PIPES O' PAN AT ZEKESBURY
BY
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
INDIANAPOLIS
BOWEN-MERRILL CO., PUBLISHERS
1895
_TO MY BROTHER JOHN A. RILEY WITH MANY MEMORIES OF THE OLD HOME_
CONTENTS
PAGE
AT ZEKESBURY 13
DOWN AROUND THE RIVER POEMS
DOWN AROUND THE RIVER 37
KNEELING WITH HERRICK 39
ROMANCIN' 40
HAS SHE FORGOTTEN 43
A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG 45
THE LOST PATH 47
THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW 48
HIS MOTHER 49
KISSING THE ROD 50
HOW IT HAPPENED 51
BABYHOOD 53
THE DAYS GONE BY 54
MRS. MILLER 57
RHYMES OF RAINY DAYS
THE TREE-TOAD 79
A WORN-OUT PENCIL 80
THE STEPMOTHER 82
THE RAIN 83
THE LEGEND GLORIFIED 84
WHUR MOTHER IS 85
OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME 86
THREE DEAD FRIENDS 88
IN BOHEMIA 91
IN THE DARK 93
WET-WEATHER TALK 94
WHERE SHALL WE LAND 96
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 101
SWEET-KNOT AND GALAMUS
AN OLD SWEETHEART 159
MARTHY ELLEN 161
MOON-DROWNED 163
LONG AFORE HE KNOWED 164
DEAR HANDS 166
THIS MAN JONES 167
TO MY GOOD MASTER 169
WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK 170
AT BROAD RIPPLE 171
WHEN OLD JACK DIED 172
DOC SIFERS 174
AT NOON--AND MIDNIGHT 177
A WILD IRISHMAN 181
RAGWEED AND FENNEL
WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE 205
A DOS'T O' BLUES 206
THE BAT 208
THE WAY IT WUZ 209
THE DRUM 212
TOM JOHNSON'S QUIT 214
LULLABY 216
IN THE SOUTH 217
THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL 219
A LEAVE-TAKING 221
WAIT FOR THE MORNING 222
WHEN JUNE IS HERE 223
THE GILDED ROLL 227
PIPES O' PAN AT ZEKESBURY
The pipes of Pan! Not idler now are they
Than when their cunning fashioner first blew
The pith of music from them: Yet for you
And me their notes are blown in many a way
Lost in our murmurings for that old day
That fared so well, without us.--Waken to
The pipings here at hand:--The clear halloo
Of truant-voices, and the roundelay
The waters warble in the solitude
Of blooming thickets, where the robin's breast
Sends up such ecstacy o'er dale and dell,
Each tree top answers, till in all the wood
There lingers not one squirrel in his nest
Whetting his hunger on an empty shell.
AT ZEKESBURY.
The little town, as I recall it, was of just enough dignity and dearth
of the same to be an ordinary county seat in Indiana--"The Grand Old
Hoosier State," as it was used to being howlingly referred to by the
forensic stump orator from the old stand in the courthouse yard--a
political campaign being the wildest delight that Zekesbury might ever
hope to call its own.
Through years the fitful happenings of the town and its vicinity went
on the same--the same! Annually about one circus ventured in, and
vanished, and was gone, even as a passing trumpet-blast; the usual
rainy-season swelled the "Crick," the driftage choking at "the covered
bridge," and backing water till the old road looked amphibious; and
crowds of curious townsfolk straggled down to look upon the watery
wonder, and lean awe-struck above it, and spit in it, and turn mutely
home again.
The usual formula of incidents peculiar to an uneventful town and its
vicinity: The countryman from "Jessup's Crossing," with the cornstalk
coffin-measure, loped into town, his steaming little
gray-and-red-flecked "roadster" gurgitating, as it were, with that
mysterious utterance that ever has commanded and ever must evoke the
wonder and bewilderment of every boy. The small-pox rumor became
prevalent betimes, and the subtle aroma of the assafoetida-bag
permeated the graded schools "from turret to foundation-stone;" the
still recurring exposé of the poor-house management; the farm-hand,
with the scythe across his shoulder, struck dead by lightning; the
long-drawn quarrel between the rival editors culminating in one of
them assaulting the other with a "sidestick," and the other kicking
the one down stairs and thenceward _ad libitum;_ the tramp,
suppositiously stealing a ride, found dead on the railroad; the grand
jury returning a sensational indictment against a bar-tender _non
est_; the Temperance outbreak; the "Revival;" the Church Festival; and
the "Free Lectures on Phrenology, and Marvels of Mesmerism," at the
town hall. It was during the time of the last-mentioned sensation, and
directly through this scientific investigation, that I came upon two
of the town's most remarkable characters. And however meager my
outline of them may prove, my material for the sketch is most accurate
in every detail, and no deviation from the cold facts of the case
shall influence any line of my report.
For some years prior to this odd experience I had been connected with
a daily paper at the state capitol; and latterly a prolonged session
of the legislature, where I specially reported, having told
threateningly upon my health, I took both the advantage of a brief
vacation, and the invitation of a young bachelor Senator, to get out
of the city for awhile, and bask my respiratory organs in the
revivifying rural air of Zekesbury--the home of my new friend.
