Part 8

Went to Mount Vernon; and I wouldn't have lost That trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost! Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun; The house HE slept in when his work was done; The trees he planted with his own brave hand, That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land: The humble tomb he lies in, which--like me-- Pilgrims from all the world have come to see: These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile, And preach a funeral sermon all the while! Even the river-boats upon their way Toll bells, as if he'd died that very day! And through it all this precept may be traced: The noblest men are simplest in their taste.

I've read how grand, Napoleon's tomb is made, And all the surface-honors to him paid; But I don't think the people that come there Bring any heartfelt sympathy to spare; While every true-brained patriot, night and morn, Thanks God for letting Washington be born!

While I was standing, hat off, at the tomb, A youth approached, three-quarters made of bloom; And with his hat perched on his close-sheared head, And smoking a small white cigar, he said: "Sirrh, would you kindly just enlighten me As to where Gawge cut down the cherry-tree?" Said I, "Young man, just please at once disgorge The fool-idea of calling that man 'George;' His body, mind, and soul were firmly set Higher, no doubt, than you will ever get. He isn't the man, though lying dead, 'tis true, When friends are near, to be half-named by you. Take off your hat, and bow; if you rebel, I'll get a cherry switch and trounce you well."

He looked at me a moment in surprise, And mutiny stood foremost in his eyes; But I was quite indignant, and could feel The blood of Bunker Hill all through me steal. I said, "One minute more will be allowed;" The fine young man took off his hat, and bowed.

Irreverence is the fashion, nowadays, And shows itself in good and evil ways; Its mission is legitimate and clear In cases where there's nothing to revere; But they who use it must be judgment-fixed, And not get reverend and unreverend _mixed_.

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Through these broad streets do I fly-- Furlongs and miles I defy, Till the "magnificent distance" Vanishes out of existence. Let me with pencil prolong Strains of the Bicycler's Song:

[THE SILENT WHEEL.]

Good-morning, good Pedestrian--I'm glad to see you out; The day is full of healthfulness, the birds are all about; There is a quiet breeziness in all the pleasant air-- I hope this happy exercise will drive away your care. For I am a pedestrian-- A very good pedestrian-- And all the glowing benefit of walking I can share; Although I tread the atmosphere, and do not touch the ground, I greet you as a brother, sir, wherever you are bound. But my impatient lady-love in yonder town doth wait; I wish you better company, and strike a swifter gait.

Good-morning, good Equestrian--a noble steed you ride; I do not seem to frighten him, so here is by your side. It is a feast of happiness to smoothly bound along, With sturdy muscles under you, and footing swift and strong. For I am an equestrian-- A very fair equestrian-- With bugle blast of melody and unassuming song; And all the thrilling ecstacy of horsemanship I feel, Although the nag I ride upon was bred of burnished steel. But his impatience urges me to swifter gait than you, And so I wish you pleasure, sir, and bid a kind adieu.

Good-morning, Mr. Racer, you've a trotter that is fine; I never would disparage him, or say too much of mine; Your horse is full of mettle, sir, and bravely draws his load; It must be pure deliciousness to speed him on the road. But I am quite a racing man-- A modest, humble racing man-- Though small is my solicitude upon the turf bestowed; And if you have anxiety to try a little race, I'll undertake, with courtesy, to give you second place; But if the first you take from me, and it be fairly earned, I'll hope that on some future day the tables may be turned.

Good-morning, Mr. Carriageer, you have an easy ride; Those cushions are luxurious, and pleasantly you glide! 'Tis very good and fortunate, if one be tired or ill, To calmly call his carriage out, and travel as he will. But I, sir, keep my carriage, too-- A very pleasant carriage, too-- Though it is not the easy one that _your_ desire would fill; It carries me in comfort over many a pleasant mile, And all my best acquaintances are suited with its style. 'Tis with a blithe economy establishments are run, With driver, footman, passenger, and horses--all in one!

