Chapter 2

Probably you remember how rich we was that night, When we was fairly settled, an' had things snug and tight: We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, over our house that's new, But we felt as proud under this old roof, and a good deal prouder, too.

Never a handsomer house was seen beneath the sun: Kitchen and parlor and bedroom--we had 'em all in one; And the fat old wooden clock that we bought when we come West, Was tickin' away in the corner there, and doin' its level best.

Trees was all around us, a-whisperin' cheering words; Loud was the squirrel's chatter, and sweet the songs of birds; And home grew sweeter and brighter--our courage began to mount-- And things looked hearty and happy then, and work appeared to count.

And here one night it happened, when things was goin' bad, We fell in a deep old quarrel--the first we ever had; And when you give out and cried, then I, like a fool, give in, And then we agreed to rub all out, and start the thing ag'in.

Here it was, you remember, we sat when the day was done, And you was a-makin' clothing that wasn't for either one; And often a soft word of love I was soft enough to say, And the wolves was howlin' in the woods not twenty rods away.

Then our first-born baby--a regular little joy, Though I fretted a little because it wasn't a boy: Wa'n't she a little flirt, though, with all her pouts and smiles? Why, settlers come to see that show a half a dozen miles.

"SETTLERS COME TO SEE THAT SHOW A HALF A DOZEN MILES."

Yonder sat the cradle--a homely, home-made thing, And many a night I rocked it, providin' you would sing; And many a little squatter brought up with us to stay-- And so that cradle, for many a year, was never put away.

How they kept a-comin', so cunnin' and fat and small! How they growed! 'twas a wonder how we found room for 'em all; But though the house was crowded, it empty seemed that day When Jennie lay by the fire-place, there, and moaned her life away.

And right in there the preacher, with Bible and hymn-book, stood,

"RIGHT IN THERE THE PREACHER, WITH BIBLE AND HYMN-BOOK STOOD."

"'Twixt the dead and the living," and "hoped 'twould do us good;" And the little whitewood coffin on the table there was set, And now as I rub my eyes it seems as if I could see it yet.

Then that fit of sickness it brought on you, you know; Just by a thread you hung, and you e'en-a'most let go; And here is the spot I tumbled, an' give the Lord his due, When the doctor said the fever'd turned, an' he could fetch you through.

Yes, a deal has happened to make this old house dear: Christenin's, funerals, weddin's--what haven't we had here? Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got, And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot.

Out of the old house, Nancy--moved up into the new; All the hurry and worry is just as good as through; But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say, There's precious things in this old house we never can take away.

Here the old house will stand, but not as it stood before: Winds will whistle through it, and rains will flood the floor; And over the hearth, once blazing, the snow-drifts oft will pile, And the old thing will seem to be a-mournin' all the while.

Fare you well, old house! you're naught that can feel or see, But you seem like a human being--a dear old friend to me; And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands, Until we commence a-keepin' house in the house not made with hands.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way--

"OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE, I'M TRUDGIN' MY WEARY WAY."

I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer! Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame? True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, If any body only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young an' han'some--I was, upon my soul-- Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free, But many a house an' home was open then to me; Many a han'some offer I had from likely men, And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done; Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!-- I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

"TILL AT LAST HE WENT A-COURTIN', AND BROUGHT A WIFE FROM TOWN."

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too far; An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-- They was a family of themselves, and I another one; And a very little cottage one family will do, But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three, 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, For Thomas's buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot; But all the child'rn was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce-- And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles at best; And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.

Over the hill to the poor-house--my child'rn dear, good-by! Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;

"MANY A NIGHT I'VE WATCHED YOU WHEN ONLY GOD WAS NIGH."

And God 'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE.

I, who was always counted, they say, Rather a bad stick any way, Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;" I, the truant, saucy and bold, The one black sheep in my father's fold, "Once on a time," as the stories say, Went over the hill on a winter's day-- Over the hill to the poor-house.

