down, and Ezry and a lot o' hands, and me and Steve amongst 'em, was
a-workin' on the frame-work of another mill. It was purty weather, and
we was all in good sperits, and it 'peared like the whole neighberhood
was interested--and they _-was_, too--women-folks and ever'body. And
that day Ezry's woman and amongst 'em was a-gittin' up a big dinner to
fetch down to us from the house; and along about noon a spruce-lookin'
young feller, with a pale face and a black beard, like, come a-ridin'
by and hitched his hoss, and comin' into the crowd, said "Howdy,"
pleasant like, and we all stopped work as he went on to say 'at he was
on the track of a feller o' the name o' 'Williams,' and wanted to know
ef we could give him any infermation 'bout sich a man. Told him
maybe,--'at a feller bearin' that name desappeared kind o' myster'ous
from our neighberhood 'bout five weeks afore that. "My God!" says he,
a-turnin' paler'n ever, "am I too late? Where did he go, and was his
sister and her baby with him?" Jist then I ketched sight o' the
women-folks a-comin' with the baskets, and Annie with 'em, with a jug
o' worter in her hand; so I spoke up quick to the stranger, and says
I, "I guess 'his sister and baby' wasn't along," says I, "but his
_wife_ and _baby's_ some'eres here in the neighberhood yit." And then
a-watchin' him clos't, I says, suddent, a-pin'tin' over his shoulder,
"There his woman is now--that one with the jug, there." Well, Annie
had jist stooped to lift up one o' the little girls, when the feller
turned, and the'r eyes met, "Annie! My wife!" he says; and Annie she
kind o' give a little yelp like and come a-flutterin' down in his
arms; and the jug o' worter rolled clean acrost the road, and turned a
somerset and knocked the cob out of its mouth and jist laid back and
hollered "Good--good--good--good--good!" like as ef it knowed what was
up and was jist as glad and tickled as the rest of us.
SWEET-KNOT AND GALAMUS
AN OLD SWEETHEART.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.
The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.
'Tis a fragrant retrospection--for the loving thoughts that start
Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine--
When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweeheart of mine.
Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings,
The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings,
I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme
When care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream
In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm--
For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine
That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.
A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace,
Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase;
And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.
I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress
She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress
With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine
Grew 'round the stump," she loved me--that old sweetheart of mine.
And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand,
As we used to talk together of the future we had planned--
When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do
But write the tender verses that she set the music to:
When we should live together in a cozy little cot
Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot,
Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine,
And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine:
When I should be her lover forever and a day,
And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray;
And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb
They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come.
* * * * *
But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair,
And the door is softly opened, and--my wife is standing there;
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign
To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.
MARTHY ELLEN.
They's nothin' in the name to strike
A feller more'n common like!
'Taint liable to git no praise
Ner nothin' like it nowadays;
An' yit that name o' her'n is jest
As purty as the purtiest--
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinkin' thataway
And die far Marthy Ellen!
It may be I was prejudust
In favor of it from the fust--
'Cause I kin ricollect jest how
We met, and hear her mother now
A-callin' of her down the road--
And, aggervatin' little toad!--
I see her now, jes' sort o' half-
Way disapp'inted, turn and laugh
And mock her--"Marthy Ellen!"
Our people never had no fuss,
And yit they never tuck to us;
We neighbered back and foreds some;
Until they see she liked to come
To our house--and me and her
Were jest together ever'whur
And all the time--and when they'd see
That I liked her and she liked me,
They'd holler "Marthy Ellen!"
When we growed up, and they shet down
On me and her a-runnin' roun'
Together, and her father said
He'd never leave her nary red,
So he'p him, ef she married me,
And so on--and her mother she
Jest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowed
She'd ruther see her in her shroud,
I _writ_ to Marthy Ellen--
That is, I kindo' tuck my pen
In hand, and stated whur and when
The undersigned would be that night,
With two good hosses saddled right
Far lively travelin' in case
Her folks 'ud like to jine the race.
She sent the same note back, and writ
"The rose is red!" right under it--
"Your 'n allus, Marthy Ellen."
That's all, I reckon--Nothin' more
To tell but what you've heerd afore--
The same old story, sweeter though
Far all the trouble, don't you know.
Old-fashioned name! and yit it's jest
As purty as the purtiest;
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinking thataway,
And die far Marthy Ellen!
MOON-DROWNED.
'Twas the height of the fete when we quitted the riot,
And quietly stole to the terrace alone,
Where, pale as the lovers that ever swear by it,
The moon it <gazed down as a god from his throne.
We stood there enchanted.--And O the delight of
The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea,
And the infinite skies of that opulent night of
Purple and gold and ivory!
