Shy wings flashed in the orchard, _glitter, glitter_;
Blue wings bloomed soft through blossom-colored leaves,
And _Phœbe! Phœbe!_ whistled from gray eaves
Through water-shine and twitter
And spurt of flamey green. All bane of earth and bitter
Took life and tasted sweet at the glad reprieves
Of spring, save only in an old dame’s heart
That grieved apart.
Crook-back and small, she poled the big wellsweep:
_Creak_ went the pole; the bucket came up brimming.
On the bright water lay a cricket swimming
Whose brown legs tried to leap
But, draggling, twitched and foundered in the circling deep.
The old dame gasped; her thin hand snatched him, skimming.
“Dear Lord, he’s drowned,” she mumbled with dry lips;
“The ships! the ships!”
Gently she laid him in the sun and dried
The little dripping body. Suddenly
Rose-red gleamed through the budding apple tree
And “Look! a letter!” cried
A laughing voice; “and lots of news for us inside!”
“How’s that, Jean? News from Jock! Where--where is he?”
“Down in Vergennes--the ship-yards.” “Ships! Ah, no!
It can’t be so.”
“He’s going to fight with guns and be a tar.
See here: he’s wrote himself. The post was late.
He couldn’t write before. The ship is great!
She’s built, from keel to spar,
And called the _Saratoga_; and Jock’s got a scar
Already--” “Scar?” the mother quavered. “Wait,”
Jean rippled, “let me read.” “Quick, then, my dear,
_He’ll_ want to hear--”
“Jock’s pa; I guess we’ll find him in the yard.
He ain’t scarce creepin’ round these days, poor Dan!”
She gripped Jean’s arm and stumbled as they ran,
And stopped once, breathing hard.
Around them chimney-swallows skimmed the sheep-cropped sward
And yellow hornets hummed. The sick old man
Stirred at their steps, and muttered from deep muse:
“Well, ma; what news?”
“From Jockie--there’s a letter!” In his chair
The bowed form sat bolt upright. “What’s he say?”
“He’s wrote to Jean. I guess it’s boys their way
To think old folks don’t care
For letters.” “Girl, read out.” Jean smoothed her wilding hair
And sat beside them. Out of the blue day
A golden robin called; across the road
A heifer lowed;
And old ears listened while youth read: “‘Friend Jean,
Vergennes: here’s where we’ve played a Yankee trick.
I’m layin’ in my bunk by Otter Crick
And scribblin’ you this mean
Scrawl for to tell the news--what-all I’ve heerd and seen:
Jennie, we’ve built a ship, and built her slick--
A swan!--a seven hundred forty tonner,
And I’m first gunner.
“‘You ought to seen us launch her t’other day!”
Tell dad we’ve christened her for a fight of hisn
He fought at Saratoga. Now just listen!
She’s twice as big, folks say,
As Perry’s ship that took the prize at Put-in-Bay;
Yet forty days ago, hull, masts, and mizzen,
The whole of her was growin’, live and limber,
In God’s green timber.
“‘I helped to fell her main-mast back in March.
The woods was snowed knee-deep. She was a wonder:
A straight white pine. She fell like roarin’ thunder
And left a blue-sky arch
Above her, bustin’ all to kindlin’s a tall larch.--
Mebbe the scart jack-rabbits skun from under!
Us boys hoorayed, and me and every noodle
Yelled Yankee Doodle!
“‘My, how we haw’d and gee’d the big ox-sledges
Haulin’ her long trunk through the hemlock dells,
A-bellerin’ to the tinkle-tankle bells,
And blunted our ax edges
Hackin’ new roads of ice ’longside the rocky ledges.
We stalled her twice, but gave the oxen spells
And yanked her through at last on the home-clearin’--
Lord, wa’n’t we cheerin’!
“‘Since then I’ve seen her born, as you might say:
Born out of fire and water and men’s sweatin’,
Blast-furnace rairin’ and red anvils frettin’
And sawmills, night and day,
Screech-owlin’ like ’twas Satan’s rumhouse run away
Smellin’ of tar and pitch. But I’m forgettin’
The man that’s primed her guns and paid her score:
The Commodore.
“‘Macdonough--he’s her master, and she knows
His voice, like he was talkin’ to his hound.
There ain’t a man of her but ruther’d drown’d
Than tread upon his toes;
And yet with his red cheeks and twinklin’ eyes, a rose
Ain’t friendler than his looks be. When he’s round,
He makes you feel like you’re a gentleman
American.
“‘But I must tell you how we’re hidin’ here.
This Otter Crick is like a crook-neck jug,
And we’re inside. The Redcoats want to plug
The mouth, and cork our beer;
So last week Downie sailed his British lake fleet near
To fill our channel, but us boys had dug
Big shore intrenchments, and our batteries
Stung ’em like bees
“’Till they skedaddled whimperin’ up the lake;
But while the shots was flyin’, in the scrimmage,
I caught a ball that scotched my livin’ image.--
Now, Jean, for Sam Hill’s sake,
Don’t let-on this to mother, for, you know, she’d make
A deary-me-in’ that would last a grim age.
’Tain’t much, but when a feller goes to war
What’s he go for
“‘If ’taint to fight, and take his chances?’” Jean
Stopped and looked down. The mother did not speak.
“Go on,” said the old man. Flush tinged her cheek.
“Truly I didn’t mean--
There ain’t much more. He says: ‘Goodbye now, little queen;
We’re due to sail for Plattsburgh this day week.
Meantime I’m hopin’ hard and takin’ stock.
Your obedient--Jock.’”
The girl’s voice ceased in silence. _Glitter, glitter_,
The shy wings flashed through blossom-colored leaves,
And _Phœbe! Phœbe!_ whistled from gray eaves
Through water-shine and twitter
And spurt of flamey green. But bane of thought is bitter.
The mother’s heart spurned May’s sweet make-believes,
For there, through falling masts and gaunt ships looming,
Guns--guns were booming.