JIMMY THE RHYMER.
James Redmond, the boys used to say, was small for his size and old for
his age. He was not exactly humpbacked, but his shoulders came so
nearly up to the level of his ears that he seemed so; and he was not
exactly an invalid, though we never counted on him in any of the games
or enterprises that required strength or fleetness. I have no idea what
his age was. He must have been some years older than I, and yet all the
boys in my set treated him tenderly and patronizingly, as if he were a
little fellow who needed their encouragement and protection.
Jimmy used to make little ballads, generally taking for his subject
some incident that had occurred among the boys of the neighborhood, and
often sticking to the facts of the case--at the expense of rhyme and
rhythm--with a literalness that made him valuable as a historian,
whatever he was as a poet. He was called "Jimmy the Rhymer," and the
polite thing to do, on meeting him, was to ask him if he had anything
new to-day--meaning any new poem. If he had, he was always willing to
read it, sometimes accompanying it with remarks in prose that were
quite as entertaining as the ballad itself.
"Hello, Jimmy!"
"Hello, boys!"
"Got anything new to-day?"
"Not much."
"That means that you have something."
"Well, yes; a little one. But I don't think very much of it."
This didn't satisfy us. Jimmy, like many greater artists, was a poor
judge of his own productions. Some of his ballads of which he had been
proudest were so long and dull that we had almost told him they were
failures; but it would have required a very hard-hearted boy to say
anything unpleasant to Jimmy. Others, which he thought little of, the
boys would call for again and again.
"Let us hear it, please," said Ned.
"I'm afraid I've left it at home," said Jimmy, feeling in his pockets.
"Oh, no; here it is."
So we sat down on the horse-block in front of the Quaker meeting-house,
and while Ned whittled the edge of the block--which had not been
rounded off quite enough, by previous jack-knives, to suit his
fancy--Jimmy read his newest ballad.
"It is called 'The Unlucky Fishermen,'" said he; "and you will probably
recognize some of the characters.
"Joe Chase and Isaac Holman,
They would a-fishing go;
They rose at sunrise Friday morn,
And called their dog Fido."
"What!" said Ned, interrupting, "the little yellow cur that Joe bought
of Clam Jimmy for a six-pence?"
"Yes, that's the one."
"But his name isn't Fido--it's Prince. Haven't you ever noticed that
the smaller and snarlier and more worthless a dog is, the surer it is
to be called Prince?"
"Perhaps that's the way with princes," said Jimmy, who had more than
once uttered the most extreme democratic sentiments, expressing
contempt for all royalty, merely because it was royalty. "But I don't
know,--I never saw one. At any rate, I didn't know the dog's name, and
I had to call him something. I think you'll find that everything else
is correctly stated."
I ventured to suggest that it didn't make much difference whether the
dog's name was right or wrong, in a poem.
"Oh, yes, it does," said Jimmy. "I always try to have my poems true to
life; and I shall change that, and make it Prince--that is, after I
have inquired of Joe, and found out that the dog's name really is
Prince. I am glad you spoke about it."
Then he continued the reading.
"In two small willow baskets--
One white, the other brown--
Their mothers put the dinners up
Which they were to put down.
"They'd dug their bait the night before,--
The worms were live and thick;
Their bamboo poles were long and strong,
Their hooks were Limerick."
"My brother Fay says there isn't a Limerick hook in this whole town,"
said Ned.
"You can buy plenty of them at Karl's--two for a cent," said Jimmy.
"Oh, no, you can't," said Ned. "Fay says you can't get a Limerick hook
this side of New York."
"What is a Limerick hook?" said I, for I was not much of a fisherman.
"Why, don't you know?" said Jimmy. "A hook that's made like a little
file on the end where you tie the line, instead of a flat knob."
"A real Limerick hook is one that's made in Limerick," said Ned. "Those
you get in this town are made in Connecticut, and are only imitations."
I began to suspect that Ned had been nettled at the failure of his
lightning-rod invention, and was venting his spite on poor Jimmy's
literary invention.
"I can't see," said I, "that it makes any difference with the poem,
whether they were real Limerick hooks, or only imitation. The poetry is
just as good."
"Oh, no, it isn't," said Jimmy; "and I'm glad to have my attention
called to it. I'll inquire about that, and if I find they were not true
Limericks, I'll change that line." Then the reading proceeded.
"'Now let us make it doubly sure
That nothing's left,' said Joe.
And '_Totus dexter!_' Ike replied--
Which means 'All right!' you know.
"These jolly boys set off at once
When everything was found;
Their fathers said, 'We wish good luck!'
Their mothers, 'Don't get drowned!'"
"Holman's father hasn't been at home for four months," said Ned. "He's
gone to Missouri to see about an iron mine."
"I admit," said Jimmy, "that there I drew a little on my imagination. I
didn't know what they said, and so I put in what I thought they would
be likely to say. But if Holman's father wasn't at home, of course he
couldn't have said anything at all. However, I think you'll find that
the rest of the poem is entirely true to nature.