The lisp of the lip of the ripple just under--
The half-awake nightingale's dream in the yews--
Came up from the water, and down from the wonder
Of shadowy foliage, drowsed with the dews,--
Unsteady the firefly's taper--unsteady
The poise of the stars, and their light in the tide,
As it struggled and writhed in caress of the eddy,
As love in the billowy breast of a bride.
The far-away lilt of the waltz rippled to us,
And through us the exquisite thrill of the air:
Like the scent of bruised bloom was her breath, and its dew was
Not honier-sweet than her warm kisses were.
We stood there enchanted.--And O the delight of
The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea,
And the infinite skies of that opulent night of
Purple and gold and ivory!
LONG AFORE HE KNOWED WHO SANTY-CLAUS WUZ.
Jes' a little bit o' feller--I remember still,--
Ust to almost _cry_ far Christmas, like a youngster will.
Fourth o' July's nothin' to it!--New-Year's ain't a smell:
Easter-Sunday--Circus-day--jes' all dead in the shell!
Lordy, though! at night, you know, to set around and hear
The old folks work the story off about the sledge and deer,
And "Santy" skootin' round the roof, all wrapped in fur and fuzz--
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Ust to wait, and set up late, a week er two ahead:
Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed:
Kittle stewin' on the fire, and Mother settin' here
Darnin' socks, and rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer;
Pap gap', and wunder where it wuz the money went,
And quar'l with his frosted heels, and spill his liniment:
And me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir and buzz,
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Size the fire-place up, and figger how "Old Santy" could
Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would:
Wisht that I could hide and see him--wundered what he 'd say
Ef he ketched a feller layin' far him thataway!
But I _bet_ on him, and _liked_ him, same as ef he had
Turned to pat me on the back and _say_, "Look here, my lad,
Here's my pack,--jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!"
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Wisht that yarn was _true_ about him, as it 'peared to be--
Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough far me!--
Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild
Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child
Climbin' in my lap to-night, and beggin' me to tell
'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so well
I'm half sorry far this little-girl-sweetheart of his--
Long afore
She knows who
"Santy-Claus" is!
DEAR HANDS.
The touches of her hands are like the fall
Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down
The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall;
The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp
Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown
The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.
Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,
The touches of her hands, and the delight--
The touches of her hands!
The touches of her hands are like the dew
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew
The touch thereof save lovers like to one
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.
O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;
Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs,
Or--in between the midnight and the dawn,
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone--
Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.
THIS MAN JONES.
This man Jones was what you'd call
A feller 'at had no sand at all;
Kind o' consumpted, and undersize,
And sailor-complected, with big sad eyes,
And a kind-of-a sort-of-a hang-dog style,
And a sneakin' sort-of-a half-way smile
'At kind o' give him away to us
As a preacher, maybe, er somepin' wuss.
Didn't take with the gang--well, no--
But still we managed to use him, though,--
Coddin' the gilly along the rout',
And drivin' the stakes 'at he pulled out--
Far I was one of the bosses then,
And of course stood in with the canvasmen;
And the way we put up jobs, you know,
On this man Jones jes' beat the show!
Ust to rattle him scandalous,
And keep the feller a-dodgin' us,
And a-shyin' round half skeered to death,
And afeerd to whimper above his breath;
Give him a cussin', and then a kick,
And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick--
Jes' far the fun of seem' him climb
Around with a head on most the time.
But what was the curioust thing to me,
Was along o' the party--let me see,--
Who was our "Lion Queen" last year?--
Mamzelle Zanty, or De La Pierre?--
Well, no matter--a stunnin' mash,
With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash,
And a figger sich as the angels owns--
And one too many far this man Jones.
He'd allus wake in the afternoon,
As the band waltzed in on the lion-tune,
And there, from the time 'at she'd go in
Till she'd back out of the cage agin,
He'd stand, shaky and limber-kneed--
'Specially when she come to "feed
The beasts raw meat with her naked hand"--
And all that business, you understand.
And it _was_ resky in that den--
Far I think she juggled three cubs then,
And a big "green" lion 'at used to smash
Collar-bones far old Frank Nash;
And I reckon now she hain't fergot
The afternoon old "Nero" sot
His paws on _her_!--but as far me,
It's a sort-of-a mixed-up mystery:--
Kind o' remember an awful roar,
And see her back far the bolted door--
See the cage rock--heerd her call
"God have mercy!" and that was all--
Far they ain't no livin' man can tell
_What_ it's like when a thousand yell
In female tones, and a thousand more
Howl in bass till their throats is sore!
But the keeper said 'at dragged her out,
They heerd some feller laugh and shout--
"Save her! Quick! I've got the cuss!"
And yit she waked and smiled on _us!_
And we daren't flinch, far the doctor said,
Seein' as this man Jones was dead,
Better to jes' not let her know
Nothin' o' that far a week er so.
TO MY GOOD MASTER.
