsOf never either romping up the stairsOr falling down them; thoughtful everywayOf others first--The kind of child at playThat "gave up, " for the rest, the ripest pearOr peach or apple in the garden thereBeneath the trees where swooped the airy swing--She pushing it, too glad for anything!Or, in the character of hostess, sheWould entertain her friends delightfullyIn her play-house, --with strips of carpet laidAlong the garden-fence within the shadeOf the old apple-trees--where from next yardCame the two dearest friends in her regard, The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu--As shy and lovely as the lilies grewIn their idyllic home, --yet sometimes theyAdmitted Bud and Alex to their play, Who did their heavier work and helped them fixTo have a "Festibul"--and brought the bricksAnd built the "stove, " with a real fire and all, And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tallAnd wonderfully smoky--even toTheir childish aspirations, as it blewAnd swooped and swirled about them till their sightWas feverish even as their high delight. Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaksOf 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 callA truce, agreeing "'t'uz n't red _ut-tall_!" But Alex was affectionate beyondThe average child, and was extremely fondOf the paternal relatives of hisOf 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 mySeben 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 greatBig 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 indeedOf these five little ones of whom you read--Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp, --As though her Elfin lips had caught some wispOf 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 sayWith looks that made her meaning clear as day. And, knowing now the children, you must knowThe father and the mother they loved so:--The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed, Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, besideThe slender little mother, seemed in truthA very king of men--since, from his youth, To his hale manhood _now_--(worthy as then, --A lawyer and a leading citizenOf 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 setHer 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 wroughtUp to heroics of their simple thought, And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straightAnd tall, almost, as at the pasture-gateThe towering ironweed the scythe had sparedFor their sakes, when The Hired Man declaredIt would grow on till it became a _tree_, With cocoanuts and monkeys in--maybe! Yet, though the children, in their pride and aweAnd admiration of the father, sawA being so exalted--even moreLike adoration was the love they boreThe gentle mother. --Her mild, plaintive faceWas purely fair, and haloed with a graceAnd sweetness luminous when joy made gladHer features with a smile; or saintly sadAs twilight, fell the sympathetic gloomOf any childish grief, or as a roomWere darkened suddenly, the curtain drawnAcross the window and the sunshine gone. Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands, Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing handsOr holiest touches of soft finger-tipsAnd little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips. Though heavy household tasks were pitiless, No little waist or coat or checkered dressBut knew her needle's deftness; and no skillMatched 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 bloomAnd fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfumeAnd dainty touch and taste of them, to seeTheir 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 kneeHer sewing--her workbasket on the floorBeside her, --Springtime through the open doorBalmily stealing in and all aboutThe room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shoutAnd laughter of the children at their play, And neighbor-children from across the wayCalling in gleeful challenge--save aloneOne boy whose voice sends back no answering tone--The boy, prone on the floor, above a bookOf 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 roseTaps at the window, as the sunlight throwsA brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shineAnd shadow, like a Persian-loom design, Across the homemade carpet--fades, --and thenThe 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 someBy dewy orchard spaces they have come:Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway--The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neighOf overtraveled horses, and the bleatOf sheep and low of cattle through the street--A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears, First blazed by the heroic pioneersWho gave up old-home idols and set faceToward the unbroken West, to found a raceAnd tame a wilderness now mightier thanAll peoples and all tracts American. Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:--In mild remoteness falls the household dinOf porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thumpOf churning; and the "glung-glung" of the pump, With sudden pad and skurry of bare feetOf little outlaws, in from field or street:The clang of kettle, --rasp of damper-ringAnd bang of cookstove-door--and everythingThat jingles in a busy kitchen liftsIts individual wrangling voice and driftsIn sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery toneOf music hungry ear has ever knownIn wildest famished yearning and conceitOf youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!--The zest of hunger still incited onTo childish desperation by long-drawnBreaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stewAnd blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too, Filling the sense with zestful rumors ofThe dear old-fashioned dinners children love:Redolent savorings of home-cured meats, Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beetsAnd parsnips--rarest composite entireThat ever pushed a mortal child's desireTo madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharpHorseradish--tang that sets the lips awarpAnd watery, anticipating allThe cloyed sweets of the glorious festival. --Still add the cinnamony, spicy scentsOf clove, nutmeg, and myriad condimentsIn like-alluring whiffs that prophesyOf sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie--The swooning-sweet aroma haunting allThe house--upstairs and down--porch, parlor, hallAnd sitting-room--invading even whereThe Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air, And pauses in his pruning of the treesTo note the sun minutely and to--sneeze. Then Cousin Rufus comes--the children hearHis hale voice in the old hall, ringing clearAs any bell. Always he came with songUpon his lips and all the happy throngOf echoes following him, even as the crowdOf his admiring little kinsmen--proudTo have a cousin _grown_--and yet as youngOf soul and cheery as the songs he sung. He was a student of the law--intentSoundly to win success, with all it meant;And so he studied--even as he played, --With all his heart: And so it was he madeHis gallant fight for fortune--through all stressOf battle bearing him with cheerinessAnd wholesome valor. And the children hadAnother relative who kept them gladAnd 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 "TheSwiss Family Robinson. "--And when these threeGave out, as he rehearsed them, he could goStraight on in the same line--a steady flowOf arabesque invention that his goodOld 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 tookOut of the old "Type Foundry Specimen Book. "He craved and courted most the favor ofThe children. --They were foremost in his love;And pleasing _them_, he pleased his own boy-heartAnd kept it young and fresh in every part. So was it he devised for them and wroughtTo 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, whereNo 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 knownThat Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes aloneAnd drew the ladder in, to lie and moonOver 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 inThe airy fastness, with much yowl and din. Resulting, while a wild peripheryOf cat went circling to another tree, And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle MartLoomed 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 faceWith ink-spots on it from the office, heWould 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 spoonAnd clatter of deflecting knife, and plateDropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight, And dragged in place voraciously; and thenPent exclamations, and the lull again. --The garland of glad faces 'round the board--Each member of the family restoredTo his or her place, with an extra chairOr two for the chance guests so often there. --The father's farmer-client, brought home fromThe courtroom, though he "didn't _want_ to comeTel he jist saw he _hat_ to!" he'd explain, Invariably, time and time again, To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressedAnother cup of coffee on the guest. --Or there was Johnty's special chum, perchance, Or Bud's, or both--each childish countenanceLit 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 stayAt _Almon Keefer's, any_ blessed day, For _any_ meal!. .. Visions of biscuits, hotAnd flaky-perfect, with the golden blotOf 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 delectableMight yet exceed in sweetness, O restoreThe cherry-cobbler of the days of yoreMade only by Al Keefer's mother!