"It'll pay you to get out here," he said, cordially, meeting me at the
little station, "and I'm glad you've come, for you'll find no end of
odd characters to amuse you." And under the very pleasant sponsorship
of my senatorial friend, I was placed at once on genial terms with
half the citizens of the little town--from the shirt-sleeved nabob of
the county office to the droll wag of the favorite loafing-place--the
rules and by-laws of which resort, by the way, being rudely charcoaled
on the wall above the cutter's bench, and somewhat artistically
culminating in an original dialectic legend which ran thus:
F'rinstance, now whar _some_ folks gits
To relyin' on their wits.
Ten to one they git too smart,
And spile it all right at the start!--
Feller wants to jest go slow
And do his _thinkin'_ first, you know:----
_Ef I can't think up somepin' good,_
_I set still and chaw my cood!_
And it was at this inviting rendezvous, two or three evenings
following my arrival, that the general crowd, acting upon the random
proposition of one of the boys, rose as a man and wended its hilarious
way to the town hall.
"Phrenology," said the little, old, bald-headed lecturer and
mesmerist, thumbing the egg-shaped head of a young man I remembered to
have met that afternoon in some law office; "Phrenology," repeated the
professor--"or rather the _term_ phrenology--is derived from two Greek
words signifying _mind_ and _discourse_; hence we find embodied in
phrenology-proper, the science of intellectual measurement, together
with the capacity of intelligent communication of the varying mental
forces and their flexibilities, etc., &c. The study, then, of
phrenology is, to wholly simplify it--is, I say, the general
contemplation of the workings of the mind as made manifest through the
certain corresponding depressions and protuberances of the human
skull, when, of course, in a healthy state of action and development,
as we here find the conditions exemplified in the subject before us."
Here the "subject" vaguely smiled.
"You recognize that mug, don't you?" whispered my friend. "It's that
coruscating young ass, you know, Hedrick--in Cummings' office--trying
to study law and literature at the same time, and tampering with 'The
Monster that Annually,' don't you know?--where we found the two young
students scuffling round the office, and smelling of
peppermint?--Hedrick, you know, and Sweeney. Sweeney, the slim chap,
with the pallid face, and frog-eyes, and clammy hands! You remember I
told you 'there was a pair of 'em?' Well, they're up to something here
to-night. Hedrick, there on the stage in front; and Sweeney--don't you
see?--with the gang on the rear seats."
"Phrenology--again," continued the lecturer, "is, we may say, a
species of mental geography, as it were; which--by a study of the
skull--leads also to a study of the brain within, even as geology
naturally follows the initial contemplation of the earth's surface.
The brain, thurfur, or intellectual retort, as we may say, natively
exerts a molding influence on the skull contour; thurfur is the expert
in phrenology most readily enabled to accurately locate the
multitudinous intellectual forces, and most exactingly estimate, as
well, the sequent character of each subject submitted to his scrutiny.
As, in the example before us--a young man, doubtless well known in
your midst, though, I may say, an entire stranger to myself--I venture
to disclose some characteristic trends and tendencies, as indicated by
this phrenological depression and development of the skull-proper, as
later we will show, through the mesmeric condition, the accuracy of
our mental diagnosis."
Throughout the latter part of this speech my friend nudged me
spasmodically, whispering something which was jostled out of
intelligent utterance by some inward spasm of laughter.
"In this head," said the Professor, straddling his malleable fingers
across the young man's bumpy brow--"In this head we find Ideality
large--abnormally large, in fact; thurby indicating--taken in
conjunction with a like development of the perceptive
qualities--language following, as well, in the prominent eye--thurby
indicating, I say, our subject as especially endowed with a love for
the beautiful--the sublime--the elevating--the refined and
delicate--the lofty and superb--in nature, and in all the sublimated
attributes of the human heart and beatific soul. In fact, we find this
young man possessed of such natural gifts as would befit him for the
exalted career of the sculptor, the actor, the artist, or the
poet--any ideal calling; in fact, any calling but a practical,
matter-of-fact vocation; though in poetry he would seem to best
succeed."
"Well," said my friend, seriously, "he's _feeling_ for the boy!" Then
laughingly: "Hedrick _has_ written some rhymes for the county papers,
and Sweeney once introduced him, at an Old Settlers' Meeting, as 'The
Best Poet in Center Township,' and never cracked a smile! Always after
each other that way, but the best friends in the world. _Sweeney's_
strong suit is elocution. He has a native ability that way by no means
ordinary, but even that gift he abuses and distorts simply to produce
grotesque, and oftentimes ridiculous effects. For instance, nothing
more delights him than to 'lothfully' consent to answer a request, at
The Mite Society, some evening, for 'an appropriate selection,' and
then, with an elaborate introduction of the same, and an exalted
tribute to the refined genius of the author, proceed with a most
gruesome rendition of 'Alonzo The Brave and The Fair Imogene,' in a
way to coagulate the blood and curl the hair of his fair listeners
with abject terror. Pale as a corpse, you know, and with that
cadaverous face, lit with those malignant-looking eyes, his slender
figure, and his long, thin legs and arms and hands, and his whole
diabolical talent and adroitness brought into play--why, I want to say
to you, it's enough to scare 'em to death! Never a smile from him,
though, till he and Hedrick are safe out into the night again--then,
of course, they hug each other and howl over it like Modocs! But
pardon; I'm interrupting the lecture. Listen."
