Chapter 2
Ah, could you see them _all_, at lull of noon!-- A sort of _boisterous_ lull, with clink of spoon And clatter of deflecting knife, and plate Dropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight, And dragged in place voraciously; and then Pent exclamations, and the lull again.-- The garland of glad faces 'round the board-- Each member of the family restored To his or her place, with an extra chair Or two for the chance guests so often there.-- The father's farmer-client, brought home from The courtroom, though he "didn't _want_ to come Tel he jist saw he _hat_ to!" he'd explain, Invariably, time and time again, To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressed Another cup of coffee on the guest.-- Or there was Johnty's special chum, perchance, Or Bud's, or both--each childish countenance Lit with a higher glow of youthful glee, To be together thus unbrokenly,-- Jim Offutt, or Eck Skinner, or George Carr-- The very nearest chums of Bud's these are,-- So, very probably, _one_ of the three, At least, is there with Bud, or _ought_ to be. Like interchange the town-boys each had known-- His playmate's dinner better than his own-- _Yet_ blest that he was ever made to stay At _Almon Keefer's, any_ blessed day, For _any_ meal!... Visions of biscuits, hot And flaky-perfect, with the golden blot Of molten butter for the center, clear, Through pools of clover-honey--_dear-o-dear!_-- With creamy milk for its divine "farewell": And then, if any one delectable Might yet exceed in sweetness, O restore The cherry-cobbler of the days of yore Made only by Al Keefer's mother!--Why, The very thought of it ignites the eye Of memory with rapture--cloys the lip Of longing, till it seems to ooze and drip With veriest juice and stain and overwaste Of that most sweet delirium of taste That ever visited the childish tongue, Or proved, as now, the sweetest thing unsung.
ALMON KEEFER
Ah, Almon Keefer! what a boy you were, With your back-tilted hat and careless hair, And open, honest, fresh, fair face and eyes With their all-varying looks of pleased surprise And joyous interest in flower and tree, And poising humming-bird, and maundering bee.
The fields and woods he knew; the tireless tramp With gun and dog; and the night-fisher's camp-- No other boy, save Bee Lineback, had won Such brilliant mastery of rod and gun. Even in his earliest childhood had he shown These traits that marked him as his father's own. Dogs all paid Almon honor and bow-wowed Allegiance, let him come in any crowd Of rabbit-hunting town-boys, even though His own dog "Sleuth" rebuked their acting so With jealous snarls and growlings.
But the best Of Almon's virtues--leading all the rest-- Was his great love of books, and skill as well In reading them aloud, and by the spell Thereof enthralling his mute listeners, as They grouped about him in the orchard grass, Hinging their bare shins in the mottled shine And shade, as they lay prone, or stretched supine Beneath their favorite tree, with dreamy eyes And Argo-fandes voyaging the skies. "Tales of the Ocean" was the name of one Old dog's-eared book that was surpassed by none Of all the glorious list.--Its back was gone, But its vitality went bravely on In such delicious tales of land and sea As may not ever perish utterly. Of still more dubious caste, "Jack Sheppard" drew Full admiration; and "Dick Turpin," too. And, painful as the fact is to convey, In certain lurid tales of their own day, These boys found thieving heroes and outlaws They hailed with equal fervor of applause: "The League of the Miami"--why, the name Alone was fascinating--is the same, In memory, this venerable hour Of moral wisdom shorn of all its power, As it unblushingly reverts to when The old barn was "the Cave," and hears again The signal blown, outside the buggy-shed-- The drowsy guard within uplifts his head, And "'_Who goes there?_'" is called, in bated breath-- The challenge answered in a hush of death,-- "Sh!--'_Barney Gray!_'" And then "'_What do you seek?_'" "'_Stables of The League!_'" the voice comes spent and weak, For, ha! the _Law_ is on the "Chieftain's" trail-- Tracked to his very lair!--Well, what avail? The "secret entrance" opens--closes.--So The "Robber-Captain" thus outwits his foe; And, safe once more within his "cavern-halls," He shakes his clenched fist at the warped plank-walls And mutters his defiance through the cracks At the balked Enemy's retreating backs As the loud horde flees pell-mell down the lane, And--_Almon Keefer_ is himself again!