--Why, The very thought of it ignites the eyeOf memory with rapture--cloys the lipOf longing, till it seems to ooze and dripWith veriest juice and stain and overwasteOf that most sweet delirium of tasteThat 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 eyesWith their all-varying looks of pleased surpriseAnd joyous interest in flower and tree, And poising humming-bird, and maundering bee. The fields and woods he knew; the tireless trampWith gun and dog; and the night-fisher's camp--No other boy, save Bee Lineback, had wonSuch brilliant mastery of rod and gun. Even in his earliest childhood had he shownThese traits that marked him as his father's own. Dogs all paid Almon honor and bow-wowedAllegiance, let him come in any crowdOf rabbit-hunting town-boys, even thoughHis own dog "Sleuth" rebuked their acting soWith jealous snarls and growlings. But the bestOf Almon's virtues--leading all the rest--Was his great love of books, and skill as wellIn reading them aloud, and by the spellThereof enthralling his mute listeners, asThey grouped about him in the orchard grass, Hinging their bare shins in the mottled shineAnd shade, as they lay prone, or stretched supineBeneath their favorite tree, with dreamy eyesAnd Argo-fandes voyaging the skies. "Tales of the Ocean" was the name of oneOld dog's-eared book that was surpassed by noneOf all the glorious list. --Its back was gone, But its vitality went bravely onIn such delicious tales of land and seaAs may not ever perish utterly. Of still more dubious caste, "Jack Sheppard" drewFull 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 outlawsThey hailed with equal fervor of applause:"The League of the Miami"--why, the nameAlone was fascinating--is the same, In memory, this venerable hourOf moral wisdom shorn of all its power, As it unblushingly reverts to whenThe old barn was "the Cave, " and hears againThe 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. --SoThe "Robber-Captain" thus outwits his foe;And, safe once more within his "cavern-halls, "He shakes his clenched fist at the warped plank-wallsAnd mutters his defiance through the cracksAt the balked Enemy's retreating backsAs the loud horde flees pell-mell down the lane, And--_Almon Keefer_ is himself again! Excepting few, they were not books indeedOf 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 childCould recommend as just about the thingTo make a god of, or at least a king. Aside from Almon's own books--two or three--His store of lore The Township LibrarySupplied him weekly: All the books with "or"s--Sub-titled--lured him--after "Indian Wars, "And "Life of Daniel Boone, "--not to includeSome few books spiced with humor, --"Robin Hood"And rare "Don Quixote. "--And one time he took"Dadd's Cattle Doctor. ". .. How he hugged the bookAnd hurried homeward, with internal gleeAnd humorous spasms of expectancy!--All this confession--as he promptly madeIt, the day later, writhing in the shadeOf the old apple-tree with Johnty andBud, Noey Bixler, and The Hired Hand--Was quite as funny as the book was not. .. . O Wonderland of wayward Childhood! whatAn easy, breezy realm of summer calmAnd dreamy gleam and gloom and bloom and balmThou 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 yearsReturns, as Noey Bixler's name appears. And Noey--if in any special way--Was notably good-natured. --Work or playHe entered into with selfsame delight--A wholesome interest that made him quiteAs 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 shoneAs though to meet the simile's demand. And, cumbrous though he seemed, both eye and handWere dowered with the discernment and deft skillOf 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 knewHow 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 bringMe a' old _locus_' hitch-post, and i jing!I'll make a bow o' _that_ 'at _common_ bowsWon't dast to pick on ner turn up their nose!"And Noey knew the woods, and all the trees, And thickets, plants and myriad mysteriesOf swamp and bottom-land. And he knew whereThe 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 whereinFish-traps might flourish nor provoke the sinOf theft in some chance peeking, prying sneak, Or town-boy, prowling up and down the creek. All four-pawed creatures tamable--he knewTheir outer and their inner natures too;While they, in turn, were drawn to him as bySome subtle recognition of a tieOf 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 toThe verge of worship. --Noey led him throughThe art of trapping redbirds--yes, and taughtHim how to keep them when he had them caught--What food they needed, and just where to swingThe cage, if he expected them to _sing_. And _Bud_ loved Noey, for the little pairOf stilts he made him; or the stout old hairTrunk Noey put on wheels, and laid a trackOf scantling-railroad for it in the backPart of the barn-lot; or the cross-bow, madeJust like a gun, which deadly weapon laidAgainst 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 dropA farewell-feather from the old tree-top!And _Maymie_ loved him, for the very smallBut perfect carriage for her favorite doll--A _lady's_ carriage--not a _baby_-cab, --But oilcloth top, and two seats, lined with drabAnd trimmed with white lace-paper from a caseOf shaving-soap his uncle bought some placeAt auction once. And _Alex_ loved him yetThe 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 boyAnd tried to keep in Noey's pocket;--till, In time, responsive to his patient will, It became wholly docile, and contentWith its new master, as he came and went, --The squirrel clinging flatly to his breast, Or sometimes scampering its craziestAround his body spirally, and thenDown to his very heels and up again. And _Little Lizzie_ loved him, as a beeLoves a great ripe red apple--utterly. For Noey's ruddy morning-face she drewThe window-blind, and tapped the window, too;Afar she hailed his coming, as she heardHis tuneless whistling--sweet as any birdIt seemed to her, the one lame bar or soOf old "Wait for the Wagon"--hoarse and lowThe sound was, --so that, all about the place, Folks joked and said that Noey "whistled bass"--The light remark originally madeBy Cousin Rufus, who knew notes, and playedThe 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 loveOf jest with Cousin Rufus hand-in-glove, Said "Noey couldn't whistle '_Bonny Doon_'Even! and, _he'd_ bet, couldn't carry a tuneIf it had handles to it!" --But forgiveThe deviations here so fugitive, And turn again to Little Lizzie, whoseHigh estimate of Noey we shall chooseAbove all others. --And to her he wasParticularly lovable becauseHe laid the woodland's harvest at her feet. --He brought her wild strawberries, honey-sweetAnd dewy-cool, in mats of greenest mossAnd leaves, all woven over and acrossWith tender, biting "tongue-grass, " and "sheep-sour, "And twin-leaved beach-mast, prankt with bud and flowerOf 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 interfereWith Noey's rare resources: Still the sameHe blithely whistled through the snow and cameBeneath the window with a Fairy sled;And Little Lizzie, bundled heels-and-head, He took on such excursions of delightAs even "Old Santy" with his reindeer mightHave envied her! And, later, when the snowWas softening toward Springtime and the glowOf steady sunshine smote upon it, --thenCame the magician Noey yet again--While all the children were away a dayOr two at Grandma's!--and behold when theyGot home once more;--there, towering taller thanThe doorway--stood a mighty, old Snow-Man! A thing of peerless art--a masterpieceDoubtless unmatched by even classic GreeceIn heyday of Praxiteles. --AloneIt loomed in lordly grandeur all its own. And steadfast, too, for weeks and weeks it stood, The admiration of the neighborhoodAs well as of the children Noey soughtOnly to honor in the work he wrought. The traveler paid it tribute, as he passedAlong the highway--paused and, turning, castA lingering, last look--as though to takeA vivid print of it, for memory's sake, To lighten all the empty, aching milesBeyond with brighter fancies, hopes and smiles. The cynic put aside his biting witAnd tacitly declared in praise of it;And even the apprentice-poet of the townRose to impassioned heights, and then sat downAnd penned a panegyric scroll of rhymeThat made the Snow-Man famous for all time. And though, as now, the ever warmer sunOf summer had so melted and undoneThe 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 fullO' posey!" and, with shriek and laugh, would pullFrom seeming contact with it--just as whenIt was the _real-est_ of old Snow-Men. "A NOTED TRAVELER" Even in such a scene of senseless playThe children were surprised one summer-dayBy 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 shadeAnd waited--till the absent father madeHis noon appearance, with a warmth and zestThat told he had no ordinary guestIn this man whose low-spoken name he knewAt once, demurring as the stranger drewA stuffy notebook out and turned and setA big fat finger on a page and letThe writing thereon testify insteadOf further speech. And as the father readAll silently, the curious children tookExacting inventory both of bookAnd man:--He wore a long-napped white fur-hatPulled firmly on his head, and under thatRather long silvery hair, or iron-gray--For he was not an old man, --anyway, Not beyond sixty. And he wore a pairOf square-framed spectacles--or rather thereWere two more than a pair, --the extra twoFlared at the corners, at the eyes' side-view, In as redundant vision as the eyesOf grasshoppers or bees or dragonflies. Later the children heard the father sayHe was "A Noted Traveler, " and would staySome days with them--In which time host and guestDiscussed, alone, in deepest interest, Some vague, mysterious matter that defiedThe wistful children, loitering outsideThe spare-room door. There Bud acquired a quiteNew list of big words--such as "Disunite, "And "Shibboleth, " and "Aristocracy, "And "Juggernaut, " and "Squatter Sovereignty, "And "Anti-slavery, " "Emancipate, ""Irrepressible conflict, " and "The GreatBattle of Armageddon"--obviouslyA pamphlet brought from Washington, D. C. , And spread among such friends as might occurOf like views with "The Noted Traveler. " A PROSPECTIVE VISIT While _any_ day was notable and dearThat gave the children Noey, history hereRecords his advent emphasized indeedWith sharp italics, as he came to feedThe stock one special morning, fair and bright, When Johnty and Bud met him, with delightUnusual even as their extra dress--Garbed as for holiday, with