"A lack of continuity, however," continued the Professor, "and an
undue love of approbation, would, measurably, at least, tend to retard
the young man's progress toward the consummation of any loftier
ambition, I fear; yet as we have intimated, if the subject were
appropriately educated to the need's demand, he could doubtless
produce a high order of both prose and poetry--especially the
latter--though he could very illy bear being laughed at for his
pains."
"He's dead wrong there," said my friend; "Hedrick enjoys being laughed
at; he 's used to it--gets fat on it!"
"He is fond of his friends," continued the Professor "and the heartier
they are the better; might even be convivially inclined--if so
tempted--but prudent--in a degree," loiteringly concluded the speaker,
as though unable to find the exact bump with which to bolster up the
last named attribute.
The subject blushed vividly--my friend's right eyelid dropped, and
there was a noticeable, though elusive sensation throughout the
audience.
"_But!_" said the Professor, explosively, "selecting a directly
opposite subject, in conjunction with the study of the one before us
[turning to the group at the rear of the stage and beckoning], we may
find a newer interest in the practical comparison of these subjects
side by side." And the Professor pushed a very pale young man into
position.
"Sweeney!" whispered my friend, delightedly; "now look out!"
"In _this_ subject," said the Professor, "we find the practical
business head. Square--though small--a trifle light at the base, in
fact; but well balanced at the important points at least; thoughtful
eyes--wide-awake--crafty--quick--restless--a policy eye, though not
denoting language--unless, perhaps, mere business forms and direct
statements."
"Fooled again!" whispered my friend; "and I'm afraid the old man will
fail to nest out the fact also that Sweeney is the cold-bloodedest
guyer on the face of the earth, and with more diabolical resources
than a prosecuting attorney; the Professor ought to know this, too, by
this time--for these same two chaps have been visiting the old man in
his room at the hotel;--that's what I was trying to tell you awhile
ago. The old sharp thinks he's 'playing' the boys, is my idea; but
it's the other way, or I lose my guess."
"Now, under the mesmeric influence--if the two subjects will consent
to its administration," said the Professor, after some further tedious
preamble, "we may at once determine the fact of my assertions, as will
be proved by their action while in this peculiar state." Here some
apparent remonstrance was met with from both subjects, though amicably
overcome by the Professor first manipulating the stolid brow and
pallid front of the imperturbable Sweeney--after which the same
mysterious ordeal was lothfully submitted to by Hedrick--though a
noticeably longer time was consumed in securing his final loss of
self-control. At last, however, this curious phenomenon was presented,
and there before us stood the two swaying figures, the heads dropped
back, the lifted hands, with thumb and finger-tips pressed lightly
together, the eyelids languid and half closed, and the features, in
appearance, wan and humid.
"Now, sir!" said the Professor, leading the limp Sweeney forward, and
addressing him in a quick, sharp tone of voice.--"Now, sir, you are a
great contractor--own large factories, and with untold business
interests. Just look out there! [pointing out across the expectant
audience] look there, and see the countless minions toiling servilely
at your dread mandates. And yet--ha! ha! See! see!--They recognize the
avaricious greed that would thus grind them in the very dust; they
see, alas! they see themselves half-clothed--half-fed, that you may
glut your coffers. Half-starved, they listen to the wail of wife and
babe, and, with eyes upraised in prayer, they see _you_ rolling by in
gilded coach, and swathed in silk attire. But--ha! again! Look--look!
they are rising in revolt against you! Speak to them before too late!
Appeal to them--quell them with the promise of the just advance of
wages they demand!"
The limp figure of Sweeney took on something of a stately and majestic
air. With a graceful and commanding gesture of the hand, he advanced a
step or two; then, after a pause of some seconds duration, in which
the lifted face grew paler, as it seemed, and the eyes a denser black,
he said:
"But yesterday
I looked away
O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay
In golden blots,
Inlaid with spots
Of shade and wild forget-me-nots."
The voice was low, but clear, and ever musical. The Professor started
at the strange utterance, looked extremely confused, and, as the
boisterous crowd cried "Hear, hear!" he motioned the subject to
continue, with some gasping comment interjected, which, if audible,
would have run thus: "My God! It's an inspirational poem!"
"My head was fair
With flaxen hair--"
resumed the subject.
"Yoop-ee!" yelled an irreverent auditor.
"Silence! silence!" commanded the excited Professor in a hoarse
whisper; then, turning enthusiastically to the subject--"Go on, young
man! Go on!--'_Thy head-was fair-with flaxen hair_--'"
"My head was fair
With flaxen hair,
And fragrant breezes, faint and rare,
And warm with drouth
From out the south,
Blew all my curls across my mouth."
