Stranger! hav yu ever been to Pordunk Village, my natiff place?
It iz a dear little lulaby ov a place, sleeping between two small
mountains, in the State of Pennsylvania.
It kontains about 1000 souls now, and is watered by goose crik, whitch
meanders thru the village az crooked and az lazy az a skool boy, on hiz
way tew the distrikt skool hous.
I waz born here, and the ground on whitch the old hous stood, iz thare
yet. Mi ancesters are all here too, but they hav retired from bizzness,
and are taking their eaze, in the old graveyard ov the little one story
church.
The red painted tavern, whare years ago, the townsfolks gathered in, on
Saturday nights, to wet their whistles, and brag on their bush beans,
and other gardin sass, iz gone, and departed.
And Roger Williams, where iz he?
[Illustration]
Roger waz the village blacksmith, and could out argy the parson, on a
bit ov skripture, hiz anvil iz still, and he now livs in his new house,
with the rest of the old people, just back ov the little one story
church.
Whare iz Square Watkins, the justiss of the peace? he knu law, and the
stattews, just az eazy az he did the 10 commands, hiz little old offiss,
for 50 years unpainted, iz now no more.
No one ov hiz name iz left, he and Roger the blacksmith, lay side by
side, just back ov the little one story church, az still az deth kan
make them.
Sue Dunham, the crazy woman, I don't see her! Poor Sue, she waz not
alwus welkum, but no one turned her away, a night's lodgeing no one
refused, she was even butiful still, when i waz a boy, but i shrunk from
the flash ov her misterious eye.
The old folks knu her story, it waz that sad one, so often told, and so
soon forgotten, a mans perfidy.
Sue Dunham raves no more, but in the farther korner, just bak ov the
little one story church, whare the ded lay the thikest, lays Sue.
A weep in willow, sown bi aksident, hangs over her grave, and on her hed
stone, theze words, almost knawed away bi time, kan be made out, "Sue
Dunham, aged 59."
Parson Powell, who led hiz flok bi the side ov still waters who wet with
hallowed drops at christnings, who jined in wedlok, and who asked God to
take the departing ones, I miss him too; peacefully he sleeps, just bak
ov the little one story church.
Deakon Tucker, who sold sugar bi the pound, and mollassis bi the pint,
who delt in whale ile, and bar sope, who kept raizen and razor straps,
who could mezzure a yard ov kotton, ov kaliko, tew a thred, and who, 4th
ov Julys, sold 3 fire krackers, tew us boys, for a penny, what haz bekum
ov the deakon?
Years ago, he fled, not far away, but cluss up tew the back wall ov the
little one story church, near to Parson Powell.
An odd phellow waz Ez Farnham, and withal az keen at a trade az a
hornet, Them that swopped hosses with Ez once, didn't hanker tew do it
again, he waz honest, but oh! how fatal tew dicker. No one now, in the
whole village remember him, he haz gone whare they don't giv, nor git
boot, they put him in the halfaker, just bak ov the little one story
church.
Job Pierson iz ded too, and so is Job's wife, and all ov Job's sons, and
dauters.
I go up, and I go down, the good old village of Pordunk, the people all
stare at me, az i stop _here_ and stop _thare_, to say tew miself, "here
it waz that Lige Turner, threw Dave Larkins, 40 years ago, in a wrassle
on the village green, and thare stood the old town pump."
"Here old Beverly, the barber, shaved for three cents a shave, and
thare, Burbanks haff soled boots for a quarter."
"Here--let me see! was it here? Yes Old Mother Benneway sold taffy here,
each stick at least 8 inches long, and made out of Deakon Tuckers best
Porto Rico molassis."
"Thare stood the little red skool hous, right thare, it waz the forks ov
a road then, it is the korner of a block now.
"Who kan tell me whare Daniel Purdy the skool master lives now, no one!
I hav asked a dozen, but no one remember Daniel Purdy.
"It iz a sad thing tew be a skoolmaster, no one ever seems tew kno whare
they go when yu miss them. They just seem to depart that's all. I never
knu one tew die, and be buried."
Ah, it iz pleasant!--it is sad, to go bak tew the village of Pordunk,
thare is more people now thare, than there waz when i waz a boy, but how
different are they,--or how different am I.
The old trees are the same, man kant alter them, goose krik runs jist
whare it did, with willows in all ov its elbows, the mountains each side
haven't grown enny smaller, the birds sing the same songs, but i don't
kno enny one that i meet, and what is more lonesome, no one that i meet
knows me.
When i go tew Pordunk, and want tew see enny boddy that I remember, i go
down the main street to the fust korner, just whare Joel Parker once
lived, then i turn tew the left, and keep on for a ways, till i cum tew
the little one story church.
Just bak ov that they are all living now. They don't remember me when i
go thare, but I remember them. It won't be very long now before I shall
jine them.
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