much excessOf proud self-consciousness and vain conceitIn their new finery. --Far up the streetThey called to Noey, as he came, that they, As promised, both were going back that dayTo _his_ house with him! And by time that eachHad one of Noey's hands--ceasing their speechAnd coyly anxious, in their new attire, To wake the comment of their mute desire, --Noey seemed rendered voiceless. Quite a whileThey watched him furtively. --He seemed to smileAs though he would conceal it; and they sawHim look away, and his lips purse and drawIn curious, twitching spasms, as though he mightBe whispering, --while in his eye the whitePredominated strangely. --Then the spellGave 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 takeAn equal share of laughter, --and all throughTheir morning visit kept recurring toThe funny words and jingle of the rhymeThat 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 behindThem, on the little red brick pathway, linedWith little paint-keg-vases and teapotsOf wee moss-blossoms and forgetmenots:And in the windows, either side the door, Were ranged as many little boxes moreOf like old-fashioned larkspurs, pinks and mossAnd fern and phlox; while up and down acrossThem rioted the morning-glory-vinesOn taut-set cotton-strings, whose snowy linesWhipt in and out and under the bright greenLike basting-threads; and, here and there between, A showy, shiny hollyhock would flareIts pink among the white and purple there. --And still behind the vines, the children sawA strange, bleached, wistful face that seemed to drawA vague, indefinite sympathy. A faceIt was of some newcomer to the place. --In explanation, Noey, briefly, saidThat it was "Jason, " as he turned and ledThe little fellows 'round the house to showThem his menagerie of pets. And soFor quite a time the face of the strange guestWas partially forgotten, as they pressedAbout the squirrel-cage and rousted bothThe lazy inmates out, though wholly loathTo whirl the wheel for them. --And then with aweThey walked 'round Noey's big pet owl, and sawHim film his great, clear, liquid eyes and stareAnd turn and turn and turn his head 'round thereThe same way they kept circling--as though heCould turn it one way thus eternally. Behind the kitchen, then, with special prideNoey stirred up a terrapin insideThe rain-barrel where he lived, with three or fourLittle mud-turtles of a size not moreIn neat circumference than the tiny toyDumb-watches worn by every little boy. Then, back of the old shop, beneath the treeOf "rusty-coats, " as Noey called them, heNext took the boys, to show his favorite newPet 'coon--pulled rather coyly into viewUp through a square hole in the bottom ofAn 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 onSome errand. "Wait, " he said--"I won't be goneA half a' hour. --Take Bud, and go on inWhere Jason is, tel I git back agin. " Whoever _Jason_ was, they found him thereStill at the front-room window. --By his chairLeaned a new pair of crutches; and from oneKnee down, a leg was bandaged. --"Jason doneThat-air with one o' these-'ere tools _we_ callA '_shin-hoe_'--but a _foot-adz_ mostly all_Hardware_-store-keepers calls 'em. "--(_Noey_ madeThis explanation later. ) Jason paidBut little notice to the boys as theyCame in the room:--An idle volume layUpon 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 interestSeemed centered on a little _dog_--one petOf 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 relateThe _Jason_-episode, and imitateThe all-enthusiastic speech and airOf Noey's kinsman and his tribute there:-- "THAT LITTLE DOG" "That little dog 'ud scratch at that doorAnd go on a-whinin' two hours beforeHe'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! (_DratYou! 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 seenA _spunkier_ little rip! (_Scratch to git in_, And _now_ yer a-scratchin' to git _out_ agin!Jane: Let him out!) Now, watch him from hereOut through the winder!--You notice one earKindo' _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 'foreHis dead square run of a miled er more--'Cause _Noey_'s a-comin', and Trip allus knowsWhen _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 wellWhen 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 awayAnd 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 smallBut very much elated little chap, In snowy linen-suit and tasseled cap, Leaped from the back-fence just across the streetFrom Bixlers', and came galloping to meetHis equally delighted little pairOf playmates, hurrying out to join him there--"_The Loehrs is come!--The Loehrs is come!_" his gleeAugmented to a pitch of ecstasyCommunicated wildly, till the cry"_The Loehrs is come!_" in chorus quavered highAnd thrilling as some paean of challenge orSoul-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 excessOf 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 thereBoth in the wagon;--yes, an' Willy, too;An' Mary--Yes, an' Edith--with bran-newAn' 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 townAn' _ever_'wheres, --them _city_-people who'sA-visutin' at Loehrs-uz!" Glorious news!--Even more glorious when verifiedIn the boys' welcoming eyes of love and pride, As one by one they greeted their old friendsAnd neighbors. --Nor until their earth-life endsWill that bright memory become less brightOr dimmed indeed. . .. Again, at candle-light, The faces all are gathered. And how gladThe Mother's features, knowing that she hadHer dear, sweet Mary Loehr back again. --She always was so proud of her; and thenThe dear girl, in return, was happy, too, And with a heart as loving, kind and trueAs that maturer one which seemed to blendAs one the love of mother and of friend. From time to time, as hand-in-hand they sat, The fair girl whispered something low, whereatA tender, wistful look would gather inThe mother-eyes; and then there would beginA sudden cheerier talk, directed toThe stranger guests--the man and woman who, It was explained, were coming now to makeTheir temporary home in town for sakeOf the wife's somewhat failing health. Yes, theyWere city-people, seeking rest this way, The man said, answering a query madeBy some well meaning neighbor--with a shadeOf apprehension in the answer. .. . No, --They had no _children_. As he answered so, The man's arm went about his wife, and sheLeant toward him, with her eyes lit prayerfully:Then she arose--he following--and bentAbove the little sleeping innocentWithin 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 callThe children in the kitchen, where they allWent helter-skeltering with shout and dinEnough to drown most sanguine silence in, --For well indeed they knew that summons meantTaffy 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-doorAnd one leaf of the kitchen-table, wasSomewhat belated, and in lifted pauseHis dextrous knife was balancing a bitOf fried mush near the port awaiting it. At the glad children's advent--gladder stillTo find _him_ there--"Jest tickled fit to killTo see ye all!" he said, with unctious cheer. --"I'm tryin'-like to he'p Floretty hereTo git things cleared away and give ye roomAccordin' to yer stren'th. But I p'sumeIt's a pore boarder, as the poet says, That quarrels with his victuals, so I guessI'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 sheWas 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 seemedTo take as compliment, and fairly beamedWith pleasure at it all. --"Speakin' o' _bread_--When she come here to live, " The Hired Man said, --"Never ben out o' _Freeport_ 'fore she comeUp here, --of course she needed '_sperience_ some. --So, one day, when yer Ma was goin' to setThe risin' fer some bread, she sent FlorettTo 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 hailedThe Hired Man's humor; but it wholly failedTo touch the serious Susan Loehr, whose airAnd thought rebuked them all to listening thereTo her brief history of the _city_-manAnd 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, thatThe Hired Man, in the corner where he satIn quiet sequestration, shelling corn, Ceased wholly, listening, with a face forlornAs Sorrow's own, while Susan, John and JakeTold of these strangers who had come to makeSome weeks' stay in the town, in hopes to gainOnce more the health the wife had sought in vain:Their doctor, in the city, used to knowThe Loehrs--Dan and Rachel--years ago, --And so had sent a letter and requestFor them to take a kindly interestIn favoring the couple all they could--To find some home-place for them, if they would, Among their friends in town. He ended byA dozen further lines, explaining whyHis patient must have change of scene and air--New faces, and the simple friendships thereWith _them_, which might, in time, make her forgetA grief that kept her ever brooding yetAnd wholly melancholy and depressed, --Nor yet could she find sleep by night nor restBy 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-wingBrushed off the stove-hearth softly, and peered inThe kettle of molasses, with her thinVoice 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, " saidThe 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' 'boutThem _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-rightTo do away with _dyin'_. --And he mightBe worth a _million_, but he couldn't findNobody 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 thereAnd lem me git 'er het up, so's them-airChildern kin have their popcorn. " It was goodTo hear him now, and so the children stoodCloser 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 moreTo pamper _me_ with;--so, I hat to go_Without_ popcorn--sometimes a _year_ er so!--And _suffer'n' saints!_ how hungry I would gitFer 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' saltAnd 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 allA _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 yitI'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 speechAnd work in equal exercise, till eachTureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greasedThe saucers ready for the wax, and seizedThe fragrant-steaming kettle, at a signMade by Floretty; and, each child in line, He led out to the pump--where, in the dimNew coolness of the night, quite near to himHe felt Floretty's presence, fresh and sweetAs . .. 