Chapter 6

--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.--

"Maenides 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!

'Cause Noey told us 'bout him And what he made him fer:-- He'd come to feed, that morning He found we wuzn't here; And so the notion struck him, When we all come taggin' home 'Tud _s'prise_ us ef a' old Snow-Man 'Ud meet us when we come! So, when he'd fed the stock, and milked, And ben back home, and chopped His wood, and et his breakfast, he Jist grabbed his mitts and hopped Right in on that-air old Snow-Man That he laid out he'd make Er bust a trace _a-tryin_'--jist Fer old-acquaintance sake!-- But work like that wuz lots more fun. He said, than when he played! Ho! the old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!

He started with a big snow-ball, And rolled it all around; And as he rolled, more snow 'ud stick And pull up off the ground.-- He rolled and rolled all round the yard-- 'Cause we could see the _track_, All wher' the snow come off, you know, And left it wet and black. He got the Snow-Man's _legs-part_ rolled-- In front the kitchen-door,-- And then he hat to turn in then And roll and roll some more!-- He rolled the yard all round agin, And round the house, at that-- Clean round the house and back to wher' The blame legs-half wuz at! He said he missed his dinner, too-- Jist clean fergot and stayed There workin'. Ho! the old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!

And Noey said he hat to _hump_ To git the _top-half_ on The _legs-half!_--When he _did_, he said, His wind wuz purt'-nigh gone.-- He said, I jucks! he jist drapped down There on the old porch-floor And panted like a dog!--And then He up! and rolled some more!-- The _last_ batch--that wuz fer his head,-- And--time he'd got it right And clumb and fixed it on, he said-- He hat to quit fer night!-- And _then_, he said, he'd kep' right on Ef they'd ben any _moon_ To work by! So he crawled in bed-- And _could_ a-slep' tel _noon_, He wuz so plum wore out! he said,-- But it wuz washin'-day, And hat to cut a cord o' wood 'Fore he could git away!

But, last, he got to work agin,-- With spade, and gouge, and hoe, And trowel, too--(All tools 'ud do What _Noey_ said, you know!) He cut his eyebrows out like cliffs-- And his cheekbones and chin Stuck _furder_ out--and his old _nose_ Stuck out as fur-agin! He made his eyes o' walnuts, And his whiskers out o' this Here buggy-cushion stuffin'--_moss_, The teacher says it is. And then he made a' old wood'-gun, Set keerless-like, you know, Acrost one shoulder--kindo' like Big Foot, er Adam Poe-- Er, mayby, Simon Girty, The dinged old Renegade! _Wooh!_ the old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!

And there he stood, all fierce and grim, A stern, heroic form: What was the winter blast to him, And what the driving storm?-- What wonder that the children pressed Their faces at the pane And scratched away the frost, in pride To look on him again?-- What wonder that, with yearning bold, Their all of love and care Went warmest through the keenest cold To that Snow-Man out there!

But the old Snow-Man-- What a dubious delight He grew at last when Spring came on And days waxed warm and bright.-- Alone he stood--all kith and kin Of snow and ice were gone;-- Alone, with constant teardrops in His eyes and glittering on His thin, pathetic beard of black-- Grief in a hopeless cause!-- Hope--hope is for the man that _dies_-- What for the man that _thaws!_ O Hero of a hero's make!-- Let _marble_ melt and fade, But never _you_--you old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!

"LITTLE JACK JANITOR"

And there, in that ripe Summer-night, once more A wintry coolness through the open door And window seemed to touch each glowing face Refreshingly; and, for a fleeting space, The quickened fancy, through the fragrant air, Saw snowflakes whirling where the roseleaves were, And sounds of veriest jingling bells again Were heard in tinkling spoons and glasses then.

Thus Uncle Mart's old poem sounded young And crisp and fresh and clear as when first sung, Away back in the wakening of Spring When his rhyme and the robin, chorusing, Rumored, in duo-fanfare, of the soon Invading johnny-jump-ups, with platoon On platoon of sweet-williams, marshaled fine To bloomed blarings of the trumpet-vine.

The poet turned to whisperingly confer A moment with "The Noted Traveler." Then left the room, tripped up the stairs, and then An instant later reappeared again, Bearing a little, lacquered box, or chest, Which, as all marked with curious interest, He gave to the old Traveler, who in One hand upheld it, pulling back his thin Black lustre coat-sleeves, saying he had sent Up for his "Magic Box," and that he meant To test it there--especially to show _The Children_. "It is _empty now_, you know."-- He humped it with his knuckles, so they heard The hollow sound--"But lest it be inferred It is not _really_ empty, I will ask _Little Jack Janitor_, whose pleasant task It is to keep it ship-shape."