"When they unto the river came,
Where they should cast the lead,
The dew still glistened under foot,
The robin sang o'erhead."
"I doubt if any robin sings so late in the season as this," said Ned.
"Still," said Jimmy, "if one did sing, it would certainly be overhead,
and not on the ground. No robin ever sings when he's on the ground. You
admit that?"
"Oh, certainly," said Ned.
"Then I think that line may stand as it is," said Jimmy.
"All down the road and through the woods
They had a lovely walk;
The dog did frisk, and chase the birds,
And they did laugh and talk."
"He's been anything but a frisky dog when I've seen him," said Ned.
"Perhaps so," said Jimmy; "but there are exceptions to all rules.
"But here their luck all left them--
The case seemed very sad:
For everything was good before--
Now everything was bad.
"Their sinkers were not large enough,
The current was so strong,
And so they tied on pebble-stones,
To help the thing along.
"And bitterly they did regret
They bought their lines at Karl's;
For every time they hauled them out,
They found them full of snarls."
"Of course they did," said Ned. "There's not a thing in Karl's store
that's not a cheat--all imitation."
"I am glad to hear you say so," said Jimmy. "I thought you would see
that the rest of the poem was true to nature.
"When little fish got on the hooks,
They soon flopped off again;
When big ones bit, they gave a jerk,
And snapped the line in twain."
"Isaac told me," said Jimmy, interrupting himself, "that that thing
happened every time with him, and every time but once with Joe."
"He probably said that as an excuse for coming home with no fish," said
Ned.
"Oh, no,--Ike wouldn't lie about it," said Jimmy. "He's one of the most
truthful boys I ever knew."
"Everybody lies about fishing," said Ned. "It's considered the proper
thing to do. That's what they mean by a fish-story."
"But I saw the lines myself," said Jimmy. And then he hurried on with
the reading.
"The dog lay by the dinners,
And was told to guard them well--
To let no stranger, man or beast,
Come near, touch, taste, or smell.
"But Fido--of course I mean Prince--fell asleep, and kicked
The baskets in a dream;
The contents tumbled o'er the bank,
And floated down the stream.
"And once a bass robbed Isaac's hook,
Just as he tried to haul;
Which made him nervous, and in haste
He let the bait-box fall."
"How could he know what kind of fish it was that robbed his hook?" said
I.
"I didn't think to ask," said Jimmy. "But, at any rate, he said it was
a bass, and Isaac is generally pretty correct.
"It fell between two rugged rocks,
Where out of reach it lay;
And when with sticks they fished it up,
The worms had crawled away.
"Now when the golden setting sun
Was shining down the glen,
They sadly turned their steps toward home,
These luckless fishermen.
"And when they came upon the road,
All tired in foot and side,
They said, 'Let's hide our poles away,
And try to catch a ride.'
"They caught upon an omnibus--
They did not stir or talk;
But some one cried out, 'Whip behind!'
And so they had to walk."
"That must have been a Dublin boy," said Ned. "Nobody on our side of
the river is mean enough to holler 'whip behind!'"
"I think it was a Dublin boy," said Jimmy. "If I can find out for
certain, I shall state it so in the poem.
"They came up slowly from the gate,
And Fido--that is to say, Prince--walked behind;
Their parents sat about the door,
Or on the grass reclined.
"Their fathers said--at least Joe's father did--'It grieves us much
That you no luck have found.'
Their mothers said, 'Our precious boys,
We're glad you are not drowned.'"
"That's a good poem," said I, as we rose from the horse-block. "I like
that."
"Yes," said Ned; "it ought to be printed."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," said Jimmy. "But I think I can improve
it in a few spots, if I can get at the facts. At any rate, I shall
try."
Jimmy continued his walk up the street, while we sauntered toward home.
"I think you were too severe in your criticisms on the poem," said I.
"I'm afraid Jimmy felt hurt."
"Do you think so?" said Ned. "Well, now, I didn't mean to be. I
wouldn't hurt that boy's feelings for the world. I suppose I must have
been a little cross on account of my lightning-rod. But I shouldn't
have played it off on Jimmy, that's a fact."
"I think he has great genius," said I, "and it ought to be encouraged."
"Yes, it ought," said Ned. "I've often thought so, myself, and wished I
could do something for him. Perhaps I can, now that I have capital.
Father says nothing can be done without capital."
"Jimmy's folks are very poor," said I.
"That's so," said Ned. "I don't suppose his father ever had fifteen
dollars at one time in his life. Do you think of any good way in which
I could help him with a little capital?"
"I don't know of any way, unless it is to print his poems. I should
think if his poems could once be published, he might make a great deal
of money out of them, and be able to support himself, and perhaps help
his mother a little."
"That's so," said Ned. "I'll publish his poems for him. Come over after
supper, and we'll talk it up."