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, welledOut of the sitting-room a song which heldThem stilled in some strange rapture, listeningTo 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 sourceOf 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 eyesFloretty clenched--while through the dark--"I jing!"A voice asked, "Where's that song '_you'd_ learn to singEf I sent you the _ballat_?'--which I doneLast I was home at Freeport. --S'pose you runAnd git it--and we'll all go in to whereThey'll know the notes and sing it fer ye there. "And up the darkness of the old stairwayFloretty fled, without a word to say--Save to herself some whisper muffled byHer apron, as she wiped her lashes dry. Returning, with a letter, which she laidUpon the kitchen-table while she madeA hasty crock of "float, "--poured thence intoA deep glass dish of iridescent hueAnd glint and sparkle, with an overflowOf froth to crown it, foaming white as snow. --And then--poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare, For its delicious complement, --with airOf Hebe mortalized, she led her vanOf votaries, rounded by The Hired Man. THE EVENING COMPANY Within the sitting-room, the companyHad been increased in number. Two or threeYoung couples had been added: Emma King, Ella and Mary Mathers--all could singLike 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 graceOf Warsaw Barnett's tenor; and the bassUnfathomed of Wick Chapman--Fancy stillCan _feel_, as well as _hear_ it, thrill on thrill, Vibrating plainly down the backs of chairsAnd through the wall and up the old hall-stairs. --Indeed young Chapman's voice especiallyAttracted _Mr. Hammond_--For, said he, Waiving the most Elysian sweetness ofThe _ladies_' voices--altitudes aboveThe _man's_ for sweetness;--_but_--as _contrast_, wouldNot Mr. Chapman be so very goodAs, just now, to oblige _all_ with--in fact, Some sort of _jolly_ song, --to counteractIn part, at least, the sad, pathetic trendOf music _generally_. Which wish our friend"The Noted Traveler" made second toWith heartiness--and so each, in review, Joined in--until the radiant _basso_ clearedHis wholly unobstructed throat and peeredIntently at the ceiling--voice and eyeAs opposite indeed as earth and sky. --Thus he uplifted his vast bass and letIt 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 hatSeemed just relaxed a little, after that, As at conclusion of the Bacchic songHe stirred his "float" vehemently and long. Then Cousin Rufus with his flute, and artBlown blithely through it from both soul and heart--Inspired to heights of mastery by the glad, Enthusiastic audience he hadIn the young ladies of a town that knewNo 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 nowSeemed "friends" with _Mr. Hammond_--anyhow, Was lifted to his lap--where settled, she--Enthroned thus, in her dainty majesty, Gained _universal_ audience--althoughAddressing him alone:--"I'm come to showYou 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, inclinedTo serve the child as bidden, folding squareThe piece of paper she had brought him there. --"I don't know, " Maymie said--"only ist makeA _little dirl_, like me!" He paused to takeA sharp view of the child, and then he drew--Awhile with red, and then awhile with blue--The outline of a little girl that stoodIn 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 soAll uninformed, that little Maymie couldBut 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 allIst one piece o' red cardinal 'at 's likeThe drate-long stockin's the store-keepers has. --O! it 'uz purtiest cloak in all the worldAn' _all_ this town er anywheres they is!An' so, one day, her Ma she put it onRed Riding Hood, she did--one day, she did--An' it 'uz _Sund'y_--'cause the little cloakIt 'uz too nice to wear ist _ever'_ dayAn' _all_ the time!--An' so her Ma, she putIt on Red Riding Hood--an' telled her notTo dit no dirt on it ner dit it mussedNer nothin'! An'--an'--nen her Ma she dotHer little basket out, 'at Old Kriss bringedHer 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'sNice 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'maShe'll haf to _punish_ her! An' nen--An' soLittle 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' wentA-skippin' off--away fur off frough theBig 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' 'longAs all polite an' nice--an' slow--an' straight--An' turn her toes--ist like she's marchin' inThe Sund'y-School k-session! An'--an'--soShe 'uz a-doin' along--an' doin' along--On frough the drate big woods--'cause her Dran'maShe live 'way, 'way fur off frough the big woodsFrom _her_ Ma's house. So when Red Riding HoodShe 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 saidThey'll take 'em to the magic-lantern show!An' she 'ud pull the purty flowers an' thingsA-growin' round the stumps--An' she 'ud ketchThe purty butterflies, an' drasshoppers, An' stick pins frough 'em--No!--I ist _said_ that!--'Cause she's too dood an' kind an' 'bedientTo _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 oldMean wicked Wolf jumped out 'at wanted t' eatHer up, but _dassent_ to--'cause wite clos't thereThey wuz a Man a-choppin' wood, an' youCould _hear_ him. --So the old Wolf he 'uz _'feared_Only to ist be _kind_ to her. --So heIst 'tended like he wuz dood friends to herAn' says "Dood-morning, little Red Riding Hood!"--All ist as kind! An' nen Riding HoodShe 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 sayIt like her _Ma_ she "_teached_" her. --An'--so sheIst says "Dood-morning" to the Wolf--'cause sheDon't know ut-tall 'at he's a _wicked_ WolfAn' want to eat her up! Nen old Wolf smileAn' 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 heIst turn an' light out frough the big thick woods, Where she can't see him any more. An soShe 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 sharpWhat she's about! An' nen when the old WolfDit 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'maShe's sick in bed an' can't come to the doorAn' 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'sLittle 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'mIst come to see you. " Nen her old Dran'maShe think it _is_ little Red Riding Hood, An' so she say: "Well, come in nen an' makeYou'se'f at home, " she says, "'cause I'm down sickIn bed, and got the 'ralgia, so's I can'tDit up an' let ye in. " An' so th' old WolfIst march' in nen an' shet the door adin, An' _drowl_, he did, an' _splunge_ up on the bedAn' et up old Miz Riding Hood 'fore sheCould 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 onHer nightcap, an' all covered up in bed--Like he wuz _her_, you know. Nen, purty soonHere come along little Red Riding Hood, An' _she_ knock' at the door. An' old Wolf 'tendLike _he's_ her Dran'ma; an' he say, "Who's there?"Ist like her Dran'ma say, you know. An' soLittle Red Riding Hood she say "It's _me_, Dran'ma--an' I'm Red Riding Hood and I'mIst come to _see_ you. " An' nen old Wolf nenHe cough an' say: "Well, come in nen an' makeYou'se'f at home, " he says, "'cause I'm down sickIn bed, an' got the 'ralgia, so's I can'tDit up an' let ye in. " An' so she thinkIt's her Dran'ma a-talkin'. --So she istOpen' the door an' come in, an' set downHer basket, an' taked off her things, an' bringedA chair an' clumbed up on the bed, wite byThe old big Wolf she thinks is her Dran'ma. --Only she thinks the old Wolf's dot whole lotsMore bigger ears, an' lots more whiskers, too, Than her Dran'ma; an' so Red Riding HoodShe's kindo' skeered a little. So she says"Oh, Dran'ma, what _big eyes_ you dot!" An' nenThe 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 thatawayIst 'cause I smell the dood things 'at you bringedMe in the basket!" An' nen Riding HoodShe say "Oh-me-oh-_my_! Dran'ma! what bigWhite 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'quickIt make' his head swim!--An' Red Riding HoodShe wuzn't hurt at all! An' the big ManHe tooked her all safe home, he did, an' tellHer Ma she's all right an' ain't hurt at allAn' 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 'atShe'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, freedFrom her task of instructing, ran to showHer wondrous colored picture to and froAmong the company. "And how comes it, " saidSome one to Mr. Hammond, "that, insteadOf the inventor's life you did not chooseThe _artist's?_--since the world can better loseA cutting-box or reaper than it canA noble picture painted by a manEndowed with gifts this drawing would suggest"--Holding the picture up to show the rest. "_There now!