Save at one starving interval in which
He clad his sunburnt shoulders long enough
To shy across a wheatfield, shadow-like,
And raid a neighboring orchard--bitterly,
And with spasmodic twitchings of the lip,
Bethinking him how all the other boys
Had _homes_ to go to at the dinner-hour--
While _he_--alas!--_he had no home!_--At least
These very words seemed rising mockingly,
Until his every thought smacked raw and sour
And green and bitter as the apples he
In vain essayed to stay his hunger with.
Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boys
Returned rejuvenated for the long
Wet revel of the feverish afternoon.--
Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swam
And spluttered, in their weltering merriment,
He tried to laugh, too,--but his voice was hoarse
And sounded to him like some other boy's.
And then he felt a sudden, poking sort
Of sickness at the heart, as though some cold
And scaly pain were blindly nosing it
Down in the dreggy darkness of his breast.
The tensioned pucker of his purple lips
Grew ever chillier and yet more tense--
The central hurt of it slow spreading till
It did possess the little face entire.
And then there grew to be a knuckled knot--
An aching kind of core within his throat--
An ache, all dry and swallowless, which seemed
To ache on just as bad when he'd pretend
He didn't notice it as when he did.
It was a kind of a conceited pain--
An overbearing, self-assertive and
Barbaric sort of pain that clean outhurt
A boy's capacity for suffering--
So, many times, the little martyr needs
Must turn himself all suddenly and dive
From sight of his hilarious playmates and
Surreptitiously weep under water.
Thus
He wrestled with his awful agony
Till almost dark; and then, at last--then, with
The very latest lingering group of his
Companions, he moved turgidly toward home--
Nay, rather _oozed_ that way, so slow he went,--
With lothful, hesitating, loitering,
Reluctant, late-election-returns air,
Heightened somewhat by the conscience-made resolve
Of chopping a double-armful of wood
As he went in by rear way of the kitchen.
And this resolve he executed;--yet
The hired girl made no comment whatsoever,
But went on washing up the supper-things,
Crooning the unutterably sad song, "_Then think,
Oh, think how lonely this heart must ever be!_"
Still, with affected carelessness, the boy
Ranged through the pantry; but the cupboard-door
Was locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stick
And went out on the porch.--At least the pump,
He prophesied, would meet him kindly and
Shake hands with him and welcome his return!
And long he held the old tin dipper up--
And oh, how fresh and pure and sweet the draught!
Over the upturned brim, with grateful eyes
He saw the back-yard, in the gathering night,
Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good:
The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinked
A sort of sallow gladness over his
Home-coming, with this softening of the heart.
He did not leave the dipper carelessly
In the milk-trough.--No: he hung it back upon
Its old nail thoughtfully--even tenderly.
All slowly then he turned and sauntered toward
The rain-barrel at the corner of the house,
And, pausing, peered into it at the few
Faint stars reflected there. Then--moved by some
Strange impulse new to him--he washed his feet.
He then went in the house--straight on into
The very room where sat his parents by
The evening lamp.--The father all intent
Reading his paper, and the mother quite
As intent with her sewing. Neither looked
Up at his entrance--even reproachfully,--
And neither spoke.
The wistful runaway
Drew a long, quavering breath, and then sat down
Upon the extreme edge of a chair. And all
Was very still there for a long, long while.--
Yet everything, someway, seemed _restful_-like
And _homey_ and old-fashioned, good and kind,
And sort of _kin_ to him!--Only too _still!_
If somebody would say something--just _speak_--
Or even rise up suddenly and come
And lift him by the ear sheer off his chair--
Or box his jaws--Lord bless 'em!--_any_thing!--
Was he not there to thankfully accept
Any reception from parental source
Save this incomprehensible _voicelessness_.
O but the silence held its very breath!
If but the ticking clock would only _strike_
And for an instant drown the whispering,
Lisping, sifting sound the katydids
Made outside in the grassy nowhere.