The speaker's voice, exquisitely modulated, yet resonant as the twang
of a harp, now seemed of itself to draw and hold each listener; while
a certain extravagance of gesticulation--a fantastic movement of both
form and feature--seemed very near akin to fascination. And so flowed
on the curious utterance:
"And, cool and sweet,
My naked feet
Found dewy pathways through the wheat;
And out again
Where, down the lane,
The dust was dimpled with the rain."
In the pause following there was a breathlessness almost painful. The
poem went on:
"But yesterday
I heard the lay
Of summer birds, when I, as they
With breast and wing,
All quivering
With life and love, could only sing.
"My head was leant,
Where, with it, blent
A maiden's, o'er her instrument;
While all the night,
From vale to height,
Was filled with echoes of delight.
"And all our dreams
Were lit with gleams
Of that lost land of reedy streams,
Along whose brim
Forever swim
Pan's lilies, laughing up at him."
And still the inspired singer held rapt sway.
"It is wonderful!" I whispered, under breath.
"Of course it is!" answered my friend. "But listen; there is more:"
"But yesterday!...
O blooms of May,
And summer roses--Where-away?
O stars above;
And lips of love,
And all the honeyed sweets thereof!
"O lad and lass.
And orchard-pass,
And briared lane, and daisied grass!
O gleam and gloom,
And woodland bloom,
And breezy breaths of all perfume!--
"No more for me
Or mine shall be
Thy raptures--save in memory,--
No more--no more--
Till through the Door
Of Glory gleam the days of yore."
This was the evident conclusion of the remarkable utterance, and the
Professor was impetuously fluttering his hands about the subject's
upward-staring eyes, stroking his temples, and snapping his fingers in
his face.
"Well," said Sweeney, as he stood suddenly awakened, and grinning in
an idiotic way, "how did the old thing work?" And it was in the
consequent hilarity and loud and long applause, perhaps, that the
Professor was relieved from the explanation of this rather astounding
phenomenon of the idealistic workings of a purely practical brain--or,
as my impious friend scoffed the incongruity later, in a particularly
withering allusion, as the "blank-blanked fallacy, don't you know, of
staying the hunger of a howling mob by feeding 'em on Spring poetry!"
The tumult of the audience did not cease even with the retirement of
Sweeney, and cries of "Hedrick! Hedrick!" only subsided with the
Professor's high-keyed announcement that the subject was even then
endeavoring to make himself heard, but could not until utter quiet was
restored, adding the further appeal that the young man had already
been a long time under the mesmeric spell, and ought not be so
detained for an unnecessary period. "See," he concluded, with an
assuring wave of the hand toward the subject, "see; he is about to
address you. Now, quiet!--utter quiet, if you please!"
"Great heavens!" exclaimed my friend, stiflingly; "Just look at the
boy! Get onto that position for a poet! Even Sweeney has fled from the
sight of him!"
And truly, too, it was a grotesque pose the young man had assumed; not
wholly ridiculous either, since the dwarfed position he had settled
into seemed more a genuine physical condition than an affected one.
The head, back-tilted, and sunk between the shoulders, looked
abnormally large, while the features of the face appeared peculiarly
child-like--especially the eyes--wakeful and wide apart, and very
bright, yet very mild and very artless; and the drawn and cramped
outline of the legs and feet, and of the arms and hands, even to the
shrunken, slender-looking fingers, all combined to most strikingly
convey to the pained senses the fragile frame and pixey figure of some
pitiably afflicted child, unconscious altogether of the pathos of its
own deformity.
"Now, mark the kuss, Horatio!" gasped my friend.
At first the speaker's voice came very low, and somewhat piping, too,
and broken--an eerie sort of voice it was, of brittle and erratic
_timbre_ and undulant inflection. Yet it was beautiful. It had the
ring of childhood in it, though the ring was not pure golden, and at
times fell echoless. The _spirit_ of its utterance was always clear
and pure and crisp and cheery as the twitter of a bird, and yet
forever ran an undercadence through it like a low-pleading prayer.
Half garrulously, and like a shallow brook might brawl across a shelvy
bottom, the rhythmic little changeling thus began:
"I'm thist a little crippled boy, an' never goin' to grow
An' git a great big man at all!--'cause Aunty told me so.
When I was thist a baby one't I falled out of the bed
An' got 'The Curv'ture of the Spine'--'at's what the Doctor said.
I never had no Mother nen--far my Pa run away
An' dassn't come back here no more--'cause he was drunk one day
An' stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an' couldn't pay his fine!
An' nen my Ma she died--an' I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"
A few titterings from the younger people in the audience marked the
opening stanza, while a certain restlessness, and a changing to more
attentive positions seemed the general tendency. The old Professor, in
the meantime, had sunk into one of the empty chairs. The speaker went
on with more gaiety:
"I'm nine years old! An' you can't guess how much I weigh, I bet!--
Last birthday I weighed thirty-three!--An' I weigh thirty yet!
I'm awful little far my size--I'm purt' nigh littler 'an
Some babies is!--an' neighbors all calls me 'The Little Man!'
An' Doc one time he laughed an' said: 'I 'spect, first thing you
know,
You'll have a little spike-tail coat an' travel with a show!'