_" chimed in the wife, her pale face litLike 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 smileHe's wearing now!" For quite a little whileNo further speech from anyone, althoughAll looked at Mr. Hammond and that slow, Immutable, mild smile of his. And thenThe encouraged querist asked him yet again_Why was it_, and etcetera--with allThe rest, expectant, waiting 'round the wall, --Until the gentle Mr. Hammond saidHe'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 breezeOf midsummer, in idlest ways Lolling about in the shade of trees. The farmer turned--as he passed him by Under the hillside where he kneeledPlucking a flower--with scornful eye And rode ahead in the harvest fieldMuttering--"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 gazeIdly dreaming away his days. No companions? Yes, a bookSometimes under his arm he tookTo read aloud to a lonesome brook. And school-boys, truant, once had heardA 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 byTo 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 acceptUncomplainingly!" So he wept. Then went "The Dreamer" as he willed, As uncontrolled as a light sail filledFlutters about with an empty boatLoosed from its moorings and afloat:Drifted out from the busy quayOf 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 swungThe topmost bar to its proper rest, Something fluttered along and clungAn 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 glanceOf a little penciled countenance, And a glamour of written words; and hence, A minute later, over the fence, "Here and there and gone astrayOver the hills and far away, "He chased it into a thicket of treesAnd took it away from the captious breeze. A scrap of paper with a rhymeScrawled upon it of summertime:A pencil-sketch of a dairy-maid, Under a farmhouse porch's shade, Working merrily; and was blentWith her glad features such sweet content, That a song she sung in the lines belowSeemed 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 dateIn 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, beforeMuch 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 inspireFar brighter lights. And, answering this desire, The flutist opened, in a rapturous strainOf rippling notes--a perfect April-rainOf 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 eyesThe listeners heard, buoyed on the fall and riseOf its insistent and exceeding stressOf sweetness and ecstatic tenderness . .. With lifted finger _yet_, Remembrance--List!--"_Beautiful isle of the sea!_" wells in a mistOf tremulous . .. . .. After much whisperingAmong the children, Alex came to bringSome kind of _letter_--as it seemed to be--To Cousin Rufus. This he carelesslyUnfolded--reading to himself alone, --But, since its contents became, later, known, And no one "_plagued_ so _awful_ bad, " the sameMay here be given--of course without full name, Fac-simile, or written kink or curlOr 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 & makemy Promus good to you in the RegardsOf doing What i Promust afterwards, the _notes_ & _Words_ is both here _Printed_ SOSyou *kin* can git _uncle Mart_ to read you *them* those& cousin Rufus you can git to _Play_the _notes_ fur you on eny Plezunt dayHis 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 droppedAnother square scrap. --But the hand was stoppedThat reached for it--Floretty suddenlyHad 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 thereBy Cousin Rufus left her even moreIn 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 dimBoth notes and words were--but as plain as dayThey seemed to him, as he began to play--And plain to _all_ the singers, --as he ranAn airy, warbling prelude, then beganSinging 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 toThe flutist who "read _notes_" so readily, Yet read so little of the mysteryOf that face of the girl's. --Indeed _one_ thingBewildered 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 throngOf barricading children--till the songWas ended, and at last he saw her nearEnough to reach and take him by the earAnd pinch it just a pang's worth of her ireAnd leave it burning like a coal of fire. He noticed, too, in subtle pantomimeShe seemed to dust him off, from time to time;And when somebody, later, asked if sheHad 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 learnedTo _read_ and _write_ a little, and its turnedHis fool-head some--That's all!" And then some oneOf the loud-wrangling boys said--"_Course_ they's noneNo 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 replyThey 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 inOur garden--and I _see_ 'im wunst, wiv myOwn eyes--_one_ time I did. " "_Oh, what a lie_!"--"'_Sh!_'" "Well, nen, " said the skeptic--seeing thereThe 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 apartHis 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 manGathered 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 efThey _wuzn't_ Fairies, nen I' like to knowWho'd w'ite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' tellWhat Fairies _does_, an' how their _picture_ looks, An' all an' ever'thing! W'y, ef they don'tBe Fairies anymore, nen little boys'U'd ist _sleep_ when they go to sleep an' wontHave 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 stoveEr fireplace to keep warm wiv--ner don't hafTo 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 onAn' ist keeps noddin', noddin' all the time, Like they 'uz lazy an' a-twyin' to goTo sleep an' couldn't, 'cause the wind won't quitA-blowin' in 'em, an' the birds won't stopA-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 inThe shed of their old stable, an' Ed HowardHe maked me quit a-bein' pardners, 'causeI dwinked the 'tend-like sody-water upAn' et the shore-nuff cwackers. --W'y, nen IClumbed over in our garden where the gwapesWuz purt'-nigh ripe: An' I wuz ist a-layin'There on th' old cwooked seat 'at Pa maked inOur arber, --an' so I 'uz layin' thereA-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 thingYou know, a little _Fairy_ hopped out there!A _leetle-teenty Fairy!--hope-may-die!_An' he look' down at me, he did--An' heAin't bigger'n a _yellerbird!_--an' heSay "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; howIs _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'heIst laugh an' say "'_Bud's_' awful _funny_ name!"An' he ist laid back on a big bunch o' gwapesAn' 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 bustYo'-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' downHe swung quick past my face, he did, an' istKicked at me hard's he could! But I'm too quickFer _Mr. Squidjicum!_ I ist weached outAn' ketched him, in my hand--an' helt him, too, An' _squeezed_ him, ist like little wobins whenThey 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 efHe _is_ a Fairy, w'y, I want to seeThe _wings_ he's got--But he's dwessed up so fine'At I can't _see_ no wings. --An' all the timeHe's twyin' to kick me yet: An' so I takeF'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' nenI ist _squeeze' him_, purt'-nigh my _best_, I did--An' I heerd somepin' bust!--An' nen he cwiedAn' says, "You better look out what you're doin'!--You' bust' my spiderweb-suspen'ners, an'You' got my woseleaf-coat all cwinkled upSo's I can't go to old Miss Hoodjicum'sTea-party, 's'afternoon!" An' nen I says--"Who's 'old Miss Hoodjicum'?" I says An'heSays "Ef you lemme loose I'll tell you. " SoI helt the little skeezics 'way fur outIn one hand--so's he can't jump down t' th' groundWivout a-gittin' all stove up: an' nenI says, "You're loose now. --Go ahead an' tell'Bout the 'tea-party' where you're goin' atSo awful fast!" I says. An' nen he say, --"No use to _tell_ you 'bout it, 'cause you won'tBelieve it, 'less you go there your own se'fAn' 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'tTetch nothin' 'at you see--an' never tellNobody in the world--an' lemme loose--W'y, nen I'll _take_ you there!" But I says, "YesAn' 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'heIst cwoss his heart; an' nen I weach an' setThe little feller up on a long vine--An' he 'uz so tickled to git loose agin, He gwab' the vine wiv boff his little handsAn' ist take an' turn in, he did, an' skin'Bout forty-'leven cats! Nen when he gitThrough whirlin' wound the vine, an' set on topOf it agin, w'y nen his "woseleaf-coat"He bwag so much about, it's ist all toredUp, an' ist hangin' strips an' rags--so heLook like his Pa's a dwunkard. An' so nenWhen he see what he's done--a-actin' upSo smart, --he's awful mad, I guess; an' istPout out his lips an' twis' his little faceIst ugly as he kin, an' set an' tearHis whole coat off--an' sleeves an' all. --An' nenHe 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 flewedClean 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 theyWuz purty wobbly-like an' wouldn't workHardly at all--'Cause purty soon, when IThrowed clods at him, an' sticks, an' got him shooedDown off o' there, he come a-floppin' downAn' 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'sThe matter wiv ye, Squidjicum?" An'heSays: "Dog-gone! when my wings gits stwaight agin, Where you all _cwumpled_ 'em, " he says, "I betI'll ist fly clean away an' won't take youTo 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 wingsSo'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 oldMiss Hoodjicum's, an' show _me_ how to gitThere, too, " I says; "er ef you don't, " I says, "I'll climb up wiv you on our buggy-shedAn' push you off!" I says. An nen he sayAll wight, he'll show me there; an' tell me nenTo set him down wite easy on his feet, An' loosen up the stwing a little whereIt cut him under th' arms. An' nen he says, "Come on!" he says; an' went a-limpin' 'longThe garden-path--an' limpin' 'long an' 'longTel--purty soon he come on 'long to where'sA grea'-big cabbage-leaf. An' he stoop downAn' 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' nenIt's all wet, where the dew'z inunder whereThe old clod wuz, --an' nen the Fairy heGit 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 feltLike we 'uz sinkin' down--an' sinkin' down!--Tel purty soon the little Fairy weachAn' pinch my nose an' yell at me an' say, "_Squinchy-winchy! Look wherever you please!_"Nen when I looked--Oh! they 'uz purtyest placeDown there you ever saw in all the World!--They 'uz ist _flowers_ an' _woses_--yes, an' _twees_Wiv _blossoms_ on an' _big ripe apples_ boff!An' butterflies, they wuz--an' hummin'-birds--An' _yellow_birds an' _blue_birds--yes, an' _red!_--An' ever'wheres an' all awound 'uz vinesWiv ripe p'serve-pears on 'em!--Yes, an' allAn' ever'thing 'at's ever gwowin' inA garden--er canned up--all ripe at wunst!--It wuz ist like a garden--only it'Uz _little_ tit o' garden--'bout big woundAs ist our twun'el-bed is. --An' all woundAn' 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 wuzA little gold house, 'at's ist 'bout as bigAs ist a bird-cage is: An' _in_ the houseThey 'uz whole-lots _more_ Fairies there--'cause IPicked up the little house, an 'peeked in atThe winders, an' I see 'em all in thereIst _buggin_' wound! An' Mr. SquidjicumHe 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'!