It was a dim and chill and loveless afternoon in
the late fall of eighty-three when I first saw
the genial subject of this hasty sketch. From time
to time the daily paper on which I worked had been
receiving, among the general literary driftage of
amateur essayists, poets and sketch-writers, some
conceits in verse that struck the editorial head as
decidedly novel; and, as they were evidently the
production of an unlettered man, and an OLD man,
and a farmer at that, they were usually spared the
waste-basket, and preserved--not for publication,
but to pass from hand to hand among the members
of the staff as simply quaint and mirth-provoking
specimens of the verdancy of both the venerable
author and the Muse inspiring him. Letters as
quaint as were the poems invariably accompanied
them, and the oddity of these, in fact, had first called
attention to the verses. I well remember the general
merriment of the office when the first of the old
man's letters was read aloud, and I recall, too, some
of his comments on his own verse, verbatim. In
one place he said: "I make no doubt you will find some purty SAD
spots in my poetry, considerin'; but
I hope you will bear in mind that I am a great
sufferer with rheumatizum, and have been, off and
on, sence the cold New Years. In the main, however,"
he continued, "I allus aim to write in a cheerful,
comfortin' sperit, so's ef the stuff hangs fire,
and don't do no good, it hain't a-goin' to do no
harm,--and them's my honest views on poetry."
In another letter, evidently suspecting his poem
had not appeared in print because of its dejected
tone, he said: "The poetry I herewith send was
wrote off on the finest Autumn day I ever laid eyes
on! I never felt better in my life. The morning air
was as invigoratin' as bitters with tanzy in it, and the
folks at breakfast said they never saw such a' appetite
on mortal man before. Then I lit out for the
barn, and after feedin', I come back and tuck my
pen and ink out on the porch, and jest cut loose. I
writ and writ till my fingers was that cramped I
couldn't hardly let go of the penholder. And the
poem I send you is the upshot of it all. Ef you don't
find it cheerful enough fer your columns, I'll have
to knock under, that's all!" And that poem, as I recall
it, certainly was cheerful enough for publication,
only the "copy" was almost undecipherable, and the
ink, too, so pale and vague, it was thought best to
reserve the verses, for the time, at least, and later on
revise, copy, punctuate, and then print it sometime,
as much for the joke of it as anything. But it
was still delayed, neglected, and in a week's time
almost entirely forgotten. And so it was upon this
chill and somber afternoon I speak of that an event
occurred which most pleasantly reminded me of
both the poem with the "sad spots" in it, and the
"cheerful" one, "writ out on the porch" that glorious
autumn day, that poured its glory through the
old man's letter to us.
Outside and in the sanctum the gloom was too
oppressive to permit an elevated tendency of either
thought or spirit. I could do nothing but sit listless
and inert. Paper and pencil were before me, but
I could not write--I could not even think coherently,
and was on the point of rising and rushing out into
the streets for a wild walk, when there came a
hesitating knock at the door.
"Come in!" I snarled, grabbing up my pencil and
assuming a frightfully industrious air: "Come in!"
I almost savagely repeated, "Come in! And shut the
door behind you!" and I dropped my lids, bent my
gaze fixedly upon the blank pages before me and
began scrawling some disconnected nothings with
no head or tail or anything.
"Sir; howdy," said a low and pleasant voice. And
at once, in spite of my perverse resolve, I looked up.
I someway felt rebuked.
The speaker was very slowly, noiselessly closing
the door. I could hardly face him when he turned
around. An old man, of sixty-five, at least, but with
a face and an eye of the most cheery and wholesome
expression I had ever seen in either youth or age.
Over his broad bronzed forehead and white hair
he wore a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black felt
hat, somewhat rusted now, and with the band
grease-crusted, and the binding frayed at intervals,
and sagging from the threads that held it on. An
old-styled frock coat of black, dull brown in streaks,
and quite shiny about the collar and lapels. A waistcoat
of no describable material or pattern, and a
clean white shirt and collar of one piece, with a black
string-tie and double bow, which would have been
entirely concealed beneath the long white beard
but for its having worked around to one side
of the neck. The front outline of the face was
cleanly shaven, and the beard, growing simply from
the under chin and throat, lent the old pioneer the
rather singular appearance of having hair all over
him with this luxurious growth pulled out above
his collar for mere sample.
I arose and asked the old man to sit down, handing
him a chair decorously.
"No--no," he said--"I'm much obleeged. I hain't
come in to bother you no more'n I can he'p. All
I wanted was to know ef you got my poetry all right.
You know I take yer paper," he went on, in an
explanatory way, "and seein' you printed poetry in it
once-in-a-while, I sent you some of mine--neighbors
kindo' advised me to," he added apologetically, "and
so I sent you some--two or three times I sent you
some, but I hain't never seed hide-ner-hair of it in
your paper, and as I wus in town to-day, anyhow,
I jest thought I'd kindo' drap in and git it back, ef
you ain't goin' to print it--'cause I allus save up
most the things I write, aimin' sometime to git 'em
all struck off in pamphlet-form, to kindo' distribit
round 'mongst the neighbors, don't you know."
Already I had begun to suspect my visitor's identity,
and was mechanically opening the drawer of
our poetical department.
"How was your poetry signed?" I asked.
"Signed by my own name," he answered proudly,
--"signed by my own name,--Johnson--Benjamin
F. Johnson, of Boone County--this state."
"And is this one of them, Mr. Johnson?" I asked,
unfolding a clumsily-folded manuscript, and closely
scrutinizing the verse.
"How does she read?" said the old man eagerly,
and searching in the meantime for his spectacles.
"How does she read?--Then I can tell you!"
"It reads," said I, studiously conning the old
man's bold but bad chirography, and tilting my chair
back indolently,--"it reads like this--the first verse
does,"--and I very gravely read:--
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!"--
"Stop! Stop!" said the old man excitedly--"Stop
right there! That's my poetry, but that's not the
way to read it by a long shot! Give it to me!" and
he almost snatched it from my hand. "Poetry like
this ain't no poetry at all, 'less you read it NATCHURL
and IN JEST THE SAME SPERIT 'AT IT'S WRIT IN, don't you
understand. It's a' old man a-talkin', rickollect, and
a-feelin' kindo' sad, and yit kindo' sorto' good, too,
and I opine he wouldn't got that off with a face on
him like a' undertaker, and a voice as solemn as a cow-bell after
dark! He'd say it more like this."--
And the old man adjusted his spectacles and read:--
"THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE"
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole."
I clapped my hands in genuine applause. "Read
on!" I said,--"Read on! Read all of it!"