Far
Down some back-street he heard the faint halloo
Of boys at their night-game of "Town-fox,"
But now with no desire at all to be
Participating in their sport--No; no;--
Never again in this world would he want
To join them there!--he only wanted just
To stay in home of nights--Always--always--
Forever and a day!
He moved; and coughed--
Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yet
No vaguest of parental notice or
Solicitude in answer--no response--
No word--no look. O it was deathly still!--
So still it was that really he could not
Remember any prior silence that
At all approached it in profundity
And depth and density of utter hush.
He felt that he himself must break it: So,
Summoning every subtle artifice
Of seeming nonchalance and native ease
And naturalness of utterance to his aid,
And gazing raptly at the house-cat where
She lay curled in her wonted corner of
The hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airily
And said: "I see you've got the same old cat!"
BEWILDERING EMOTIONS
The merriment that followed was subdued--
As though the story-teller's attitude
Were dual, in a sense, appealing quite
As much to sorrow as to mere delight,
According, haply, to the listener's bent
Either of sad or merry temperament.--
"And of your two appeals I much prefer
The pathos," said "The Noted Traveler,"--
"For should I live to twice my present years,
I know I could not quite forget the tears
That child-eyes bleed, the little palms nailed wide,
And quivering soul and body crucified....
But, bless 'em! there are no such children here
To-night, thank God!--Come here to me, my dear!"
He said to little Alex, in a tone
So winning that the sound of it alone
Had drawn a child more lothful to his knee:--
"And, now-sir, _I'll_ agree if _you'll_ agree,--
_You_ tell us all a story, and then _I_
Will tell one."
"_But I can't._"
"Well, can't you _try?_"
"Yes, Mister: he _kin_ tell _one_. Alex, tell
The one, you know, 'at you made up so well,
About the _Bear_. He allus tells that one,"
Said Bud,--"He gits it mixed some 'bout the _gun_
An' _ax_ the Little Boy had, an' _apples_, too."--
Then Uncle Mart said--"There, now! that'll do!--
Let _Alex_ tell his story his own way!"
And Alex, prompted thus, without delay
Began.
THE BEAR-STORY
THAT ALEX "IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F"
W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went out
In the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out
'Way in the grea'-big woods--he did.--An' he
Wuz goin'along--an'goin'along, you know,
An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "_Wooh!_"--
Ist thataway--"_Woo-ooh!_" An' he wuz _skeered_,
He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree--
A grea'-big tree, he did,--a sicka-_more_ tree.
An' nen he heerd it agin: an' he looked round,
An' _'t'uz a Bear!--a grea'-big, shore-nuff Bear!_--
No: 't'uz _two_ Bears, it wuz--two grea'-big Bears--
_One_ of 'em wuz--ist _one's a grea'-big_ Bear.--
But they ist _boff_ went "_Wooh!_ "--An' here _they_ come
To climb the tree an' git the Little Boy
An'eat him up!
An' nen the Little Boy
He 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here come
The grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to git
The Little Boy an' eat him up--Oh, _no!_--
It 'uzn't the _Big_ Bear 'at clumb the tree--
It 'uz the _Little_ Bear. So here _he_ come
Climbin' the tree--an' climbin' the tree! Nen when
He git wite _clos't_ to the Little Boy, w'y nen
The Little Boy he ist pulled up his gun
An' _shot_ the Bear, he did, an' killed him dead!
An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down out
The tree--away clean to the ground, he did
_Spling-splung!_ he falled _plum_ down, an' killed him, too!
An' lit wite side o' where the' _Big_ Bear's at.
An' nen the Big Bear's awful mad, you bet!--
'Cause--'cause the Little Boy he shot his gun
An' killed the _Little_ Bear.--'Cause the _Big_ Bear
He--he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa.--An' so here
_He_ come to climb the big old tree an' git
The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' when
The Little Boy he saw the _grea'-big Bear_
A-comin', he 'uz badder skeered, he wuz,
Than _any_ time! An' so he think he'll climb
Up _higher_--'way up higher in the tree
Than the old _Bear_ kin climb, you know.--But he--
He _can't_ climb higher 'an old _Bears_ kin climb,--
'Cause Bears kin climb up higher in the trees
Than any little Boys In all the Wo-r-r-ld!