Excepting few, they were not books indeed Of deep import that Almon chose to read;-- Less fact than fiction.--Much he favored those-- If not in poetry, in hectic prose-- That made our native Indian a wild, Feathered and fine-preened hero that a child Could recommend as just about the thing To make a god of, or at least a king. Aside from Almon's own books--two or three-- His store of lore The Township Library Supplied him weekly: All the books with "or"s-- Sub-titled--lured him--after "Indian Wars," And "Life of Daniel Boone,"--not to include Some few books spiced with humor,--"Robin Hood" And rare "Don Quixote."--And one time he took "Dadd's Cattle Doctor."... How he hugged the book And hurried homeward, with internal glee And humorous spasms of expectancy!-- All this confession--as he promptly made It, the day later, writhing in the shade Of the old apple-tree with Johnty and Bud, Noey Bixler, and The Hired Hand-- Was quite as funny as the book was not.... O Wonderland of wayward Childhood! what An easy, breezy realm of summer calm And dreamy gleam and gloom and bloom and balm Thou art!--The Lotus-Land the poet sung, It is the Child-World while the heart beats young....
While the heart beats young!--O the splendor of the Spring, With all her dewy jewels on, is not so fair a thing! The fairest, rarest morning of the blossom-time of May Is not so sweet a season as the season of to-day While Youth's diviner climate folds and holds us, close caressed, As we feel our mothers with us by the touch of face and breast;-- Our bare feet in the meadows, and our fancies up among The airy clouds of morning--while the heart beats young.
While the heart beats young and our pulses leap and dance. With every day a holiday and life a glad romance,-- We hear the birds with wonder, and with wonder watch their flight-- Standing still the more enchanted, both of hearing and of sight, When they have vanished wholly,--for, in fancy, wing-to-wing We fly to Heaven with them; and, returning, still we sing The praises of this lower Heaven with tireless voice and tongue, Even as the Master sanctions--while the heart beats young.
While the heart beats young!--While the heart beats young! O green and gold old Earth of ours, with azure overhung And looped with rainbows!--grant us yet this grassy lap of thine-- We would be still thy children, through the shower and the shine! So pray we, lisping, whispering, in childish love and trust With our beseeching hands and faces lifted from the dust By fervor of the poem, all unwritten and unsung, Thou givest us in answer, while the heart beats young.
NOEY BIXLER
Another hero of those youthful years Returns, as Noey Bixler's name appears. And Noey--if in any special way-- Was notably good-natured.--Work or play He entered into with selfsame delight-- A wholesome interest that made him quite As many friends among the old as young,-- So everywhere were Noey's praises sung.
And he was awkward, fat and overgrown, With a round full-moon face, that fairly shone As though to meet the simile's demand. And, cumbrous though he seemed, both eye and hand Were dowered with the discernment and deft skill Of the true artisan: He shaped at will, In his old father's shop, on rainy days, Little toy-wagons, and curved-runner sleighs; The trimmest bows and arrows--fashioned, too. Of "seasoned timber," such as Noey knew How to select, prepare, and then complete, And call his little friends in from the street. "The very _best_ bow," Noey used to say, "Haint made o' ash ner hick'ry thataway!-- But you git _mulberry_--the _bearin_'-tree, Now mind ye! and you fetch the piece to me, And lem me git it _seasoned_; then, i gum! I'll make a bow 'at you kin brag on some! Er--ef you can't git _mulberry_,--you bring Me a' old _locus_' hitch-post, and i jing! I'll make a bow o' _that_ 'at _common_ bows Won't dast to pick on ner turn up their nose!" And Noey knew the woods, and all the trees, And thickets, plants and myriad mysteries Of swamp and bottom-land. And he knew where The ground-hog hid, and why located there.-- He knew all animals that burrowed, swam, Or lived in tree-tops: And, by race and dam, He knew the choicest, safest deeps wherein Fish-traps might flourish nor provoke the sin Of theft in some chance peeking, prying sneak, Or town-boy, prowling up and down the creek. All four-pawed creatures tamable--he knew Their outer and their inner natures too; While they, in turn, were drawn to him as by Some subtle recognition of a tie Of love, as true as truth from end to end, Between themselves and this strange human friend. The same with birds--he knew them every one, And he could "name them, too, without a gun." No wonder _Johnty_ loved him, even to The verge of worship.--Noey led him through The art of trapping redbirds--yes, and taught Him how to keep them when he had them caught-- What food they needed, and just where to swing The cage, if he expected them to _sing_.