_" NenThey all set wound a little gold tub--an'All 'menced a-peelin' dewdwops, ist like they'Uz _peaches_. --An', it looked so funny, IIst laugh' out loud, an' _dwopped_ the little house, --An' 't busted like a soap-bubble!--An't skeeredMe 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 shoreFer-certain _fact_ an' cwoss my heart it is! A DELICIOUS INTERRUPTION All were quite gracious in their plaudits ofBud's Fairy; but another stir aboveThat murmur was occasioned by a sweetYoung lady-caller, from a neighboring street, Who rose reluctantly to say good-nightTo all the pleasant friends and the delightExperienced, --as she had promised sureTo be back home by nine. Then paused, demure, And wondered was it _very_ dark. --Oh, _no!_--She had _come_ by herself and she could goWithout an _escort_. Ah, you sweet girls all!What young gallant but comes at such a call, Your most abject of slaves! Why, there were threeYoung men, and several men of family, Contesting for the honor--which at lastWas given to Cousin Rufus; and he castA kingly look behind him, as the pairVanished with laughter in the darkness there. As order was restored, with everythingSuggestive, in its way, of "romancing, "Some one observed that _now_ would be the chanceFor _Noey_ to relate a circumstanceThat _he_--the very specious rumor went--Had been eye-witness of, by accident. Noey turned pippin-crimson; then turned paleAs 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-redI rickollect; and Tubb Kingry and me'Ud kindo' browse round town, daytime, to seeWhat neighbers 'peared to have the most to spare'At wuz git-at-able and no dog thereWhen we come round to git 'em, say 'bout tenO'clock at night when mostly old folks thenWuz snorin' at each other like they yitHelt 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 knowedThey wuz _k'tawbies_ thick as ever growed--And more'n they'd _p'serve_. --Besides I've heerdMa say k'tawby-grape-p'serves jes 'pearedA waste o' sugar, anyhow!--And soMy conscience stayed outside and lem me goWith Tubb, one night, the back-way, clean up throughThat long black arber to the end next toThe 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 sayIn a skeered whisper, 'Hold up! They's some oneJes slippin' in here!--and _looks like a gun_He's carryin'!' I _golly!_ we both spreadOut flat aginst the ground! "'What's that?' Tubb said. --And jest then--'_plink! plunk! plink!_' we heerd somethingUnder the back-porch-winder. --Then, i jing!Of course we rickollected 'bout the youngSchool-mam 'at wuz a-boardin' there, and sung, And played on the melodium in the choir. --And she 'uz 'bout as purty to admireAs any girl in town!--the fac's is, sheJest _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 serenadeMiss Wetherell: And there he plunked and playedHis old guitar, and sung, and kep' his eyeSet on her winder, blacker'n the sky!--And black it _stayed_. --But mayby she wuz 'wayFrom home, er wore out--bein' _Saturday!_ "It _seemed_ a good-'eal _longer_, but I _know_He sung and plunked there half a' hour er soAfore, it 'peared like, he could ever gitHis own free qualified consents to quitAnd go off 'bout his business. When he wentI bet you could a-bought him fer a cent! "And now, behold ye all!--as Tubb and meWuz 'bout to raise up, --right in front we seeA feller slippin' out the arber, squareSmack under that-air little winder whereThe _other_ feller had been standin'. --AndThe thing he wuz a-carryin' in his handWuzn't no _gun_ at all!--It wuz a _flute_, --And _whoop-ee!_ how it did git up and tootAnd chirp and warble, tel a mockin'-bird'Ud dast to never let hisse'f be heerdFerever, after sich miracalous, highJim-cracks and grand skyrootics played there byYer Cousin Rufus!--Yes-sir; it wuz him!--And what's more, --all a-suddent that-air dimDark winder o' Miss Wetherell's wuz litUp like a' oyshture-sign, and under itWe see him sort o' wet his lips and smileDown 'long his row o' dancin' fingers, whileHe kindo' stiffened up and kinked his breathAnd everlastin'ly jest blowed the pethOut 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 radiantlyThe unconscious hero of the history, Returning, met a perfect driving stormOf welcome--a reception strangely warmAnd _unaccountable_, to _him_, althoughMost _gratifying_, --and he told them so. "I only urge, " he said, "my right to beEnlightened. " And a voice said: "_Certainly:_--During your absence we agreed that youShould tell us all a story, old or new, Just in the immediate happy frame of mindWe 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 notAt all up to his rigid standard andRequirements and exactions as a sonAnd disciplinarian. So, sullenlyHe brooded over his dishearteningEnvironments and limitations, till, At last, well knowing that the outside worldWould 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 bitterlyShaking his clenched fist at the woodpile, heEvanished down the turnpike. --Yes: he had, Once and for all, put into executionHis 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 probablyDisporting his nude self in the delightsOf the old swimmin'-hole, some hundred yardsBelow the slaughter-house, just east of town. The stoic father, too, in his surmiseWas accurate--For, lo! the boy was there! And there, too, he remained throughout the day--Save at one starving interval in whichHe clad his sunburnt shoulders long enoughTo 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 boysHad _homes_ to go to at the dinner-hour--While _he_--alas!--_he had no home!_--At leastThese very words seemed rising mockingly, Until his every thought smacked raw and sourAnd green and bitter as the apples heIn vain essayed to stay his hunger with. Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boysReturned rejuvenated for the longWet revel of the feverish afternoon. --Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swamAnd spluttered, in their weltering merriment, He tried to laugh, too, --but his voice was hoarseAnd sounded to him like some other boy's. And then he felt a sudden, poking sortOf sickness at the heart, as though some coldAnd scaly pain were blindly nosing itDown in the dreggy darkness of his breast. The tensioned pucker of his purple lipsGrew ever chillier and yet more tense--The central hurt of it slow spreading tillIt 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 seemedTo ache on just as bad when he'd pretendHe didn't notice it as when he did. It was a kind of a conceited pain--An overbearing, self-assertive andBarbaric sort of pain that clean outhurtA boy's capacity for suffering--So, many times, the little martyr needsMust turn himself all suddenly and diveFrom sight of his hilarious playmates andSurreptitiously weep under water. ThusHe wrestled with his awful agonyTill almost dark; and then, at last--then, withThe very latest lingering group of hisCompanions, 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 resolveOf chopping a double-armful of woodAs he went in by rear way of the kitchen. And this resolve he executed;--yetThe 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 boyRanged through the pantry; but the cupboard-doorWas locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stickAnd went out on the porch. --At least the pump, He prophesied, would meet him kindly andShake 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 eyesHe saw the back-yard, in the gathering night, Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good:The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinkedA sort of sallow gladness over hisHome-coming, with this softening of the heart. He did not leave the dipper carelesslyIn the milk-trough. --No: he hung it back uponIts old nail thoughtfully--even tenderly. All slowly then he turned and sauntered towardThe rain-barrel at the corner of the house, And, pausing, peered into it at the fewFaint stars reflected there. Then--moved by someStrange impulse new to him--he washed his feet. He then went in the house--straight on intoThe very room where sat his parents byThe evening lamp. --The father all intentReading his paper, and the mother quiteAs intent with her sewing. Neither lookedUp at his entrance--even reproachfully, --And neither spoke. The wistful runawayDrew a long, quavering breath, and then sat downUpon the extreme edge of a chair. And allWas very still there for a long, long while. --Yet everything, someway, seemed _restful_-likeAnd _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 comeAnd lift him by the ear sheer off his chair--Or box his jaws--Lord bless 'em!--_any_thing!--Was he not there to thankfully acceptAny reception from parental sourceSave 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 katydidsMade outside in the grassy nowhere. FarDown some back-street he heard the faint hallooOf boys at their night-game of "Town-fox, "But now with no desire at all to beParticipating in their sport--No; no;--Never again in this world would he wantTo join them there!--he only wanted justTo stay in home of nights--Always--always--Forever and a day! He moved; and coughed--Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yetNo vaguest of parental notice orSolicitude in answer--no response--No word--no look. O it was deathly still!--So still it was that really he could notRemember any prior silence thatAt all approached it in profundityAnd depth and density of utter hush. He felt that he himself must break it: So, Summoning every subtle artificeOf seeming nonchalance and native easeAnd naturalness of utterance to his aid, And gazing raptly at the house-cat whereShe lay curled in her wonted corner ofThe hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airilyAnd said: "I see you've got the same old cat!" BEWILDERING EMOTIONS The merriment that followed was subdued--As though the story-teller's attitudeWere dual, in a sense, appealing quiteAs much to sorrow as to mere delight, According, haply, to the listener's bentEither of sad or merry temperament. --"And of your two appeals I much preferThe pathos, " said "The Noted Traveler, "--"For should I live to twice my present years, I know I could not quite forget the tearsThat child-eyes bleed, the little palms nailed wide, And quivering soul and body crucified. .. . But, bless 'em! there are no such children hereTo-night, thank God!