An' so here come the grea'-big Bear, he did,--
A-climbin' up--an' up the tree, to git
The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' so
The Little Boy he clumbed on higher, an' higher.
An' higher up the tree--an' higher--an' higher--
An' higher'n iss-here _house_ is!--An' here come
Th' old Bear--clos'ter to him all the time!--
An' nen--first thing you know,--when th' old Big Bear
Wuz wite clos't to him--nen the Little Boy
Ist jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's mouf
An' shot an' killed him dead!--No; I _fergot_,--
He didn't shoot the grea'-big Bear at all--
'Cause _they 'uz no load in the gun_, you know--
'Cause when he shot the _Little_ Bear, w'y, nen
No load 'uz anymore nen _in_ the gun!
But th' Little Boy clumbed _higher_ up, he did--
He clumbed _lots_ higher--an' on up _higher_--an' higher
An' _higher_--tel he ist _can't_ climb no higher,
'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'way
Up in the teeny-weeny tip-top of
The tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don't
Be keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nen
He look around--An' here come th' old Bear!
An' so the Little Boy make up his mind
He's got to ist git out o' there _some_ way!--
'Cause here come the old Bear!--so clos't, his bref's
Purt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it is
Aginst his bare feet--ist like old "Ring's" bref
When he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired.
So when th' old Bear's so clos't--the Little Boy
Ist gives a grea'-big jump fer '_nother_ tree--
No!--no he don't do that!--I tell you what
The Little Boy does:--W'y, nen--w'y, he--Oh, _yes_--
The Little Boy _he finds a hole up there
'At's in the tree_--an' climbs in there an' _hides_--
An' _nen_ the old Bear can't find the Little Boy
Ut-tall!--But, purty soon th' old Bear finds
The Little Boy's _gun_ 'at's up there--'cause the _gun_
It's too _tall_ to tooked wiv him in the hole.
So, when the old Bear find' the _gun_, he knows
The Little Boy ist _hid_ 'round _somers_ there,--
An' th' old Bear 'gins to snuff an' sniff around,
An' sniff an' snuff around--so's he kin find
Out where the Little Boy's hid at.--An' nen--nen--
Oh, _yes!_--W'y, purty soon the old Bear climbs
'Way out on a big limb--a grea'-long limb,--
An' nen the Little Boy climbs out the hole
An' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!... Nen
The old Bear falls _k-splunge!_ clean to the ground
An' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did!
An' nen the Little Boy he git his gun
An' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree agin--
No!--no, he _didn't_ git his _gun_--'cause when
The _Bear_ falled, nen the _gun_ falled, too--An' broked
It all to pieces, too!--An' _nicest_ gun!--
His Pa ist buyed it!--An' the Little Boy
Ist cried, he did; an' went on climbin' down
The tree--an' climbin' down--an' climbin' down!--
_An'-sir!_ when he 'uz purt'-nigh down,--w'y, nen
_The old Bear he jumped up agin!_--an he
Ain't dead ut-tall--_ist_ 'tendin' thataway,
So he kin git the Little Boy an' eat
Him up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smart
To climb clean _down_ the tree.--An' the old Bear
He can't climb _up_ the tree no more--'cause when
He fell, he broke one of his--He broke _all_
His legs!--an' nen he _couldn't_ climb! But he
Ist won't go 'way an' let the Little Boy
Come down out of the tree. An' the old Bear
Ist growls 'round there, he does--ist growls an' goes
"_Wooh! woo-ooh!_" all the time! An' Little Boy
He haf to stay up in the tree--all night--
An' 'thout no _supper_ neever!--Only they
Wuz _apples_ on the tree!--An' Little Boy
Et apples--ist all night--an' cried--an' cried!