And _Bud_ loved Noey, for the little pair Of stilts he made him; or the stout old hair Trunk Noey put on wheels, and laid a track Of scantling-railroad for it in the back Part of the barn-lot; or the cross-bow, made Just like a gun, which deadly weapon laid Against his shoulder as he aimed, and--"_Sping!_" He'd hear the rusty old nail zoon and sing-- And _zip!_ your Mr. Bluejay's wing would drop A farewell-feather from the old tree-top! And _Maymie_ loved him, for the very small But perfect carriage for her favorite doll-- A _lady's_ carriage--not a _baby_-cab,-- But oilcloth top, and two seats, lined with drab And trimmed with white lace-paper from a case Of shaving-soap his uncle bought some place At auction once.
And _Alex_ loved him yet The best, when Noey brought him, for a pet, A little flying-squirrel, with great eyes-- Big as a child's: And, childlike otherwise, It was at first a timid, tremulous, coy, Retiring little thing that dodged the boy And tried to keep in Noey's pocket;--till, In time, responsive to his patient will, It became wholly docile, and content With its new master, as he came and went,-- The squirrel clinging flatly to his breast, Or sometimes scampering its craziest Around his body spirally, and then Down to his very heels and up again.
And _Little Lizzie_ loved him, as a bee Loves a great ripe red apple--utterly. For Noey's ruddy morning-face she drew The window-blind, and tapped the window, too; Afar she hailed his coming, as she heard His tuneless whistling--sweet as any bird It seemed to her, the one lame bar or so Of old "Wait for the Wagon"--hoarse and low The sound was,--so that, all about the place, Folks joked and said that Noey "whistled bass"-- The light remark originally made By Cousin Rufus, who knew notes, and played The flute with nimble skill, and taste as wall, And, critical as he was musical, Regarded Noey's constant whistling thus "Phenominally unmelodious." Likewise when Uncle Mart, who shared the love Of jest with Cousin Rufus hand-in-glove, Said "Noey couldn't whistle '_Bonny Doon_' Even! and, _he'd_ bet, couldn't carry a tune If it had handles to it!"
--But forgive The deviations here so fugitive, And turn again to Little Lizzie, whose High estimate of Noey we shall choose Above all others.--And to her he was Particularly lovable because He laid the woodland's harvest at her feet.-- He brought her wild strawberries, honey-sweet And dewy-cool, in mats of greenest moss And leaves, all woven over and across With tender, biting "tongue-grass," and "sheep-sour," And twin-leaved beach-mast, prankt with bud and flower Of every gypsy-blossom of the wild, Dark, tangled forest, dear to any child.-- All these in season. Nor could barren, drear, White and stark-featured Winter interfere With Noey's rare resources: Still the same He blithely whistled through the snow and came Beneath the window with a Fairy sled; And Little Lizzie, bundled heels-and-head, He took on such excursions of delight As even "Old Santy" with his reindeer might Have envied her! And, later, when the snow Was softening toward Springtime and the glow Of steady sunshine smote upon it,--then Came the magician Noey yet again-- While all the children were away a day Or two at Grandma's!--and behold when they Got home once more;--there, towering taller than The doorway--stood a mighty, old Snow-Man!
A thing of peerless art--a masterpiece Doubtless unmatched by even classic Greece In heyday of Praxiteles.--Alone It loomed in lordly grandeur all its own. And steadfast, too, for weeks and weeks it stood, The admiration of the neighborhood As well as of the children Noey sought Only to honor in the work he wrought. The traveler paid it tribute, as he passed Along the highway--paused and, turning, cast A lingering, last look--as though to take A vivid print of it, for memory's sake, To lighten all the empty, aching miles Beyond with brighter fancies, hopes and smiles. The cynic put aside his biting wit And tacitly declared in praise of it; And even the apprentice-poet of the town Rose to impassioned heights, and then sat down And penned a panegyric scroll of rhyme That made the Snow-Man famous for all time.
And though, as now, the ever warmer sun Of summer had so melted and undone The perishable figure that--alas!-- Not even in dwindled white against the grass-- Was left its latest and minutest ghost, The children yet--_materially_, almost-- Beheld it--circled 'round it hand-in-hand-- (Or rather 'round the place it used to stand)-- With "Ring-a-round-a-rosy! Bottle full O' posey!" and, with shriek and laugh, would pull From seeming contact with it--just as when It was the _real-est_ of old Snow-Men.