--Come here to me, my dear!"He said to little Alex, in a toneSo winning that the sound of it aloneHad 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, tellThe 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 delayBegan. THE BEAR-STORY THAT ALEX "IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F" W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went outIn the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out'Way in the grea'-big woods--he did. --An' heWuz 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_ comeTo climb the tree an' git the Little BoyAn'eat him up! An' nen the Little BoyHe 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here comeThe grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to gitThe 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_ comeClimbin' the tree--an' climbin' the tree! Nen whenHe git wite _clos't_ to the Little Boy, w'y nenThe Little Boy he ist pulled up his gunAn' _shot_ the Bear, he did, an' killed him dead!An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down outThe 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 gunAn' killed the _Little_ Bear. --'Cause the _Big_ BearHe--he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa. --An' so here_He_ come to climb the big old tree an' gitThe Little Boy an' eat him up! An' whenThe 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 climbUp _higher_--'way up higher in the treeThan 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 treesThan 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 gitThe Little Boy an' eat him up! An' soThe 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 comeTh' old Bear--clos'ter to him all the time!--An' nen--first thing you know, --when th' old Big BearWuz wite clos't to him--nen the Little BoyIst jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's moufAn' 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, nenNo 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' higherAn' _higher_--tel he ist _can't_ climb no higher, 'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'wayUp in the teeny-weeny tip-top ofThe tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don'tBe keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nenHe look around--An' here come th' old Bear!An' so the Little Boy make up his mindHe's got to ist git out o' there _some_ way!--'Cause here come the old Bear!--so clos't, his bref'sPurt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it isAginst his bare feet--ist like old "Ring's" brefWhen he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired. So when th' old Bear's so clos't--the Little BoyIst gives a grea'-big jump fer '_nother_ tree--No!--no he don't do that!--I tell you whatThe 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 BoyUt-tall!--But, purty soon th' old Bear findsThe 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 knowsThe 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 findOut 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 holeAn' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!. .. NenThe old Bear falls _k-splunge!_ clean to the groundAn' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did! An' nen the Little Boy he git his gunAn' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree agin--No!--no, he _didn't_ git his _gun_--'cause whenThe _Bear_ falled, nen the _gun_ falled, too--An' brokedIt all to pieces, too!--An' _nicest_ gun!--His Pa ist buyed it!--An' the Little BoyIst cried, he did; an' went on climbin' downThe 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 heAin't dead ut-tall--_ist_ 'tendin' thataway, So he kin git the Little Boy an' eatHim up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smartTo climb clean _down_ the tree. --An' the old BearHe can't climb _up_ the tree no more--'cause whenHe fell, he broke one of his--He broke _all_His legs!--an' nen he _couldn't_ climb! But heIst won't go 'way an' let the Little BoyCome down out of the tree. An' the old BearIst growls 'round there, he does--ist growls an' goes"_Wooh! woo-ooh!_" all the time! An' Little BoyHe haf to stay up in the tree--all night--An' 'thout no _supper_ neever!--Only theyWuz _apples_ on the tree!--An' Little BoyEt 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 treeAn' 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 comeAll _light_--so's you kin _see_, you know, --w'y, nenThe 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 thinkHe'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 gunAgin 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 treeAn' chopped his old wooly head off:--Yes, an' killedThe _other_ Bear agin, he did--an' killedAll _boff_ the bears, he did--an' tuk 'em homeAn' _cooked_ 'em, too, an' _et_ 'em! --An' that's THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE The greeting of the company throughoutWas like a jubilee, --the children's shoutAnd fusillading hand-claps, with great gunsAnd 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 slidDown to the floor and dodged across and hidHis face against his mother as she raisedHim to the shelter of her heart, and praisedHis story in low whisperings, and smoothedThe "amber-colored hair, " and kissed, and soothedAnd lulled him back to sweet tranquillity--"And 'ats a sign 'at you're the Ma fer me!"He lisped, with gurgling ecstasy, and drewHer 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 thereA hand entreating silence;--"now, awareOf the good promise of our Traveler guestTo 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 haleHand-pat by way of full indorsement, heSaid, "Yes--the Free-Slave story--certainly. " The old man, with his waddy notebook out, And glittering spectacles, glanced round aboutThe expectant circle, and still firmer drewHis hat on, with a nervous cough or two:And, save at times the big hard words, and toneOf gathering passion--all the speaker's own, --The tale that set each childish heart astirWas thus told by "The Noted Traveler. " TOLD BY "THE NOTED TRAVELER" Coming, clean from the Maryland-endOf this great National Road of ours, Through your vast West; with the time to spend, Stopping for days in the main towns, whereEvery citizen seemed a friend, And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers, --I found no thing that I might narrateMore singularly strange or queerThan a thing I found in your sister-stateOhio, --at a river-town--down hereIn my notebook: _Zanesville--situateOn the stream Muskingum--broad and clear, And navigable, through half the year, North, to Coshocton; south, as farAs Marietta. _--But these facts areNot of the _story_, but the _scene_Of the simple little tale I meanTo tell _directly_--from this, straight throughTo the _end_ that is best worth listening to: Eastward of Zanesville, two or threeMiles from the town, as our stage drove in, I on the driver's seat, and hePointing out this and that to me, --On beyond us--among the rest--A grovey slope, and a fluttering throngOf little children, which he "guessed"Was a picnic, as we caught their thinHigh laughter, as we drove along, Clearer and clearer. Then suddenlyHe 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 whipAt a little, whitewashed house and shedOn 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 tripFor eighteen years. --Though they've been set free, They have been slaves ever since!" said he. And, as our horses slowly drewNearer the little house in view, All briefly I heard the historyOf this little old Negro woman andHer husband, house and scrap of land;How they were slaves and had been made freeBy their dying master, years agoIn old Virginia; and then had comeNorth here into a _free_ state--so, Safe forever, to found a home--For themselves alone?--for they left South thereFive strong sons, who had, alas!All been sold ere it came to passThis first old master with his last breathHad freed the _parents_. --(He went to deathAgonized and in dire despairThat the poor slave _children_ might not shareTheir parents' freedom. And wildly thenHe moaned for pardon and died. Amen!) Thus, with their freedom, and little sumOf money left them, these two had comeNorth, full twenty long years ago;And, settling there, they had hopefullyGone to work, in their simple way, Hauling--gardening--raising sweetCorn, and popcorn. --Bird and beeIn the garden-blooms and the apple-treeSinging with them throughout the slowSummer'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 saleIn the near town-market; or baking piesAnd cakes, to range in alluring showAt the little window, where the eyesOf the Movers' children, driving past, Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drewInto a halt that would sometimes lastEven the space of an hour or two--As the dusty, thirsty travelers madeTheir noonings there in the beeches' shadeBy the old black Aunty's spring-house, where, Along with its cooling draughts, were foundJugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer, Served with her gingerbread-horses there, While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'roundTill the children's rapture knew no bound, As she sang and danced for them, quavering clearAnd 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 waysTo earn the pennies, and hoard them, too, --And with what ultimate end in view?--They were saving up money enough to beAble, in time, to buy their ownFive 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 theirsWhen they first hitched up their shackly cartFor the long, long journey South. --The startIn 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 boyAlong with them! Why, their happinessSpread abroad till it grew a joy_Universal_--It even reachedAnd thrilled the town till the _Church_ was stirredInto suspecting that wrong was wrong!