An' nen I laughed--till I looked round an' Aunty was a-cryin'--
Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got 'Curv'ture of the
Spine!'"
Just in front of me a great broad-shouldered countryman, with a rainy
smell in his cumbrous overcoat, cleared his throat vehemently, looked
startled at the sound, and again settled forward, his weedy chin
resting on the knuckles of his hands as they tightly clutched the seat
before him. And it was like being taken into a childish confidence as
the quaint speech continued:
"I set--while Aunty's washin'--on my little long-leg stool,
An' watch the little boys an' girls 'a-skippin' by to school;
An' I peck on the winder, an' holler out an' say:
'Who wants to fight The Little Man 'at dares you all to-day?'
An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls peeks
through,
An' they all says: 'Cause you're so big, you think we're 'feared o'
you!'
An' nen they yell, an' shake their fist at me, like I shake mine--
They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got 'Curv'ture of the
Spine!'"
"Well," whispered my friend, with rather odd irrelevance, I thought,
"of course you see through the scheme of the fellows by this time,
don't you?"
"I see nothing," said I, most earnestly, "but a poor little wisp of a
child that makes me love him so I dare not think of his dying soon, as
he surely must! There; listen!" And the plaintive gaiety of the homely
poem ran on:
"At evening, when the ironin's done, an' Aunty's fixed the fire,
An' filled an' lit the lamp, an' trimmed the wick an' turned it
higher,
An' fetched the wood all in far night, an' locked the kitchen door,
An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up through the
floor--
She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' makes the tea,
An' fries the liver an' the mush, an' cooks a egg far me;
An' sometimes--when I cough so hard--her elderberry wine
Don't go so bad far little boys with 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"
"Look!" whispered my friend, touching me with his elbow. "Look at the
Professor!"
"Look at everybody!" said I. And the artless little voice went on
again half quaveringly:
"But Aunty's all so childish-like on my account, you see,
I'm 'most afeared she'll be took down--an' 'at's what bothers
_me!_--
'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would git sick an' die,
I don't know what she'd do in Heaven--till _I_ come, by an' by:--
Far she's so ust to all my ways, an' ever'thing, you know,
An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' worry over so!--
'Cause all the little childerns there's so straight an' strong an'
fine,
They's nary angel 'bout the place with 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"
The old Professor's face was in his handkerchief; so was my friend's
in his; and so was mine in mine, as even now my pen drops and I reach
for it again.
I half regret joining the mad party that had gathered an hour later in
the old law-office where these two graceless characters held almost
nightly revel, the instigators and conniving hosts of a reputed
banquet whose _menu's_ range confined itself to herrings, or "blind
robins," dried beef, and cheese, with crackers, gingerbread, and
sometimes pie; the whole washed down with anything but
"----Wines that heaven knows when
Had sucked the fire of some forgotten sun,
And kept it through a hundred years of gloom
Still glowing in a heart of ruby."
But the affair was memorable. The old Professor was himself lured into
it, and loudest in his praise of Hedrick's realistic art; and I yet
recall him at the orgie's height, excitedly repulsing the continued
slurs and insinuations of the clammy-handed Sweeney, who, still
contending against the old man's fulsome praise of his more fortunate
rival, at last openly declared that Hedrick was _not_ a poet, _not_ a
genius, and in no way worthy to be classed in the same breath with
_himself_--"the gifted but unfortunate _Sweeney_, sir--the
unacknowledged author, sir--'y gad, sir!--of the two poems that held
you spell-bound to-night!"
DOWN AROUND THE RIVER POEMS
DOWN AROUND THE RIVER.
Noon-time and June-time, down around the river!
Have to furse with 'Lizey Ann--but lawzy! I fergive her!
Drives me off the place, and says 'at all 'at she's a-wishin',
Land o' gracious! time'll come I'll git enough o' fishin'!
Little Dave, a-choppin' wood, never 'pears to notice;
Don't know where she's hid his hat, er keerin' where his coat is,--
Specalatin', more 'n like, he haint a-goin' to mind me,
And guessin' where, say twelve o'clock, a feller'd likely find me.
Noon-time and June-time, down around the river!
Clean out o' sight o' home, and skulkin' under kivver
Of the sycamores, jack-oaks, and swamp-ash and ellum--
Idies all so jumbled up, you kin hardly tell 'em!--
_Tired_, you know, but _lovin'_ it, and smilin' jest to think 'at
Any sweeter tiredness you'd fairly want to _drink_ it.
Tired o' fishin'--tired o' fun--line out slack and slacker--
All you want in all the world's a little more tobacker!
Hungry, but _a-hidin'_ it, er jes' a-not a-keerin':-
Kingfisher gittin' up and skootin' out o' hearin';
Snipes on the t'other side, where the County Ditch is,
Wadin' up and down the aidge like they'd rolled their britches!
Old turkle on the root kindo-sorto drappin'
Intoo th' worter like he don't know how it happen!