Good-morning, fellow Wheelmen; here's a warm, fraternal hand, As with a rush of victory we sweep across the land! If some may be dissatisfied to view the way we ride, We only wish their majesties could wander by our side! For we are good philanthropists-- Unqualified philanthropists-- And would not have _our_ happiness to any one denied. We claim a great utility that daily must increase; We claim for inactivity a bright and grand release; A constant mental, physical, and moral help we feel, Which makes us turn enthusiasts, and bless the silent wheel!

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

NOVEMBER 20, 18--.

It's quite a show, and strikes me a good deal-- How many ride around here on a wheel; The streets are graded very smooth and nice, And make this town the wheelman's paradise. A brother-farmer--neighbor, once, to me-- Who's down here, like myself, to hear and see, Told me, last night, before we "doused the glim," How a young wheel-chap got the start of him. 'Twould skip my memory, maybe, if I'd let it; I'll put it down here so I sha'n't forget it.

[FARMER AND WHEEL; OR, THE NEW LOCHINVAR.]

I.

I was hoein' in my corn-field, on a spring day, just at noon, An' a hearkin' in my stomach for the dinner-trumpet's tune, An' reflectin', when my daughter should be married, 'twould be best She should take Josiah Baker's son, who jines me on the west, An' consolidate our acres into one immense abode, When my hired man says, "By ginger, look a-yender down the road!"

"Well," I says, "my goodness gracious! things _is_ rather overgrown, When a buggy-wheel gets loosened, an' goes runnin' 'round alone." But my man he says, "By mustard!" (as the critter nearer came) "Don't you see that there's a feller on a-straddle of the same?" An' it _was_ as nice a shaver as you'd see 'most any day, Who was travellin' through the country in that unexpected way.

He was rather young an' han'some, an' as smilin' as you please, An' his pants they signed a contract with his stockin's at the knees; An' he had a pair o' treadles some'at underneath his seat, So's to run the queer contraption, by a-workin' of his feet; An' the sun descended on it, in a manner warm an' bright; 'Twas as sing'lar as a circus, an' an interestin' sight.

When, as fate was bound to have it, on that quite partic'lar morn, There was somethin' was the matter with my folks's dinner-horn; Ah! the hired girl, when she tried to, couldn't blow it very well, For to call us in to dinner--so she sent my daughter Belle: Who came up just at that minute--nice a girl as could be found: An' this fellow looked her over, an' came smashin' to the ground.

Smash to bang he came a-floppin'--wheel an' stockin's, pants an' all; An' I run to him, remarking "You have caught a dreadful fall." An' my daughter hovered round him, tremblin' with her she alarms, Lookin' just as if she would like to some'at take him in her arms; But he glanced up, faintly smilin', an' he gaspin'ly replied, "I am only hurt intern'lly" (which I s'pose he meant inside).

An' we packed him on the stone-boat, an' then drove him to the house An' he lay there on the sofa, still an' quiet as a mouse; An' he would not have a doctor; but he called my daughter Belle, An' then laughed an' chatted with her, like a person gettin' well; An' along late in the evenin', I suppose, he went away; For he wasn't there next mornin', an' Belle hadn't a word to say.

An' he left two silver dollars in an easy-noticed spot, For to pay us for his passage on the stone-boat, like as not; An' 'twas quite enough equivalent for his transitory stay; But whate'er he might have left us, still he carried more away; For my daughter Belle grew absent, glanced at every sound she heard, And Josiah Baker junior couldn't get a civil word.

II.

I was workin' in my meadow, on a blazin' summer's day, When my son-in-law by contract came a-runnin' 'cross the way, An' remarked, "It's been the bargain--for how long I needn't tell-- That these two farms should be married--as should also me an' Belle; An' how much the indications indicate that that'll be, If you'll come down here a minute, you will have a chance to see."