"A NOTED TRAVELER"
Even in such a scene of senseless play The children were surprised one summer-day By a strange man who called across the fence, Inquiring for their father's residence; And, being answered that this was the place, Opened the gate, and with a radiant face, Came in and sat down with them in the shade And waited--till the absent father made His noon appearance, with a warmth and zest That told he had no ordinary guest In this man whose low-spoken name he knew At once, demurring as the stranger drew A stuffy notebook out and turned and set A big fat finger on a page and let The writing thereon testify instead Of further speech. And as the father read All silently, the curious children took Exacting inventory both of book And man:--He wore a long-napped white fur-hat Pulled firmly on his head, and under that Rather long silvery hair, or iron-gray-- For he was not an old man,--anyway, Not beyond sixty. And he wore a pair Of square-framed spectacles--or rather there Were two more than a pair,--the extra two Flared at the corners, at the eyes' side-view, In as redundant vision as the eyes Of grasshoppers or bees or dragonflies. Later the children heard the father say He was "A Noted Traveler," and would stay Some days with them--In which time host and guest Discussed, alone, in deepest interest, Some vague, mysterious matter that defied The wistful children, loitering outside The spare-room door. There Bud acquired a quite New list of big words--such as "Disunite," And "Shibboleth," and "Aristocracy," And "Juggernaut," and "Squatter Sovereignty," And "Anti-slavery," "Emancipate," "Irrepressible conflict," and "The Great Battle of Armageddon"--obviously A pamphlet brought from Washington, D. C., And spread among such friends as might occur Of like views with "The Noted Traveler."
A PROSPECTIVE VISIT
While _any_ day was notable and dear That gave the children Noey, history here Records his advent emphasized indeed With sharp italics, as he came to feed The stock one special morning, fair and bright, When Johnty and Bud met him, with delight Unusual even as their extra dress-- Garbed as for holiday, with much excess Of proud self-consciousness and vain conceit In their new finery.--Far up the street They called to Noey, as he came, that they, As promised, both were going back that day To _his_ house with him!
And by time that each Had one of Noey's hands--ceasing their speech And coyly anxious, in their new attire, To wake the comment of their mute desire,-- Noey seemed rendered voiceless. Quite a while They watched him furtively.--He seemed to smile As though he would conceal it; and they saw Him look away, and his lips purse and draw In curious, twitching spasms, as though he might Be whispering,--while in his eye the white Predominated strangely.--Then the spell Gave way, and his pent speech burst audible: "They wuz two stylish little boys, and they wuz mighty bold ones, Had two new pairs o' britches made out o' their daddy's old ones!" And at the inspirational outbreak, Both joker and his victims seemed to take An equal share of laughter,--and all through Their morning visit kept recurring to The funny words and jingle of the rhyme That just kept getting funnier all the time.
AT NOEY'S HOUSE
At Noey's house--when they arrived with him-- How snug seemed everything, and neat and trim: The little picket-fence, and little gate-- It's little pulley, and its little weight,-- All glib as clock-work, as it clicked behind Them, on the little red brick pathway, lined With little paint-keg-vases and teapots Of wee moss-blossoms and forgetmenots: And in the windows, either side the door, Were ranged as many little boxes more Of like old-fashioned larkspurs, pinks and moss And fern and phlox; while up and down across Them rioted the morning-glory-vines On taut-set cotton-strings, whose snowy lines Whipt in and out and under the bright green Like basting-threads; and, here and there between, A showy, shiny hollyhock would flare Its pink among the white and purple there.-- And still behind the vines, the children saw A strange, bleached, wistful face that seemed to draw A vague, indefinite sympathy. A face It was of some newcomer to the place.-- In explanation, Noey, briefly, said That it was "Jason," as he turned and led The little fellows 'round the house to show Them his menagerie of pets. And so For quite a time the face of the strange guest Was partially forgotten, as they pressed About the squirrel-cage and rousted both The lazy inmates out, though wholly loath To whirl the wheel for them.--And then with awe They walked 'round Noey's big pet owl, and saw Him film his great, clear, liquid eyes and stare And turn and turn and turn his head 'round there The same way they kept circling--as though he Could turn it one way thus eternally.
Behind the kitchen, then, with special pride Noey stirred up a terrapin inside The rain-barrel where he lived, with three or four Little mud-turtles of a size not more In neat circumference than the tiny toy Dumb-watches worn by every little boy.