In fancy, always, at thy desk, thrown wide,
Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly--
The rarest rhymes of every land and sea
And curious tongue--thine old face glorified,--
Thou haltest thy glib quill, and, laughing-eyed,
Givest hale welcome even unto me,
Profaning thus thine attic's sanctity,
To briefly visit, yet to still abide
Enthralled there of thy sorcery of wit,
And thy songs' most exceeding dear conceits.
O lips, cleft to the ripe core of all sweets,
With poems, like nectar, issuing therefrom,
Thy gentle utterances do overcome
My listening heart and all the love of it!
WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES.
In spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
And the sun comes out and stays,
And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
And you think of yer barefoot days;
When you ort to work and you want to not,
And you and yer wife agrees
It's time to spade up the garden lot,
When the green gits back in the trees--
Well! work is the least o' _my_ idees
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
Is a-buzzin' aroun' agin,
In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
Old gait they bum roun' in;
When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood,
And the crick 's riz, and the breeze
Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
And the green gits back in the trees,--
I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
The time when the green gits back in the trees!
When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertime
Is all pulled out and gone!
And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,
And the sweat it starts out on
A feller's forred, a-gittin' down
At the old spring on his knees--
I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun'
When the green gits back in the trees--
Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please--
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
AT BROAD RIPPLE.
Ah, Luxury! Beyond the heat
And dust of town, with dangling feet,
Astride the rock below the dam,
In the cool shadows where the calm
Rests on the stream again, and all
Is silent save the waterfall,--
bait my hook and cast my line,
And feel the best of life is mine.
No high ambition may I claim--
angle not for lordly game
Of trout, or bass, or wary bream--
black perch reaches the extreme
Of my desires; and "goggle-eyes"
Are not a thing that I despise;
A sunfish, or a "chub," or "cat"--
A "silver-side"--yea, even that!
In eloquent tranquility
The waters lisp and talk to me.
Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks,
As some proud bass an instant shakes
His glittering armor in the sun,
And romping ripples, one by one,
Come dallying across the space
Where undulates my smiling face.
The river's story flowing by,
Forever sweet to ear and eye,
Forever tenderly begun--
Forever new and never done.
Thus lulled and sheltered in a shade
Where never feverish cares invade,
I bait my hook and cast my line,
And feel the best of life is mine.
WHEN OLD JACK DIED.
I.
When old Jack died, we staid from school (they said,
At home, we needn't go that day), and none
Of us ate any breakfast--only one,
And that was Papa--and his eyes were red
When he came round where we were, by the shed
Where Jack was lying, half way in the sun
And half way in the shade. When we begun
To cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his head
And went away; and Mamma, she went back
Into the kitchen. Then, for a long while,
All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried.
We thought so many good things of Old Jack,
And funny things--although we didn't smile--We
couldn't only cry when Old Jack died.
II.
When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend
Had suddenly gone from us; that some face
That we had loved to fondle and embrace
From babyhood, no more would condescend
To smile on us forever. We might bend
With tearful eyes above him, interlace
Our chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race,
Plead with him, call and coax--aye, we might send
The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist,
(If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain,
Snapped thumbs, called "speak," and he had not replied;
We might have gone down on our knees and kissed
The tousled ears, and yet they must remain
Deaf, motionless, we knew--when Old Jack died.
III.
When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way,
That all the other dogs in town were pained
With our bereavement, and some that were chained,
Even, unslipped their collars on that day
To visit Jack in state, as though to pay
A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned
Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned
To sigh "Poor dog!" remembering how they
Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because,
For love of them he leaped to lick their hands--
Now, that he could not, were they satisfied?
We children thought that, as we crossed his paws,
And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands,
Wrote "Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack died.
DOC SIFERS.
Of all the doctors I could cite you to in this-'ere town
Doc Sifers is my favorite, jes' take him up and down!
Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big Bear,
And Sifers' standin's jes' as good as ary doctor's there!
There's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh,
But I'll buck Sifers 'ginst 'em all and down 'em any day!
Most old Wick ever knowed, I s'pose, was _whisky!_ Wurgler--well,
He et morphine--ef actions shows, and facts' reliable!
But Sifers--though he ain't no sot, he's got his faults; and yit
When you _git_ Sifers one't, you've got _a doctor_, don't fergit!
He ain't much at his office, er his house, er anywhere
You'd natchurly think certain far to ketch the feller there.--
But don't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous notions--as
The feller says; his odd-come-shorts, like smart men mostly has.
He'll more'n like be potter'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; er in
Some back lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin.
Er at the workbench, planin' things; er buildin' little traps
To ketch birds; galvenizin' rings; er graftin' plums, perhaps.
Make anything! good as the best!--a gunstock--er a flute;
He whittled out a set o' chesstmen one't o' laurel root,
Durin' the Army--got his trade o' surgeon there--I own
To-day a finger-ring Doc made out of a Sesesh bone!