An' he led me 'cross the fallow, underneath some picnic trees, Where my gal an' that wheel fellow sat as cosy as you please; An' she'd put some flowers an' ribbons on the wheel, to make a show, An' they'd been a-shakin' hands there, an' forgotten to let go; An' she sort o' made a chair-back of the fellow's other arm, With no 'parent recollection of Josiah Baker's farm.

Then we walked around front of 'em, an' I says, "Your very fine; But this gal that you are courtin' is Josiah's gal an' mine; You're a mighty breechy critter, an' are trespassin' all round; Why, this very grove you sit in is Josiah's father's ground." Then he rose up, stiff an' civil, an' helped Belle across the stile, Also put the masheen over, with a queer but quiet smile;

An' he stood there, like a colonel, with her tremblin' on his arm, An' remarked, "I beg your pardon, if I've done you any harm. But so far as 'trespass' matters, I've relieved you of that load, Since the place I now am standing is, I think, the public road. And this very sweet young lady, you in one sense yours may call, But she's mine, sir, in another--and Josiah's not at all.

"I'll escort this lady home, sir, leave my wheel here in your care, And come back in fifteen minutes to arrange the whole affair. And please do not touch the 'cycle'--'tis as yet without a flaw, And I do not want a quarrel with my future father-in-law; If this Mr. Baker junior follows up his glances, though, With his fingers, I will thrash him till he thinks his cake is dough."

Then he left us both suspectin' that he'd rather got the start, An' the acres of the daddies seemed increasin'ly apart; An' we didn't wait to see him; but, with one impatient jerk, We shook our heads in concert, an' went back unto our work; An' I couldn't help reflectin'--"He is steady like, an' cool, An' that wheel may be a folly, but it didn't bring a fool."

III.

I was on my stoop a-restin', on a hazy autumn day, Rather drowsy from a dinner that had just been stowed away, And regrettin'--when old Baker's an' my homestead jined in one. That he wasn't to furnish daughter, an' I wasn't to furnish son, So's to have my name continued, 'stead of letting it go down, When Josiah Baker junior came a drivin' home from town.

An' a little ways behind him came that wheel scamp, ridin' hard, An' they both to once alighted, an' come walkin' through the yard; When, as fate was bound to have it, also came my daughter Belle, From a visit in some neighbor's, lookin' very sweet an' well; An' they stood there all together--that 'ere strange, dissimilar three, An' remained in one position--lookin' steady down at me.

Then Josiah spoke up loudly, in a kind o' sudden pet, "If this gal an' I's to marry, it is time the day was set; For that one-wheel feller's always 'round here courtin', on the fly, An' they say she rides out with him, in the night-time, on the sly. Father'll give us board an' victuals, you can give her land an' dower, Wherefore, if she wants to have me, please to set the day an' hour."

Then the wheel scamp spoke up quiet, but as if the words he meant, "_I_ would like to wed your daughter, an' have come for your consent. She is very dear to me, sir, when we walk or when we ride, And, I think, is not unwilling to become my cherished bride. I can give her love and honor, and I ask of you no dower; Wherefore, please bestow your blessing; _we_ have set the day and hour."

Then I might have told my daughter that _she_ now could have the floor, An' remarked that on this question there should be just one speech more; But I rendered my decision in a flame of righteous rage, An' I shouted, "You'd no business for to court or to engage! This 'ere gal has long been spoke for; an' you'll please to clamber on Your old hind-wheel of a buggy, an' forevermore be gone!"

Then he picked up Belle quite sudden, an' made swiftly for the gate, An' I formed a move to stop 'em, but was most perplexin' late; He had fixed a small side-saddle on his everlastin' wheel, So that she could ride behind him (clingin' 'round him a good deal); An' straight down the Beebe turnpike, like a pair o' birds they flew Towards a preacher's who had married almost every one he knew.