Nen when 'tuz morning th' old Bear went "_Wooh!_"
Agin, an' try to climb up in the tree
An' git the Little Boy.--But he _can't_
Climb t'save his _soul_, he can't!--An' _oh!_ he's _mad!_--
He ist tear up the ground! an' go "_Woo-ooh!_"
An'--_Oh,yes!_--purty soon, when morning's come
All _light_--so's you kin _see_, you know,--w'y, nen
The old Bear finds the Little Boy's _gun_, you know,
'At's on the ground.--(An' it ain't broke ut-tall--
I ist _said_ that!) An' so the old Bear think
He'll take the gun an' _shoot_ the Little Boy:--
But _Bears they_ don't know much 'bout shootin' guns:
So when he go to shoot the Little Boy,
The old Bear got the _other_ end the gun
Agin his shoulder, 'stid o' _th'other_ end--
So when he try to shoot the Little Boy,
It shot _the Bear_, it did--an' killed him dead!
An' nen the Little Boy dumb down the tree
An' chopped his old wooly head off:--Yes, an' killed
The _other_ Bear agin, he did--an' killed
All _boff_ the bears, he did--an' tuk 'em home
An' _cooked_ 'em, too, an' _et_ 'em!
--An' that's
THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE
The greeting of the company throughout
Was like a jubilee,--the children's shout
And fusillading hand-claps, with great guns
And detonations of the older ones,
Raged to such tumult of tempestuous joy,
It even more alarmed than pleased the boy;
Till, with a sudden twitching lip, he slid
Down to the floor and dodged across and hid
His face against his mother as she raised
Him to the shelter of her heart, and praised
His story in low whisperings, and smoothed
The "amber-colored hair," and kissed, and soothed
And lulled him back to sweet tranquillity--
"And 'ats a sign 'at you're the Ma fer me!"
He lisped, with gurgling ecstasy, and drew
Her closer, with shut eyes; and feeling, too,
If he could only _purr_ now like a cat,
He would undoubtedly be doing that!
"And now"--the serious host said, lifting there
A hand entreating silence;--"now, aware
Of the good promise of our Traveler guest
To add some story with and for the rest,
I think I favor you, and him as well,
Asking a story I have heard him tell,
And know its truth,in each minute detail:"
Then leaning on his guest's chair, with a hale
Hand-pat by way of full indorsement, he
Said, "Yes--the Free-Slave story--certainly."
The old man, with his waddy notebook out,
And glittering spectacles, glanced round about
The expectant circle, and still firmer drew
His hat on, with a nervous cough or two:
And, save at times the big hard words, and tone
Of gathering passion--all the speaker's own,--
The tale that set each childish heart astir
Was thus told by "The Noted Traveler."
TOLD BY "THE NOTED TRAVELER"
Coming, clean from the Maryland-end
Of this great National Road of ours,
Through your vast West; with the time to spend,
Stopping for days in the main towns, where
Every citizen seemed a friend,
And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers,--
I found no thing that I might narrate
More singularly strange or queer
Than a thing I found in your sister-state
Ohio,--at a river-town--down here
In my notebook: _Zanesville--situate
On the stream Muskingum--broad and clear,
And navigable, through half the year,
North, to Coshocton; south, as far
As Marietta._--But these facts are
Not of the _story_, but the _scene_
Of the simple little tale I mean
To tell _directly_--from this, straight through
To the _end_ that is best worth listening to:
Eastward of Zanesville, two or three
Miles from the town, as our stage drove in,
I on the driver's seat, and he
Pointing out this and that to me,--
On beyond us--among the rest--
A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng
Of little children, which he "guessed"
Was a picnic, as we caught their thin
High laughter, as we drove along,
Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly
He turned and asked, with a curious grin,
What were my views on _Slavery? "Why?"_
I asked, in return, with a wary eye.
"Because," he answered, pointing his whip
At a little, whitewashed house and shed
On the edge of the road by the grove ahead,--
"Because there are two slaves _there_," he said--
"Two Black slaves that I've passed each trip
For eighteen years.--Though they've been set free,
They have been slaves ever since!" said he.