Then, back of the old shop, beneath the tree Of "rusty-coats," as Noey called them, he Next took the boys, to show his favorite new Pet 'coon--pulled rather coyly into view Up through a square hole in the bottom of An old inverted tub he bent above, Yanking a little chain, with "Hey! you, sir! Here's _comp'ny_ come to see you, Bolivur!" Explanatory, he went on to say, "I named him '_Bolivur_' jes thisaway,-- He looks so _round_ and _ovalish_ and _fat_, 'Peared like no other name 'ud fit but that."
Here Noey's father called and sent him on Some errand. "Wait," he said--"I won't be gone A half a' hour.--Take Bud, and go on in Where Jason is, tel I git back agin."
Whoever _Jason_ was, they found him there Still at the front-room window.--By his chair Leaned a new pair of crutches; and from one Knee down, a leg was bandaged.--"Jason done That-air with one o' these-'ere tools _we_ call A '_shin-hoe_'--but a _foot-adz_ mostly all _Hardware_-store-keepers calls 'em."--(_Noey_ made This explanation later.)
Jason paid But little notice to the boys as they Came in the room:--An idle volume lay Upon his lap--the only book in sight-- And Johnty read the title,--"Light, More Light, There's Danger in the Dark,"--though _first_ and best-- In fact, the _whole_ of Jason's interest Seemed centered on a little _dog_--one pet Of Noey's all uncelebrated yet-- Though _Jason_, certainly, avowed his worth, And niched him over all the pets on earth-- As the observant Johnty would relate The _Jason_-episode, and imitate The all-enthusiastic speech and air Of Noey's kinsman and his tribute there:--
"THAT LITTLE DOG"
"That little dog 'ud scratch at that door And go on a-whinin' two hours before He'd ever let up! _There!_--Jane: Let him in.-- (Hah, there, you little rat!) Look at him grin! Come down off o' that!-- W'y, look at him! (_Drat You! you-rascal-you!_)--bring me that hat! Look _out!_--He'll snap _you!_--_He_ wouldn't let _You_ take it away from him, now you kin bet! That little rascal's jist natchurly mean.-- I tell you, I _never_ (_Git out!! _) never seen A _spunkier_ little rip! (_Scratch to git in_, And _now_ yer a-scratchin' to git _out_ agin! Jane: Let him out!) Now, watch him from here Out through the winder!--You notice one ear Kindo' _in_ side-_out_, like he holds it?--Well, _He's_ got a _tick_ in it--_I_ kin tell! Yes, and he's cunnin'-- Jist watch him a-runnin', _Sidelin'_--see!--like he ain't '_plum'd true_' And legs don't 'track' as they'd ort to do:-- Plowin' his nose through the weeds--I jing! Ain't he jist cuter'n anything!
"W'y, that little dog's got _grown_-people's sense!-- See how he gits out under the fence?-- And watch him a-whettin' his hind-legs 'fore His dead square run of a miled er more-- 'Cause _Noey_'s a-comin', and Trip allus knows When _Noey_'s a-comin'--and off he goes!-- Putts out to meet him and--_There they come now!_ Well-sir! it's raially singalar how That dog kin _tell_,-- But he knows as well When Noey's a-comin' home!--Reckon his _smell_ 'Ud carry two miled?--You needn't to _smile_-- He runs to meet _him_, ever'-once-n-a-while, Two miled and over--when he's slipped away And left him at home here, as he's done to-day-- 'Thout ever knowin' where Noey wuz goin'-- But that little dog allus hits the right way! Hear him a-whinin' and scratchin' agin?-- (_Little tormentin' fice!_) Jane: Let him in.
"--You say he ain't _there?_-- Well now, I declare!-- Lem _me_ limp out and look! ... I wunder where-- _Heuh_, Trip!--_Heuh_, Trip!--_Heuh_, Trip!... _There_-- _There_ he is!--Little sneak!--What-a'-you-'bout?-- _There_ he is--quiled up as meek as a mouse, His tail turnt up like a teakittle-spout, A-sunnin' hisse'f at the side o' the house! _Next_ time you scratch, sir, you'll haf to git in, My fine little feller, the best way you kin! --Noey _he_ learns him sich capers!--And they-- _Both_ of 'em's ornrier every day!-- _Both_ tantalizin' and meaner'n sin-- Allus a--(_Listen there!_)--Jane: Let him in.