Worter, shade and all so mixed, don't know which you'd orter
Say, th' _worter_ in the shadder--_shadder_ in the _worter!_
Somebody hollerin'--'way around the bend in
Upper Fork--where yer eye kin jes' ketch the endin'
Of the shiney wedge o' wake some muss-rat's a-makin'
With that pesky nose o' his! Then a sniff o' bacon,
Corn-bread and 'dock-greens--and little Dave a-shinnin'
'Crost the rocks and mussel-shells, a-limpin' and a-grinnin',
With yer dinner far ye, and a blessin' from the giver.
Noon-time and June-time down around the river!
KNEELING WITH HERRICK.
Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent.--
Give me content--
Full-pleasured with what comes to me,
What e'er it be:
An humble roof--a frugal board,
And simple hoard;
The wintry fagot piled beside
The chimney wide,
While the enwreathing flames up-sprout
And twine about
The brazen dogs that guard my hearth
And household worth:
Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow
The rafters low;
And let the sparks snap with delight,
As ringers might
That mark deft measures of some tune
The children croon:
Then, with good friends, the rarest few
Thou holdest true,
Ranged round about the blaze, to share
My comfort there,--
Give me to claim the service meet
That makes each seat
A place of honor, and each guest
Loved as the rest.
ROMANCIN'.
I' b'en a-kindo musin', as the feller says, and I'm
About o' the conclusion that they ain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the times we used to know
When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto solem'-like and low!
You git my idy, do you?--_Little_ tads, you understand--
Jes' a wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y was a _man_.--
Yit here I am, this minute, even forty, to a day,
And fergittin' all that's in it, wishin' jes' the other way!
I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate
Whur the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,--
But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,
And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do!--
I jes' gee-haw the hosses, and unhook the swingle-tree,
Whur the hazel-bushes tosses down their shadders over me,
And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and set
Jes' a-thinkin' here, 'y gravy! till my eyes is wringin'-wet!
Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the _present_, I kin see--
Kindo like my sight was double--all the things that _used to be_;
And the flutter o' the robin, and the teeter o' the wren
Sets the willer branches bobbin "howdy-do" thum Now to Then!
The deadnin' and the thicket's jes' a bilin' full of June,
Thum the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's tune;
And the catbird in the bottom, and the sap-suck on the snag,
Seems ef they cain't--od-rot'em!--jes' do nothin' else but brag!
They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay,
And that sassy little critter jes' a-peckin' all the day;
They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the thrush,
And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the brush!
They's music _all around_ me!--And I go back, in a dream--
Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep--and in the stream
That used to split the medder whur the dandylions growed,
I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the road.
Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!--and they's other fellers, too,
With their hickry poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and a few
Little "shiners" on our stringers, with their tails tiptoein' bloom,
As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy journey home.
I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out
With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout!"
I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam,
And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern of the dam.
I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill;
And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growlin' still;
And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe,
And jes' git in and row it like the miller used to do.
W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortal plain
I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane;
And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n "money musk"
Far the lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin'and a-dancin'in the dusk.
And so I keep on musin', as the feller says, till I'm
Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the _old_ times,--and, I swear,
I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it!" jes' as soft as any prayer!
HAS SHE FORGOTTEN.
I.
Has she forgotten? On this very May
We were to meet here, with the birds and bees,
As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees
We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away
The vines from these old granites, cold and gray--
And yet, indeed, not grim enough were they
To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstacies,
Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies.
Has she forgotten--that the May has won
Its promise?--that the bird-songs from the tree
Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun
Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly?
Has she forgotten life--love--everyone--
Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?
II.
Low, low down in the violets I press
My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear,
And yet hold silence, though I call her dear,
Just as of old, save for the tearfulness
Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress?
Has she forgotten thus the old caress
That made our breath a quickened atmosphere
That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer
Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap
Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly
As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep
In memory of days that used to be,--
Has she forgotten these? And, in her sleep,
Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?
III.
To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,
I mean to weld our faces--through the dense
Incalculable darkness make pretense
That she has risen from her reveries
To mate her dreams with mine in marriages
Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease
Of every longing nerve of indolence,--
Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun
My senses with her kisses--drawl the glee
Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,
Across mine own, forgetful if is done
The old love's awful dawn-time when said we,
"To-day is ours!".... Ah, Heaven! can it be
She has forgotten me--forgotten me!
A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG.
It's the curiousest thing in creation,
Whenever I hear that old song,
"Do They Miss Me at Home?" I'm so bothered,
My life seems as short as it's long!--
Far ever'thing 'pears like adzackly
It 'peared, in the years past and gone,--
When I started out sparkin', at twenty,
And had my first neckercher on!
Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer
Right now than my parents was then,
You strike up that song, "Do They Miss Me?"
And I'm jest a youngster again!--
I'm a-standin' back there in the furries
A-wishin' far evening to come,
And a-whisperin' over and over
Them words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it
The first time I heerd it; and so,
As she was my very first sweetheart,
It reminds of her, don't you know,--
How her face ust to look, in the twilight,
As I tuck her to spellin'; and she
Kep' a-hummin' that song 'tel I ast her,
Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me!
I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it,
And hear her low answerin' words,
And then the glad chirp of the crickets
As clear as the twitter of birds;
And the dust in the road is like velvet,
And the ragweed, and fennel, and grass
Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies
Of Eden of old, as we pass.
"Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower--
And softer--and sweet as the breeze
That powdered our path with the snowy
White bloom of the old locus'-trees!
Let the whippoorwills he'p you to sing it,
And the echoes 'way over the hill,
'Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus
Of stars, and our voices is still.
But, oh! "They's a chord in the music
That's missed when _her_ voice is away!"
Though I listen from midnight 'tel morning,
And dawn, 'tel the dusk of the day;
And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards
And on through the heavenly dome,
With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin'
The words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
THE LOST PATH.
Alone they walked--their fingers knit together,
And swaying listlessly as might a swing
Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather
Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.
Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket
Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane,
And from the covert of the hazel-thicket
The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.
The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases
Along the road-side in the shadows dim,
Went following the blossoms of their faces
As though their sweets must needs be shared with him.
Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle
Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells
Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle
Fell swooningly away in faint farewells.
And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er them,
And folded all the landscape from their eyes,
They only know the dusky path before them
Was leading safely on to Paradise.
THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW.
"--_And any little tiny kickshaws_."--Shakespeare.
O the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me,
'Tis sweeter than the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree,
Wi' denty flavorin's o' spice an' musky rosemarie,
The little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
'Tis luscious wi' the stalen tang o' fruits frae ower the sea,
An' e'en its fragrance gars we laugh wi' langin' lip an' ee,
Till a' its frazen sheen o' white maun melten hinnie be--
Sae weel I luve the kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
O I luve the tiny kickshaw, an' I smack my lips wi' glee,
Aye mickle do I luve the taste o' sic a luxourie,
But maist I luve the luvein' han's that could the giftie gie
O' the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
HIS MOTHER.
DEAD! my wayward boy--_my own_--
Not _the Law's!_ but _mine_--the good
God's free gift to me alone,
Sanctified by motherhood.
"Bad," you say: Well, who is not?
"Brutal"--"with a heart of stone"--
And "red-handed."--Ah! the hot
Blood upon your own!
I come not, with downward eyes,
To plead for him shamedly,--
God did not apologize
When He gave the boy to me.
Simply, I make ready now
For _His_ verdict.--_You_ prepare--
You have killed us both--and how
Will you face us There!
KISSING THE ROD.
O heart of mine, we shouldn't
Worry so!
What we've missed of calm we couldn't
Have, you know!
What we've met of stormy pain,
And of sorrow's driving rain,
We can better meet again,
If it blow!
We have erred in that dark hour
We have known,
When our tears fell with the shower,
All alone!--
Were not shine and shadow blent
As the gracious Master meant?--
Let us temper our content
With His own.
For, we know, not every morrow
Can be sad;
So, forgetting all the sorrow
We have had,
Let us fold away our fears,
And put by our foolish tears,
And through all the coming years
Just be glad.
HOW IT HAPPENED.
I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone--
And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John
A-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way,
And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day!
I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the time
He settled in the neighborhood, and had n't ary a dime
Er dollar, when he married, far to start housekeepin' on!--
So I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone!
I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done
That all her sisters kep' a gittin' married, one by one,
And her without no chances--and the best girl of the pack--
An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!
And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on,
When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John,
And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline
To not see what a wife they 'd git if they got Evaline!
I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction she
Was sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,--
She 'd come, and leave her housework, far to be'p out little Jane,
And talk of _her own_ mother 'at she 'd never see again--
Maybe sometimes cry together--though, far the most part she
Would have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at we
Felt lonesomer 'n ever when she 'd put her bonnet on
And say she 'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!
I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,--and more and more
I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,--
Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone
And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John--
You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life
Far a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife--
'Less some one married _Evaline_, and packed her off some day!--
So I got to thinkin' of her--and it happened thataway.
BABYHOOD.
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:
Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray;
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.
Turn back the leaves of life; don't read the story,--
Let's find the _pictures_, and fancy all the rest:--
We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory
Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best!
Turn to the brook, where the honeysuckle, tipping
O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze,
And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping
From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust trees.
Turn to the lane, where we used to "teeter-totter,"
Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold,
Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water
Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold:
Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel
Of the sunny sandbar in the middle-tide,
And the ghostly dragonfly pauses in his travel
To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died.
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:
Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray;
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.
THE DAYS GONE BY.
O the days gone by! O the days gone by!
The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye;
The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail
As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale;
When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky,
And my happy heart brimmed over in the days gone by.
In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped
By the honey-suckle's tangles where the water-lilies dipped,
And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink
Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink,
And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's wayward cry
And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by.
O the days gone by! O the days gone by!
The music of the laughing lip, the luster of the eye;
The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin's magic ring--
The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything,--
When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh,
In the golden olden glory of the days gone by.
