"Hulloa, Bassie! I thought this fine morning would bring you over. The
sap's running strong, and the quail are gathering thick in the young
wheat. Hear to them whistling. Where's your gun?"
"I did not come to shoot."
"Soh! Well, you don't look like shooting. Been eating too much green
fruit?"
"I've passed the green fruit stage, Abe."
"I ain't; there's nothing better'n a pie of green apricots with cream,
and green mealies is better'n kissing. You're not in love, are you?"
"I have been writing poetry," I said, with an air of unconcern; "and I
want to take your opinion of it."
"Fire away," said Abe, fetching up a judicial expression; "it's many a
year since I learnt poetry, my boy--many a year. The ole mum onct, in
the moonlight, when I were knee high, read to me outer a torn sheet she
had, and these words I remember:
"`He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God that loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'
"Long years agone the old mother read that outer a torn slip of paper,
and I know it yet, sonny. I'd like to year some more."
"I don't think I'll read it you, on second thoughts," I said, with
sudden doubt.
"You bet you will, sonny. A man that's got the gift of making poetry
has no occasion to stand back in the corner."
"Well it's only a little thing I dashed off the other night. Here it
is:
"`Oh, frog, that sits on the garden seat
(Croak, croak! where the trees hang low),
Have you ever swum in the ocean deep,
In the waves where the wild winds blow,
Where the red crabs crawl on the rocks below,
On the rocks where the dead men sleep?'"
"It's kind o' buttery," said Abe slowly, "but I don't see no sense in
it. What's a frog on a garden seat got anything to do with dead men?
And crabs ain't red."
"Oh, that's a poet's licence."
"It are, eh? Well, I won't go to your shop for spirrits. Is there any
more?"
"This is the second verse," I said, rather discouraged:
"`Oh, speckled toad, did you ever dream
(Croak, croak! there's a snake on the wall),
Did you ever dream of my lady dear,
Who sometimes walks in the garden here
(While the milk in the pan is making cream),
And sings when there's no one near?'"
"How does it sound?"
"It sounds like treacle," said Abe, with a puzzled look; "but I don't
see what the podder's got to do with it, anyhow; and the young woman's
got no business to be wasting her time waiting for the milk to set. Why
don't she use the cream separator?"
"I couldn't write about a machine."
"Why not--hum--er--hum--why not say this:
"After she turned the cream separator,
She sat and ate a cold pertater."
"There is no sentiment in that!" I said indignantly; "and the words
have no rhythm."
"What's rhythm?"
"Why, tone, modulation, music; you know!"
"Sonny! is there any music in the croak of a frog--is there? In course
not! Now listen--what do you hear?"
I listened, and heard nothing but the drowsy hum and hollow drone of the
surf.
"I can hear nothing."
"Soh! Well, now jes' cock yer ear, and hearken to the voice of the
sea--rising and falling, soft and melancholy. Dying away to a whisper,
then swellin' up as the big wave rolls in, swinging to and fro in a
great song of quiet and peace. That's music, sonny; and when the wind
rises, and in the dark of the night, the spring-tide, coming in with the
power of the sea behind, thunders on the beach, there's music there--
wild and grand--and when the clouds pile up outer the sea higher and
higher, and the yearth waitin' in silence, when there is no breath of
air, shakes to the rollin' crash of the thunder--there's music then.
Where's your potery beside them sounds and the lightning flash and the
rush of the wind, and the splashing of water risin' suddenly?"