An' glued a fiddle one't far me--jes' all so busted you
'D a throwed the thing away, but he fixed her as good as new!
And take Doc, now, in _ager_, say, er _biles_, er _rheumatiz_,
And all afflictions thataway, and he's the best they is!
Er janders--milksick--I don't keer--k-yore anything he tries--
A abscess; getherin' in yer yeer; er granilated eyes!
There was the Widder Daubenspeck they all give up far dead;
A blame cowbuncle on her neck, and clean out of her head!
First had this doctor, what's-his-name, from "Puddlesburg," and then
This little red-head, "Burnin' Shame" they call him--Dr. Glenn.
And they "consulted" on the case, and claimed she'd haf to die,--
I jes' was joggin' by the place, and heerd her dorter cry,
And stops and calls her to the fence; and I-says-I, "Let me
Send Sifers--bet you fifteen cents he'll k-yore her!" "Well," says
she,
"Light out!" she says: And, lipp-tee-cut! I loped in town, and rid
'Bout two hours more to find him, but I kussed him when I did!
He was down at the Gunsmith Shop a-stuffin' birds! Says he,
"My sulky's broke." Says I, "You hop right on and ride with me!"
I got him there.--"Well, Aunty, ten days k-yores you," Sifers said,
"But what's yer idy livin' when yer jes' as good as dead?"
And there's Dave Banks--jes' back from war without a scratch--one
day
Got ketched up in a sickle-bar, a reaper runaway.--
His shoulders, arms, and hands and legs jes' sawed in strips! And
Jake
Dunn starts far Sifers--feller begs to shoot him far God-sake.
Doc, 'course, was gone, but he had penned the notice, "At Big Bear--
Be back to-morry; Gone to 'tend the Bee Convention there."
But Jake, he tracked him--rid and rode the whole endurin' night!
And 'bout the time the roosters crowed they both hove into sight.
Doc had to ampitate, but 'greed to save Dave's arms, and swore
He could a-saved his legs ef he'd ben there the day before.
Like when his wife's own mother died 'fore Sifers could be found,
And all the neighbors far and wide a' all jes' chasin' round;
Tel finally--I had to laugh--it's jes' like Doc, you know,--
Was learnin' far to telegraph, down at the old deepo.
But all they're faultin' Sifers far, there's none of 'em kin say
He's biggoty, er keerless, er not posted anyway;
He ain't built on the common plan of doctors now-a-days,
He's jes' a great, big, brainy man--that's where the trouble lays!
AT NOON--AND MIDNIGHT.
Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his own
The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed--yet he awake--alone!
alone!
In vain he courted sleep;--one thought would ever in his heart
arise,--
The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.
Slowly on lifted arm he raised and listened. All was still as death;
He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened yet, with bated
breath:
Still silently, as though he prayed, his lips moved lightly as she
slept--
For God was with him, and he laid his face with hers and wept.
A WILD IRISHMAN.
Not very many years ago the writer was for some months stationed at
South Bend, a thriving little city of northern Indiana, its main
population on the one side of the St. Joseph river, but quite a
respectable fraction thereof taking its industrial way to the opposite
shore, and there gaining an audience and a hearing in the rather
imposing growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories, and the
consequent rapid appearance of multitudinous neat cottages, tenement
houses and business blocks. A stranger, entering South Bend proper on
any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for its prosperous
appearance--its flagged and bowldered streets--its handsome mercantile
blocks, banks, and business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to
effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people on the streets
throughout the day, and these seeming, for the most part, merely
idlers, and in no wise accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of
their surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled at the
situation. But when evening comes, and the outlying foundries,
sewing-machine, wagon, plow, and other "works," together with the
paper-mills and all the nameless industries--when the operations of
all these are suspended for the day, and the workmen and workwomen
loosed from labor--then, as this vast army suddenly invades and
overflows bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stranger will
fully comprehend the why and wherefore of the city's high prosperity.
And, once acquainted with the people there, the fortunate sojourner
will find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as certainly, he
will meet with a social spirit and a wholesouled heartiness that will
make the place a lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of many
world-known notables, and a host of local celebrities, the chief of
which latter class I found, during my stay there, in the person of
Tommy Stafford, or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called him.
"Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters," said Major Blowney, my
employer, one afternoon, "you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before
you say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, cleverest chap in
all your travels. What d'ye say, Stockford?" And the Major paused in
his work of charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun and
turned to await his partner's response.
Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the shield-sign he was
lettering, slowly smiling as he dipped and trailed his pencil through
the ivory black upon a bit of broken glass and said, in his
deliberate, half-absent-minded way,--"Is it Tommy you're telling him
about?" and then, with a gradual broadening of the smile, he went on,
"Well, I should say so. Tommy! What's come of the fellow, anyway? I
haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor, on his trial for
shakin' up that fast-horse man."