And, as our horses slowly drew
Nearer the little house in view,
All briefly I heard the history
Of this little old Negro woman and
Her husband, house and scrap of land;
How they were slaves and had been made free
By their dying master, years ago
In old Virginia; and then had come
North here into a _free_ state--so,
Safe forever, to found a home--
For themselves alone?--for they left South there
Five strong sons, who had, alas!
All been sold ere it came to pass
This first old master with his last breath
Had freed the _parents_.--(He went to death
Agonized and in dire despair
That the poor slave _children_ might not share
Their parents' freedom. And wildly then
He moaned for pardon and died. Amen!)
Thus, with their freedom, and little sum
Of money left them, these two had come
North, full twenty long years ago;
And, settling there, they had hopefully
Gone to work, in their simple way,
Hauling--gardening--raising sweet
Corn, and popcorn.--Bird and bee
In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree
Singing with them throughout the slow
Summer's day, with its dust and heat--
The crops that thirst and the rains that fail;
Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low,
And hand-made hominy might find sale
In the near town-market; or baking pies
And cakes, to range in alluring show
At the little window, where the eyes
Of the Movers' children, driving past,
Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew
Into a halt that would sometimes last
Even the space of an hour or two--
As the dusty, thirsty travelers made
Their noonings there in the beeches' shade
By the old black Aunty's spring-house, where,
Along with its cooling draughts, were found
Jugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer,
Served with her gingerbread-horses there,
While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'round
Till the children's rapture knew no bound,
As she sang and danced for them, quavering clear
And high the chant of her old slave-days--
"Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so',
Dancin' on yo' sandy flo'!"
Even so had they wrought all ways
To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,--
And with what ultimate end in view?--
They were saving up money enough to be
Able, in time, to buy their own
Five children back.
Ah! the toil gone through!
And the long delays and the heartaches, too,
And self-denials that they had known!
But the pride and glory that was theirs
When they first hitched up their shackly cart
For the long, long journey South.--The start
In the first drear light of the chilly dawn,
With no friends gathered in grieving throng,--
With no farewells and favoring prayers;
But, as they creaked and jolted on,
Their chiming voices broke in song--
"'Hail, all hail! don't you see the stars a-fallin'?
Hail, all hail! I'm on my way.
Gideon[1] am
A healin' ba'm--
I belong to the blood-washed army.
Gideon am
A healin' ba'm--
On my way!'"
And their _return!_--with their oldest boy
Along with them! Why, their happiness
Spread abroad till it grew a joy
_Universal_--It even reached
And thrilled the town till the _Church_ was stirred
Into suspecting that wrong was wrong!--
And it stayed awake as the preacher preached
A _Real_ "Love"-text that he had not long
To ransack for in the Holy Word.
And the son, restored, and welcomed so,
Found service readily in the town;
And, with the parents, sure and slow,
_He_ went "saltin' de cole cash down."
So with the _next_ boy--and each one
In turn, till _four_ of the five at last
Had been bought back; and, in each case,
With steady work and good homes not
Far from the parents, _they_ chipped in
To the family fund, with an equal grace.
Thus they managed and planned and wrought,
And the old folks throve--Till the night before
They were to start for the lone last son
In the rainy dawn--their money fast
Hid away in the house,--two mean,
Murderous robbers burst the door.
...Then, in the dark, was a scuffle--a fall--
An old man's gasping cry--and then
A woman's fife-like shriek.
...Three men
Splashing by on horseback heard
The summons: And in an instant all
Sprung to their duty, with scarce a word.
And they were _in time_--not only to save
The lives of the old folks, but to bag
Both the robbers, and buck-and-gag
And land them safe in the county-jail--
Or, as Aunty said, with a blended awe
And subtlety,--"Safe in de calaboose whah
De dawgs caint bite 'em!"
--So prevail
The faithful!--So had the Lord upheld
His servants of both deed and prayer,--
HIS the glory unparalleled--
_Theirs_ the reward,--their every son
Free, at last, as the parents were!
And, as the driver ended there
In front of the little house, I said,
All fervently, "Well done! well done!"