MRS. MILLER
John B. McKinney, Attorney and Counselor at Law, as his sign read,
was, for many reasons, a fortunate man. For many other reasons he was
not. He was chiefly fortunate in being, as certain opponents often
strove to witheringly designate him, "the son of his father," since
that sound old gentleman was the wealthiest farmer in that section,
with but one son and heir to, in time, supplant him in the role of
"county god," and haply perpetuate the prouder title of "the biggest
tax-payer on the assessment list." And this fact, too, fortunate as it
would seem, was doubtless the indirect occasion of a liberal
percentage of all John's misfortunes. From his earliest school-days in
the little town, up to his tardy graduation from a distant college,
the influence of his father's wealth invited his procrastination,
humored its results, encouraged the laxity of his ambition, "and even
now," as John used, in bitter irony, to put it, "it is aiding and
abetting me in the ostensible practice of my chosen profession, a
listless, aimless undetermined man of forty, and a confirmed bachelor
at that!" At the utterance of this self-depreciating statement, John
generally jerked his legs down from the top of his desk; and, rising
and kicking his chair back to the wall, he would stump around his
littered office till the manilla carpet steamed with dust. Then he
would wildly break away, seeking refuge either in the open street, or
in his room at the old-time tavern, The Eagle House, "where," he would
say, "I have lodged and boarded, I do solemnly asseverate, for a long,
unbroken, middle-aged eternity of ten years, and can yet assert, in
the words of the more fortunately-dying Webster, that 'I still live!'"
Extravagantly satirical as he was at times, John had always an
indefinable drollery about him that made him agreeable company to his
friends, at least; and such an admiring friend he had constantly at
hand in the person of Bert Haines. Both were Bohemians in natural
tendency, and, though John was far in Bert's advance in point of age,
he found the young man "just the kind of a fellow to have around;"
while Bert, in turn, held his senior in profound esteem--looked up to
him, in fact, and in even his eccentricities strove to pattern after
him. And so it was, when summer days were dull and tedious, these two
could muse and doze the hours away together; and when the nights were
long, and dark, and deep, and beautiful, they could drift out in the
noon-light of the stars, and with "the soft complaining flute" and
"warbling lute," "lay the pipes," as John would say, for their
enduring popularity with the girls! And it was immediately subsequent
to one of these romantic excursions, when the belated pair, at two
o'clock in the morning, had skulked up a side stairway of the old
hotel, and gained John's room, with nothing more serious happening
than Bert falling over a trunk and smashing his guitar,--just after
such a night of romance and adventure it was that, in the seclusion of
John's room, Bert had something of especial import to communicate.
"Mack," he said, as that worthy anathematized a spiteful match, and
then sucked his finger.
"Blast the all-fired old torch!" said John, wrestling with the
lamp-flue, and turning on a welcome flame at last. "Well, you said
'Mack!' Why don't you go on? And don't bawl at the top of your lungs,
either. You've already succeeded in waking every boarder in the house
with that guitar, and you want to make amends now by letting them go
to sleep again!"
"But my dear fellow," said Bert, with forced calmness, "you're the
fellow that's making all the noise--and--"
"Why, you howling dervish!" interrupted John, with a feigned air of
pleased surprise and admiration. "But let's drop controversy. Throw
the fragments of your guitar in the wood-box there, and proceed with
the opening proposition."
"What I was going to say was this," said Bert, with a half-desperate
enunciation; "I'm getting tired of this way of living--clean,
dead-tired, and fagged out, and sick of the whole artificial
business!"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed John, with a towering disdain, "you needn't go
any further! I know just what malady is throttling you. It's
reform--reform! You're going to 'turn over a new leaf,' and all that,
and sign the pledge, and quit cigars, and go to work, and pay your
debts, and gravitate back into Sunday-School, where you can make love
to the preacher's daughter under the guise of religion, and desecrate
the sanctity of the innermost pale of the church by confessions at
Class of your 'thorough conversion!' Oh, you're going to--"
"No, but I'm going to do nothing of the sort," interrupted Bert,
resentfully. "What I mean--if you'll let me finish--is, I'm getting
too old to be eternally undignifying myself with this 'singing of
midnight strains under Bonnybell's window panes,' and too old to be
keeping myself in constant humiliation and expense by the borrowing
and stringing up of old guitars, together with the breakage of the
same, and the general wear-and-tear on a constitution that is slowly
being sapped to its foundations by exposure in the night-air and the
dew." "And while you receive no further compensation in return," said
John, "than, perhaps, the coy turning up of a lamp at an upper
casement where the jasmine climbs; or an exasperating patter of
invisible palms; or a huge dank wedge of fruit-cake shoved at you by
the old man, through a crack in the door."
"Yes, and I'm going to have my just reward, is what I mean," said
Bert, "and exchange the lover's life for the benedict's. Going to hunt
out a good, sensible girl and marry her." And as the young man
concluded this desperate avowal he jerked the bow of his cravat into a
hard knot, kicked his hat under the bed, and threw himself on the sofa
like an old suit.
John stared at him with absolute compassion. "Poor devil," he said,
half musingly, "I know just how he feels--
'Ring in the wind his wedding chimes,
Smile, villagers, at every door;
Old church-yards stuffed with buried crimes,
Be clad in sunshine o'er and o'er.--'"
"Oh, here!" exclaimed the wretched Bert, jumping to his feet; "let up
on that dismal recitative. It would make a dog howl to hear that!"