Tom could save what twenty could earn; But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn; Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak-- Committed a hundred verses a week; Never forgot, an' never slipped; But "Honor thy father and mother" he skipped; So _over the hill to the poor-house._

As for Susan, her heart was kind An' good--what there was of it, mind; Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice For one she loved; an' that 'ere one Was herself, when all was said an' done. An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt, But any one could pull 'em about;

An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, Save one poor fellow, and that was me; An' when, one dark an' rainy night, A neighbor's horse went out o' sight, They hitched on me, as the guilty chap That carried one end o' the halter-strap. An' I think, myself, that view of the case Wasn't altogether out o' place; My mother denied it, as mothers do, But I am inclined to believe 'twas true. Though for me one thing might be said-- That I, as well as the horse, was led; And the worst of whisky spurred me on, Or else the deed would have never been done. But the keenest grief I ever felt Was when my mother beside me knelt, An' cried an' prayed, till I melted down, As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. I kissed her fondly, then an' there, An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

I served my sentence--a bitter pill Some fellows should take who never will; And then I decided to go "out West," Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; Where, how I prospered, I never could tell, But Fortune seemed to like we [me] well, An' somehow every vein I struck Was always bubblin' over with luck. An', better than that, I was steady an' true, An' put my good resolutions through. But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, "You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead, An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more, Than if I had lived the same as before."

But when this neighbor he wrote to me, "Your mother's in the poor-house," says he, I had a resurrection straightway, An' started for her that very day. And when I arrived where I was grown, I took good care that I shouldn't be known; But I bought the old cottage, through and through, Of some one Charley had sold it to; And held back neither work nor gold, To fix it up as it was of old. The same big fire-place wide an' high, Flung up its cinders toward the sky; The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf-- I wound it an' set it agoin' myself; An' if every thing wasn't just the same, Neither I nor money was to blame; Then--_over the hill to the poor-house!_

One blowin', blusterin' winter's day, With a team an' cutter I started away; My fiery nags was as black as coal; (They some'at resembled the horse I stole); I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door-- A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; She rose to her feet in great surprise, And looked, quite startled, into my eyes; I saw the whole of her trouble's trace In the lines that marred her dear old face; "Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done! You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son, Come _over the hill from the poor-house!"_

She didn't faint; she knelt by my side, An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, An' frequently stoppin' and kissin' me; An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers, Who often said, as I have heard, That they wouldn't own a prison-bird; (Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, For all of 'em owe me more or less);

But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man In always a-doin' the best he can; That whether, on the big book, a blot Gets over a fellow's name or not, Whenever he does a deed that's white, It's credited to him fair and right. An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, An' the Lord divides his sheep an' goats; However they may settle my case, Wherever they may fix my place, My good old Christian mother, you'll see, Will be sure to stand right up for me, With _over the hill from the poor-house._

UNCLE SAMMY.

Some men were born for great things, Some were born for small; Some--it is not recorded Why they were born at all; But Uncle Sammy was certain he had a legitimate call.

Some were born with a talent, Some with scrip and land; Some with a spoon of silver, And some with a different brand; But Uncle Sammy came holding an argument in each hand.

Arguments sprouted within him, And twinked in his little eye; He lay and calmly debated When average babies cry, And seemed to be pondering gravely whether to live or to die.

But prejudiced on that question He grew from day to day, And finally he concluded 'Twas better for him to stay; And so into life's discussion he reasoned and reasoned his way.

Through childhood, through youth, into manhood Argued and argued he; And he married a simple maiden, Though scarcely in love was she; But he reasoned the matter so clearly she hardly could help but agree.

And though at first she was blooming, And the new firm started strong, And though Uncle Sammy loved her, And tried to help her along, She faded away in silence, and 'twas evident something was wrong.

Now Uncle Sammy was faithful, And various remedies tried; He gave her the doctor's prescriptions, And plenty of logic beside; But logic and medicine failed him, and so one day she died.

He laid her away in the church-yard, So haggard and crushed and wan; And reared her a costly tombstone With all of her virtues on; And ought to have added, "A victim to arguments pro and con."