At which he smiled, and turned his head
And pulled on the leaders' lines and--"See!"
He said,--"'you can read old Aunty's sign?"
And, peering down through these specs of mine
On a little, square board-sign, I read:
"Stop, traveler, if you think it fit,
And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit.
The rocky spring is very clear,
And soon converted into beer."
And, though I read aloud, I could
Scarce hear myself for laugh and shout
Of children--a glad multitude
Of little people, swarming out
Of the picnic-grounds I spoke about.--
And in their rapturous midst, I see
Again--through mists of memory--
A black old Negress laughing up
At the driver, with her broad lips rolled
Back from her teeth, chalk-white, and gums
Redder than reddest red-ripe plums.
He took from her hand the lifted cup
Of clear spring-water, pure and cold,
And passed it to me: And I raised my hat
And drank to her with a reverence that
My conscience knew was justly due
The old black face, and the old eyes, too--
The old black head, with its mossy mat
Of hair, set under its cap and frills
White as the snows on Alpine hills;
Drank to the old _black_ smile, but yet
Bright as the sun on the violet,--
Drank to the gnarled and knuckled old
Black hands whose palms had ached and bled
And pitilessly been worn pale
And white almost as the palms that hold
Slavery's lash while the victim's wail
Fails as a crippled prayer might fail.--
Aye, with a reverence infinite,
I drank to the old black face and head--
The old black breast with its life of light--
The old black hide with its heart of gold.
HEAT-LIGHTNING
There was a curious quiet for a space
Directly following: and in the face
Of one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glow
Of the heat-lightning that pent passions throw
Long ere the crash of speech.--He broke the spell--
The host:--The Traveler's story, told so well,
He said, had wakened there within his breast
A yearning, as it were, to know _the rest_--
That all unwritten sequence that the Lord
Of Righteousness must write with flame and sword,
Some awful session of His patient thought--
Just then it was, his good old mother caught
His blazing eye--so that its fire became
But as an ember--though it burned the same.
It seemed to her, she said, that she had heard
It was the _Heavenly_ Parent never erred,
And not the _earthly_ one that had such grace:
"Therefore, my son," she said, with lifted face
And eyes, "let no one dare anticipate
The Lord's intent. While _He_ waits, _we_ will wait"
And with a gust of reverence genuine
Then Uncle Mart was aptly ringing in--
"'_If the darkened heavens lower,
Wrap thy cloak around thy form;
Though the tempest rise in power,
God is mightier than the storm!_'"
Which utterance reached the restive children all
As something humorous. And then a call
For _him_ to tell a story, or to "say
A funny piece." His face fell right away:
He knew no story worthy. Then he must
_Declaim_ for them: In that, he could not trust
His memory. And then a happy thought
Struck some one, who reached in his vest and brought
Some scrappy clippings into light and said
There was a poem of Uncle Mart's he read
Last April in "_The Sentinel_." He had
It there in print, and knew all would be glad
To hear it rendered by the author.
And,
All reasons for declining at command
Exhausted, the now helpless poet rose
And said: "I am discovered, I suppose.
Though I have taken all precautions not
To sign my name to any verses wrought
By my transcendent genius, yet, you see,
Fame wrests my secret from me bodily;
So I must needs confess I did this deed
Of poetry red-handed, nor can plead
One whit of unintention in my crime--
My guilt of rhythm and my glut of rhyme.--
"Mænides rehearsed a tale of arms,
And Naso told of curious metat_mur_phoses;
Unnumbered pens have pictured woman's charms,
While crazy _I_'ve made poetry _on purposes!_"
In other words, I stand convicted--need
I say--by my own doing, as I read.
UNCLE MART'S POEM
THE OLD SNOW-MAN
Ho! the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!
He looked as fierce and sassy
As a soldier on parade!--
'Cause Noey, when he made him,
While we all wuz gone, you see,
He made him, jist a-purpose,
Jist as fierce as he could be!--
But when we all got _ust_ to him,
Nobody wuz afraid
Of the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!