Then he tried And rapped the little drawer in the side, And called out sharply "Are you in there, Jack?" And then a little, squeaky voice came back,-- "_Of course I'm in here--ain't you got the key Turned on me!_"

Then the Traveler leisurely Felt through his pockets, and at last took out The smallest key they ever heard about!-- It,wasn't any longer than a pin: And this at last he managed to fit in The little keyhole, turned it, and then cried, "Is everything swept out clean there inside?" "_Open the drawer and see!--Don't talk to much; Or else_," the little voice squeaked, "_talk in Dutch-- You age me, asking questions!_"

Then the man Looked hurt, so that the little folks began To feel so sorry for him, he put down His face against the box and had to frown.-- "Come, sir!" he called,--"no impudence to _me!_-- You've swept out clean?"

"_Open the drawer and see!_" And so he drew the drawer out: Nothing there, But just the empty drawer, stark and bare. He shoved it back again, with a shark click.--

"_Ouch!_" yelled the little voice--"_un-snap it--quick!-- You've got my nose pinched in the crack!_"

And then The frightened man drew out the drawer again, The little voice exclaiming, "_Jeemi-nee!-- Say what you want, but please don't murder me!_"

"Well, then," the man said, as he closed the drawer With care, "I want some cotton-batting for My supper! Have you got it?"

And inside, All muffled like, the little voice replied, "_Open the drawer and see!_"

And, sure enough, He drew it out, filled with the cotton stuff. He then asked for a candle to be brought And held for him: and tuft by tuft he caught And lit the cotton, and, while blazing, took It in his mouth and ate it, with a look Of purest satisfaction.

"Now," said he, "I've eaten the drawer empty, let me see What this is in my mouth:" And with both hands He began drawing from his lips long strands Of narrow silken ribbons, every hue And tint;--and crisp they were and bright and new As if just purchased at some Fancy-Store. "And now, Bub, bring your cap," he said, "before Something might happen!" And he stuffed the cap Full of the ribbons. "_There_, my little chap, Hold _tight_ to them," he said, "and take them to The ladies there, for they know what to do With all such rainbow finery!"

He smiled Half sadly, as it seemed, to see the child Open his cap first to his mother..... There Was not a ribbon in it anywhere! "_Jack Janitor!_" the man said sternly through The Magic Box--"Jack Janitor, did _you_ Conceal those ribbons anywhere?"

"_Well, yes,_" The little voice piped--"_but you'd never guess The place I hid 'em if you'd guess a year!_"

"Well, won't you _tell_ me?"

"_Not until you clear Your mean old conscience_" said the voice, "_and make Me first do something for the Children's sake._"

"Well, then, fill up the drawer," the Traveler said, "With whitest white on earth and reddest red!-- Your terms accepted--Are you satisfied?"

"_Open the drawer and see!_" the voice replied.

"_Why, bless my soul!_"--the man said, as he drew The contents of the drawer into view-- "It's level-full of _candy!_--Pass it 'round-- Jack Janitor shan't steal _that_, I'll be bound!"-- He raised and crunched a stick of it and smacked His lips.--"Yes, that _is_ candy, for a fact!-- And it's all _yours!_"

And how the children there Lit into it!--O never anywhere Was such a feast of sweetness!

"And now, then," The man said, as the empty drawer again Slid to its place, he bending over it,-- "Now, then, Jack Janitor, before we quit Our entertainment for the evening, tell Us where you hid the ribbons--can't you?"

"_Well,_" The squeaky little voice drawled sleepily-- "_Under your old hat, maybe.--Look and see!_"

All carefully the man took off his hat: But there was not a ribbon under that.-- He shook his heavy hair, and all in vain The old white hat--then put it on again: "Now, tell me, _honest_, Jack, where _did_ you hide The ribbons?"

"_Under your hat_" the voice replied.-- "_Mind! I said 'under' and not 'in' it.--Won't You ever take the hint on earth?--or don't You want to show folks where the ribbons at?-- Law! but I'm sleepy!--Under--unner your hat!_"

Again the old man carefully took off The empty hat, with an embarrassed cough, Saying, all gravely to the children: "You Must promise not to _laugh_--you'll all _want_ to-- When you see where Jack Janitor has dared To hide those ribbons--when he might have spared My feelings.--But no matter!--Know the worst-- Here are the ribbons, as I feared at first."-- And, quick as snap of thumb and finger, there The old man's head had not a sign of hair, And in his lap a wig of iron-gray Lay, stuffed with all that glittering array Of ribbons ... "Take 'em to the ladies--Yes. Good-night to everybody, and God bless The Children."

In a whisper no one missed The Hired Man yawned: "He's a vantrilloquist"

* * * * *

So gloried all the night Each trundle-bed And pallet was enchanted--each child-head Was packed with happy dreams. And long before The dawn's first far-off rooster crowed, the snore Of Uncle Mart was stilled, as round him pressed The bare arms of the wakeful little guest That he had carried home with him....

"I think," An awed voice said--"(No: I don't want a _dwink_.-- Lay still.)--I think 'The Noted Traveler' he 'S the inscrutibul-est man I ever see!"

[Footnote 1: _Gilead_--evidently.--[Editor.]