For many a year Uncle Sammy Fired away at his logical forte: Discussion was his occupation, And altercation his sport; He argued himself out of churches, he argued himself into court.

But alas for his peace and quiet, One day, when he went it blind, And followed his singular fancy, And slighted his logical mind, And married a ponderous widow that wasn't of the arguing kind!

Her sentiments all were settled, Her habits were planted and grown, Her heart was a starved little creature That followed a will of her own; And she raised a high hand with Sammy, and proceeded to play it alone.

Then Sammy he charged down upon her With all of his strength and his wit, And many a dextrous encounter, And many a fair shoulder-hit; But vain were his blows and his blowing: he never could budge her a bit.

He laid down his premises round her, He scraped at her with his saws; He rained great facts upon her, And read her the marriage laws; But the harder he tried to convince her, the harder and harder she was.

She brought home all her preachers, As many as ever she could-- With sentiments terribly settled, And appetites horribly good-- Who sat with him long at his table, and explained to him where he stood.

"WHO SAT WITH HIM LONG AT HIS TABLE, AND EXPLAINED TO HIM WHERE HE STOOD."

And Sammy was not long in learning To follow the swing of her gown, And came to be faithful in watching The phase of her smile and her frown; And she, with the heel of assertion, soon tramped all his arguments down.

And so, with his life-aspirations Thus suddenly brought to a check-- And so, with the foot of his victor Unceasingly pressing his neck-- He wrote on his face, "I'm a victim," and drifted--a logical wreck.

And farmers, whom he had argued To corners tight and fast, Would wink at each other and chuckle, And grin at him as he passed, As to say, "My ambitious old fellow, your whiffletree's straightened at last."

Old Uncle Sammy one morning Lay down on his comfortless bed, And Death and he had a discussion, And Death came out ahead; And the fact that SHE failed to start him was only because he was dead.

The neighbors laid out their old neighbor, With homely but tenderest art; And some of the oldest ones faltered, And tearfully stood apart; For the crusty old man had often unguardedly shown them his heart.

But on his face an expression Of quizzical study lay, As if he were sounding the angel Who traveled with him that day, And laying the pipes down slyly for an argument on the way.

And one new-fashioned old lady Felt called upon to suggest That the angel might take Uncle Sammy, And give him a good night's rest, And then introduce him to Solomon, and tell him to do his best.

TOM WAS GOIN' FOR A POET.

The Farmer Discourses of his Son.

Tom was goin' for a poet, an' said he'd a poet be; One of these long-haired fellers a feller hates to see; One of these chaps forever fixin' things cute and clever; Makin' the world in gen'ral step 'long to tune an' time, An' cuttin' the earth into slices an' saltin' it down into rhyme.

Poets are good for somethin', so long as they stand at the head: But poetry's worth whatever it fetches in butter an' bread. An' many a time I've said it: it don't do a fellow credit, To starve with a hole in his elbow, an' be considered a fool, So after he's dead, the young ones 'll speak his pieces in school.

An' Tom, he had an opinion that Shakspeare an' all the rest, With all their winter clothin', couldn't make him a decent vest; But that didn't ease my labors, or help him among the neighbors, Who watched him from a distance, an' held his mind in doubt, An' wondered if Tom wasn't shaky, or knew what he was about.

Tom he went a-sowin', to sow a field of grain; But half of that 'ere sowin' was altogether in vain. For he was al'ays a-stoppin', and gems of poetry droppin'; And metaphors, they be pleasant, but much too thin to eat; And germs of thought be handy, but never grow up to wheat.

Tom he went a-mowin', one broilin' summer's day, An' spoke quite sweet concernin' the smell of the new-mowed hay. But all o' his useless chatter didn't go to help the matter, Or make the grief less searchin' or the pain less hard to feel, When he made a clip too suddent, an' sliced his brother's heel.

Tom he went a-drivin' the hills an' dales across; But, scannin' the lines of his poetry, he dropped the lines of his hoss. The nag ran fleet and fleeter, in quite irregular metre; An' when we got Tom's leg set, an' had fixed him so he could speak, He muttered that that adventur' would keep him a-writin' a week.