"Stop 'em! head 'em! chase 'em! catch 'em!" I commanded, very vexed; "They'll be hustlin' off our daughters on a streak o' lightnin', next!" An' we took Josiah's wagon, an' his old gray spavined mare, An' proceeded for to chase 'em, with no extra time to spare; An' Josiah whipped an' shouted, it was such a dismal pinch, An' kept just so far behind 'em, but we couldn't gain an inch!

Down the turnpike road we rattled; an' some fellows loudly cried, "Go it, Baker, or you'll lose her! ten to one upon the bride!" An' I fumed an' yelled an' whistled, an' commanded them to halt, An' the fact we couldn't catch 'em wasn't Josiah Baker's fault; But he murmured, "I am makin' father's mare into a wreck, Just to see my gal a-huggin' round another feller's neck!"

An' they rushed into that preacher's, maybe twenty rods ahead, An' before I reached the altar all their marriage-vows was said; An' I smashed in wildly, just as they was lettin' go o' han's, An' remarked, in tones of sternness, "I hereby forbid the banns!" While Josiah Baker junior close behind me meekly came, Sayin', "Were my father present, he would doubtless do the same!"

But they turned to me a-smilin', an' she hangin' on his arm, An' he said, "I beg your pardon; let Josiah have the farm. We've accomplished the sweet object for which we so long have striven, And, as usual in such cases, are prepared to be forgiven." An' the whole thing seemed so funny, when I thought of it a while, That I looked 'em both all over, an' then blessed 'em with a smile.

Then Josiah Baker junior took his spavined mare for home, An' 'twas difficult decidin' which indulged the most in foam; An' he said, "I'll drive alone, sir, if the same you do not mind; An' your son an' daughter Wheeler maybe'll take you up behind." An' he yelled, while disappearing with a large smile on his mouth. "I kin git a gal whose father jines my father on the south!"

IV.

I was workin' in my wood-house on a snowy winter day, An' reflectin' on a letter that had lately come our way, How that Belle had every blessin' that a married gal could need, An' had bought her two twin daughters a small-sized velocipede, When the thought came stealin' through me, "Well, so far as I can see, In the line of love an' lovin', what's to be is apt to be."

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NOVEMBER 21, 18--.

Went into Congress for a little spell, Where everything seemed going pretty well; But all through boyhood's easy-moulding day I'd heard so much of Webster and of Clay, That, though they had been dead for many a year, I thought at least by proxy they'd appear. It was a disappointment, I declare: Daniel or Henry--neither one was there!

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NEW YORK, _January_ 1, 18--.

Got back from several cities; and it looks As if the things we've seen would fill ten books! Some time I'll write our wanderings to and fro; It's a large job: I'll have to take it slow.

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

[ONLY A BOX.]

Only a box, secure and strong, Rough, and wooden, and six feet long, Lying here in the drizzling rain, Waiting to take the up-bound train.

Only its owner, just inside, Cold, and livid, and glassy-eyed; Little to him if the train be late! Nothing has he to do but wait.

Only an open grave, somewhere, Heady to close when he gets there; Turfs and grasses and flowerets sweet, Ready to press him 'neath their feet.

Only a band of friends at home, Waiting to see the traveller come; Naught he will tell of distant lands; He cannot even press their hands.

He has no stories weird and bright, He has no gifts for a child's delight; He did not come with anything; He had not even himself to bring.

Yet they will softly him await, And he will move about in state; They will give him, when he appears, Love, and pity, and tender tears.

Only a box, secure and strong, Rough and wooden, and six feet long; Angels guide that soulless breast Into a long and peaceful rest!

HOME.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

JULY 1, 18--.

