Go ’way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’.
Keep silence fur yo’ betters! don’t you heah de banjo talkin’?
About de ’possum’s tail she’s gwine to lecter—ladies, listen!
About de ha’r whut isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’:
“Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn—
Fur Noah tuk de “Herald,” an’ he read de ribber column—
An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin’ timber-patches,
An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah _Natchez_.
Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’;
An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’;
But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen:
An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’.
Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o’ beas’es—
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle—
An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle.
Den sech anoder fall ob rain! It come so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitly, an’ busted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out—’cep’ Noah an’ de critters,
An’ men he’d hired to wuk de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.
De Ark she kep’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’ _an’_ a-sailin’;
De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’;
De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tel’, whut wid all de fussin’,
You c’u’dn’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ ’roun’ an’ cussin’.
Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;
An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,
An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.
He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin;
An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’;
He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it:
An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?
De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a-singin’;
De ha’r’s so long an’ thick an’ strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin’;
Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday-dinner graces:
An’ sorted ob ’em by de size—f’om little E’s to basses.
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz “_Nebber min’ de
wedder_,”—
She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder:
Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’: Noah called de figgers;
An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!
Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’
Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’;
An’ curi’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em—
Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!
_Edith M. Thomas_
Edith Matilda Thomas was born at Chatham, Ohio, August 12, 1854. She
was educated in the Normal Institute at Geneva, Ohio, and has been
living in New York since 1888.
Miss Thomas is the author of some dozen books of verse, most of them
lightly lyrical in mood, although many of her individual poems have
a spiritually dramatic quality. The best of her work may be found in
_Lyrics and Sonnets_ (1887) and _The Flower from the Ashes_ (1915).
“FROST TO-NIGHT”
Apple-green west and an orange bar;
And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ...
And, “Child, take the shears and cut what you will,
Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still.”
Then I sally forth, half sad, half proud,
And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd,
The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,—
The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.
The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!
A gleam of shears in the fading light,
And I gathered them all,—the splendid throng,
And in one great sheaf I bore them along.
· · · · · ·
In my garden of Life with its all late flowers
I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours:
“Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still” ...
Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.
_George Edward Woodberry_
George Edward Woodberry was born in Beverly, Mass., May 12, 1855,
and studied at Harvard; his early efforts receiving the approval of
James Russell Lowell. From 1891 to 1904 he was Professor of
Comparative Literature at Columbia University, where he exercised a
keen influence on many of the younger writers.
His work is decidedly romantic and classical in style, leaning
heavily toward the Tennysonian tradition. Although there is an
undercurrent of spiritual beauty throughout his poetry, he
frequently loses his power of exaltation in a rhetoric that is both
stilted and sentimental. His chief collections of verse are _The
Flight and Other Poems_ (1900), _Wild Eden_ (1914) and _The Roamer
and Other Poems_ (1920). He has also written several books of
essays, criticism and biography.