Tom he went a-ploughin', and couldn't have done it worse; He sat down on the handles, an' went to spinnin' verse. He wrote it nice and pretty--an agricultural ditty; But all o' his pesky measures didn't measure an acre more, Nor his p'ints didn't turn a furrow that wasn't turned before.

Tom he went a-courtin';--she liked him, I suppose; But certain parts of courtin' a feller must do in prose. He rhymed her each day a letter, but that didn't serve to get her; He waited so long, she married another man from spite, An' sent him word she'd done it, an' not to forget to write.

Tom at last got married; his wife was smart and stout, An' she shoved up the window and slung his poetry out. An' at each new poem's creation she gave it circulation; An' fast as he would write 'em, she seen to their puttin' forth, An' sent 'em east an westward, an' also south an' north.

Till Tom he struck the opinion that poetry didn't pay, An' turned the guns of his genius, an' fired 'em another way. He settled himself down steady, an' is quite well off already; An' all of his life is verses, with his wife the first an' best, An' ten or a dozen childr'n to constitute the rest.

GOIN' HOME TO-DAY.

My business on the jury's done--the quibblin' all is through-- I've watched the lawyers right and left, and give my verdict true; I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in; And if I do not know myself, they'll get me there ag'in; But now the court's adjourned for good, and I have got my pay; I'm loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm going home to-day.

I've somehow felt uneasy like, since first day I come down; It is an awkward game to play the gentleman in town; And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine on Sunday rightly sets; But when I wear the stuff a week, it somehow galls and frets. I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper-salt and gray-- I'll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home to-day.

I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well as any one-- As well as any woman could--to see that things was done: For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't set her foot outdoors, She's very careful, when I'm gone, to tend to all the chores. But nothing prospers half so well when I go off to stay, And I will put things into shape, when I get home to-day.

The mornin' that I come away, we had a little bout; I coolly took my hat and left, before the show was out. For what I said was naught whereat she ought to take offense; And she was always quick at words and ready to commence. But then she's first one to give up when she has had her say; And she will meet me with a kiss, when I go home to-day.

My little boy--I'll give 'em leave to match him, if they can; It's fun to see him strut about, and try to be a man! The gamest, cheeriest little chap, you'd ever want to see! And then they laugh, because I think the child resembles me. The little rogue! he goes for me, like robbers for their prey; He'll turn my pockets inside out, when I get home to-day.

My little girl--I can't contrive how it should happen thus-- That God could pick that sweet bouquet, and fling it down to us! My wife, she says that han'some face will some day make a stir; And then I laugh, because she thinks the child resembles her. She'll meet me half-way down the hill, and kiss me, any way; And light my heart up with her smiles, when I go home to-day!

If there's a heaven upon the earth, a fellow knows it when He's been away from home a week, and then gets back again. If there's a heaven above the earth, there often, I'll be bound, Some homesick fellow meets his folks, and hugs 'em all around. But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it as it may, My heaven is just ahead of me--I'm going home to-day.

OUT O' THE FIRE.

[As Told in 1880.]

Year of '71, children, middle of the fall, On one fearful night, children, we well-nigh lost our all. True, it wa'n't no great sum we had to lose that night, But when a little's all you've got, it comes to a blessed sight.

I was a mighty worker, in them 'ere difficult days, For work is a good investment, and almost always pays; But when ten years' hard labor went smokin' into the air. I doubted all o' the maxims, an' felt that it wasn't fair.

Up from the East we had traveled, with all of our household wares, Where we had long been workin' a piece of land on shares; But how a fellow's to prosper without the rise of the land, For just two-thirds of nothin', I never could understand.

Up from the East we had traveled, me and my folks alone, And quick we went to workin' a piece of land of our own; Small was our backwoods quarters, and things looked mighty cheap; But every thing we put in there, we put in there to keep.

So, with workin' and savin', we managed to get along; Managed to make a livin', and feel consid'able strong; And things went smooth and happy, an' fair as the average run, Till every thing went back on me, in the fall of '71.