--And it stayed awake as the preacher preachedA _Real_ "Love"-text that he had not longTo 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 oneIn turn, till _four_ of the five at lastHad been bought back; and, in each case, With steady work and good homes notFar from the parents, _they_ chipped inTo the family fund, with an equal grace. Thus they managed and planned and wrought, And the old folks throve--Till the night beforeThey were to start for the lone last sonIn the rainy dawn--their money fastHid 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 thenA woman's fife-like shriek. . .. Three menSplashing by on horseback heardThe summons: And in an instant allSprung to their duty, with scarce a word. And they were _in time_--not only to saveThe lives of the old folks, but to bagBoth the robbers, and buck-and-gagAnd land them safe in the county-jail--Or, as Aunty said, with a blended aweAnd subtlety, --"Safe in de calaboose whahDe dawgs caint bite 'em!" --So prevailThe faithful!--So had the Lord upheldHis servants of both deed and prayer, --HIS the glory unparalleled--_Theirs_ the reward, --their every sonFree, at last, as the parents were!And, as the driver ended thereIn front of the little house, I said, All fervently, "Well done! well done!"At which he smiled, and turned his headAnd pulled on the leaders' lines and--"See!"He said, --"'you can read old Aunty's sign?"And, peering down through these specs of mineOn 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 couldScarce hear myself for laugh and shoutOf children--a glad multitudeOf little people, swarming outOf the picnic-grounds I spoke about. --And in their rapturous midst, I seeAgain--through mists of memory--A black old Negress laughing upAt the driver, with her broad lips rolledBack from her teeth, chalk-white, and gumsRedder than reddest red-ripe plums. He took from her hand the lifted cupOf clear spring-water, pure and cold, And passed it to me: And I raised my hatAnd drank to her with a reverence thatMy conscience knew was justly dueThe old black face, and the old eyes, too--The old black head, with its mossy matOf hair, set under its cap and frillsWhite as the snows on Alpine hills;Drank to the old _black_ smile, but yetBright as the sun on the violet, --Drank to the gnarled and knuckled oldBlack hands whose palms had ached and bledAnd pitilessly been worn paleAnd white almost as the palms that holdSlavery's lash while the victim's wailFails 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 spaceDirectly following: and in the faceOf one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glowOf the heat-lightning that pent passions throwLong 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 breastA yearning, as it were, to know _the rest_--That all unwritten sequence that the LordOf Righteousness must write with flame and sword, Some awful session of His patient thought--Just then it was, his good old mother caughtHis blazing eye--so that its fire becameBut as an ember--though it burned the same. It seemed to her, she said, that she had heardIt was the _Heavenly_ Parent never erred, And not the _earthly_ one that had such grace:"Therefore, my son, " she said, with lifted faceAnd eyes, "let no one dare anticipateThe Lord's intent. While _He_ waits, _we_ will wait"And with a gust of reverence genuineThen 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 allAs something humorous. And then a callFor _him_ to tell a story, or to "sayA funny piece. " His face fell right away:He knew no story worthy. Then he must_Declaim_ for them: In that, he could not trustHis memory. And then a happy thoughtStruck some one, who reached in his vest and broughtSome scrappy clippings into light and saidThere was a poem of Uncle Mart's he readLast April in "_The Sentinel_. " He hadIt there in print, and knew all would be gladTo hear it rendered by the author. And, All reasons for declining at commandExhausted, the now helpless poet roseAnd said: "I am discovered, I suppose. Though I have taken all precautions notTo sign my name to any verses wroughtBy my transcendent genius, yet, you see, Fame wrests my secret from me bodily;So I must needs confess I did this deedOf poetry red-handed, nor can pleadOne 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--needI 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 choppedHis wood, and et his breakfast, he Jist grabbed his mitts and hoppedRight in on that-air old Snow-Man That he laid out he'd makeEr 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_ onThe _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-floorAnd 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 rightAnd 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 chinStuck _furder_ out--and his old _nose_ Stuck out as fur-agin!He made his eyes o' walnuts, And his whiskers out o' thisHere 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 paneAnd 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 delightHe 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 onHis 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 moreA wintry coolness through the open doorAnd window seemed to touch each glowing faceRefreshingly; 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 againWere heard in tinkling spoons and glasses then. Thus Uncle Mart's old poem sounded youngAnd crisp and fresh and clear as when first sung, Away back in the wakening of SpringWhen his rhyme and the robin, chorusing, Rumored, in duo-fanfare, of the soonInvading johnny-jump-ups, with platoonOn platoon of sweet-williams, marshaled fineTo blooméd blarings of the trumpet-vine. The poet turned to whisperingly conferA moment with "The Noted Traveler. "Then left the room, tripped up the stairs, and thenAn 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 inOne hand upheld it, pulling back his thinBlack lustre coat-sleeves, saying he had sentUp for his "Magic Box, " and that he meantTo test it there--especially to show_The Children_. "It is _empty now_, you know. "--He humped it with his knuckles, so they heardThe hollow sound--"But lest it be inferredIt is not _really_ empty, I will ask_Little Jack Janitor_, whose pleasant taskIt is to keep it ship-shape. " Then he triedAnd 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 keyTurned on me!_" Then the Traveler leisurelyFelt through his pockets, and at last took outThe smallest key they ever heard about!--It, wasn't any longer than a pin:And this at last he managed to fit inThe 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 manLooked hurt, so that the little folks beganTo feel so sorry for him, he put downHis 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 thenThe 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 drawerWith care, "I want some cotton-batting forMy 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 broughtAnd held for him: and tuft by tuft he caughtAnd lit the cotton, and, while blazing, tookIt in his mouth and ate it, with a lookOf purest satisfaction. "Now, " said he, "I've eaten the drawer empty, let me seeWhat this is in my mouth:" And with both handsHe began drawing from his lips long strandsOf narrow silken ribbons, every hueAnd tint;--and crisp they were and bright and newAs if just purchased at some Fancy-Store. "And now, Bub, bring your cap, " he said, "beforeSomething might happen!" And he stuffed the capFull of the ribbons. "_There_, my little chap, Hold _tight_ to them, " he said, "and take them toThe ladies there, for they know what to doWith all such rainbow finery!" He smiledHalf sadly, as it seemed, to see the childOpen his cap first to his mother. .. .. ThereWas not a ribbon in it anywhere!"_Jack Janitor!_" the man said sternly throughThe Magic Box--"Jack Janitor, did _you_Conceal those ribbons anywhere?" "_Well, yes, _"The little voice piped--"_but you'd never guessThe place I hid 'em if you'd guess a year!_" "Well, won't you _tell_ me?" "_Not until you clearYour mean old conscience_" said the voice, "_and makeMe 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 drewThe 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 smackedHis lips. --"Yes, that _is_ candy, for a fact!--And it's all _yours!_" And how the children thereLit into it!--O never anywhereWas such a feast of sweetness! "And now, then, "The man said, as the empty drawer againSlid to its place, he bending over it, --"Now, then, Jack Janitor, before we quitOur entertainment for the evening, tellUs 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 vainThe old white hat--then put it on again:"Now, tell me, _honest_, Jack, where _did_ you hideThe ribbons?" "_Under your hat_" the voice replied. --"_Mind! I said 'under' and not 'in' it. --Won'tYou ever take the hint on earth?--or don'tYou want to show folks where the ribbons at?--Law! but I'm sleepy!--Under--unner your hat!_" Again the old man carefully took offThe empty hat, with an embarrassed cough, Saying, all gravely to the children: "YouMust promise not to _laugh_--you'll all _want_ to--When you see where Jack Janitor has daredTo hide those ribbons--when he might have sparedMy feelings. --But no matter!--Know the worst--Here are the ribbons, as I feared at first. "--And, quick as snap of thumb and finger, thereThe old man's head had not a sign of hair, And in his lap a wig of iron-grayLay, stuffed with all that glittering arrayOf ribbons . .. "Take 'em to the ladies--Yes. Good-night to everybody, and God blessThe Children. " In a whisper no one missedThe Hired Man yawned: "He's a vantrilloquist" * * * * * So gloried all the night Each trundle-bedAnd pallet was enchanted--each child-headWas packed with happy dreams. And long beforeThe dawn's first far-off rooster crowed, the snoreOf Uncle Mart was stilled, as round him pressedThe bare arms of the wakeful little guestThat 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. ]