Back to the old, old homestead!--isn't it queer! But stranger things than that have happened here: The old farm, after giving oil by stream, (Until the world itself would almost seem About to lose its progress smooth and true, And creak upon its axis, first we knew), Closed business in the twinkling of an eye, And every blessed well we had went dry! Then all the oil-springs that my neighbors had The example followed--be it good or bad; And the whole region round here, high and low, So full of wealth a few short months ago-- And men, to get their circumstances oiled-- Is now poor farm-land, pretty nearly spoiled! The little town a mile away from here, Where we sold eggs and butter many a year, (And feared the neighbors' hens might over-lay, And glut the market some sad Saturday), From a few grown-up folks, a small child-crop, A church, post-office, store, and blacksmith shop, This village grew to be, within a year, A town of fifteen thousand people clear. It had its banks, its street-cars, and its gas, And other wonders cities bring to pass;

Its house-yards sold for twice as much, I know, As my old farm was worth three years ago. But the town did not grow on brain or soil, But floated on a hidden sea of oil, Which ebbed away, one evening, on the sly, And left "the city" stranded high and dry. And now the place is crumbling to the gaze-- A modern ruin in these modern days: No banks, no street-cars, no hotels in town-- The mansions have been burned or taken down. It shows how soon all greatness is unmade When once it gets upon the down-hill grade!

So we've come back to take our former farm, Fix it up somehow, coax back its old charm, And live here--by the city noise unstirred-- To cogitate on what we've seen and heard While living in a bustle and a brawl That sometimes hardly let us think at all. The old house was kept whole in every part (I had that put in writing on the start), And though the farm seems very much as though An earthquake had lived here a year or so, We mean to try and make it seem, some week, More as it did before it sprung a leak.

First thing I said, when home began to fit, And thus afford us time to breathe a bit: "We've been out to the city, now, my dear, Let's bring a small part of the city here. I'm going, on this very day, to send For several children such as need a friend, And have them come out here and get some air, With room to turn around, and some to spare."

I wrote some men and women in the city, Who give poor children help, as well as pity, "Send out as many as you can afford! And every one shall have a month's clean board, And carry back, from out our plenteous store, Enough to keep himself a fortnight more."

The first night that we sat expecting them, I did what some whole families would condemn-- I moulded up my feelings into rhyme, In something less than fifteen minutes' time, Then voiced it to whoever would come near; I'll put the imposition right in here:

[LET THE CLOTH BE WHITE.]

Go set the table, Mary, an' let the cloth be white! The hungry city children are comin' here to-night; The children from the city, with features pinched an' spare, Are comin' here to get a breath of God's untainted air.

They come from out the dungeons where they with want were chained; From places dark an' dismal, by tears of sorrow stained; From where a thousand shadows are murdering all the light: Set well the table, Mary dear, an' let the cloth be white!

They ha' not seen the daisies made for the heart's behoof; They never heard the rain-drops upon a cottage roof; They do not know the kisses of zephyr an' of breeze; They never rambled wild an' free beneath the forest trees.

The food that they ha' eaten was spoiled by others' greeds; The very air their lungs breathed was full o' poison seeds; The very air their souls breathed was full o' wrong an' spite: Go set the table, Mary dear, an' let the cloth be white!

The fragrant water-lilies ha' never smiled at them; They never picked a wild-flower from off its dewy stem; They never saw a greensward that they could safely pass Unless they heeded well the sign that says "Keep off the grass."

God bless the men and women of noble brain an' heart, Who go down in the folk-swamps an' take the children's part-- Those hungry, cheery children that keep us in their debt, An' never fail to give us more of pleasure than they get!

Set well the table, Mary; let naught be scant or small; The little ones are coming; have plenty for 'em all. There's nothing we should furnish except the very best To those that Jesus looked upon an' called to him an' blessed.

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Oh, Home--restful home! theme of praise and of song! Where the heart has its refuge, unfailing and strong; Where the cares of the world sign a partial release, And the soul can lie down to a sweet sleep of peace! The mine whence we dig out affection's pure gold, The fire where we warm our poor hearts when they're cold! The grand, tender chorus, by love's fingers stirred, Where all the sweet tones of the soul-life are heard!

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