Chapter 3

First thing bothered and worried me, was 'long o' my daughter Kate; Rather a han'some cre'tur', and folks all liked her gait. Not so nice as them sham ones in yeller-covered books; But still there wa'n't much discount on Katherine's ways an' looks.

And Katherine's smile was pleasant, and Katherine's temper good, And how she come to like Tom Smith, I never understood; For she was a mornin'-glory, as fair as you ever see, And Tom was a shag-bark hickory, as green as green could be.

"Like takes to like," is a proverb that's nothin' more than trash; And many a time I've seen it all pulverized to smash. For folks in no way sim'lar, I've noticed ag'in and ag'in, Will often take to each other, and stick together like sin.

Next thing bothered and worried me, was 'long of a terrible drouth; And me an' all o' my neighbors was some'at down in the mouth. And week after week the rain held off, and things all pined an' dried, And we drove the cattle miles to drink, and many of 'em died.

And day after day went by us, so han'some and so bright, And never a drop of water came near us, day or night; And what with the neighbors' grumblin', and what with my daily loss, I must own that somehow or other I was gettin' mighty cross.

And on one Sunday evenin' I was comin' down the lane From meetin', where our preacher had stuck and hung for rain, And various slants on heaven kept workin' in my mind, And the smoke from Sanders' fallow was makin' me almost blind;

I opened the door kind o' sudden, an' there my Katherine sat, As cozy as any kitten along with a friendly cat; An' Tom was dreadful near her--his arm on the back of her chair-- And lookin' as happy and cheerful as if there was rain to spare.

"Get out of this house in a minute!" I cried, with all my might: "Get out, while I'm a-talkin'!"--Tom's eyes showed a bit of fight; But he rose up, stiff and surly, and made me a civil bow, And mogged along to the door-way, with never a word of row.

And I snapped up my wife quite surly when she asked me what I'd said, And I scolded Kate for cryin', and sent her up stairs to bed; And then I laid down, for the purpose of gettin' a little sleep, An' the wind outside was a-howlin', and puttin' it in to keep.

'Twas half-past three next mornin', or maybe 'twas nearer four-- The neighbors they came a-yellin' and poundin' at my door; "Get up! get up!" they shouted: "get up! there's danger near! The woods are all a-burnin'! the wind is blowin' it here!"

If ever it happens, children, that you get catched, some time, With fire a-blowin' toward you, as fast as fire can climb, You'll get up and get in a hurry, as fast as you can budge; It's a lively season of the year, or else I ain't no judge!

Out o' the dear old cabin we tumbled fast as we could-- Smashed two-thirds of our dishes, and saved some four-foot wood; With smoke a-settlin' round us and gettin' into our eyes, And fire a-roarin' an' roarin' an' drowndin' all of our cries.

And just as the roof was smokin', and we hadn't long to wait, I says to my wife, "Now get out, and hustle, you and Kate!" And just as the roof was fallin', my wife she come to me, With a face as white as a corpse's face, and "Where is Kate?" says she.

And the neighbors come runnin' to me, with faces black as the ground, And shouted, "Where is Katherine? She's nowhere to be found!" An' this is all I remember, till I found myself next day, A-lyin' in Sanders' cabin, a mile an' a half away.

If ever you wake up, children, with somethin' into your head, Concernin' a han'some daughter, that's lyin' still an' dead, All scorched into coal-black cinders--_perhaps_ you may not weep, But I rather think it'll happen you'll wish you'd a-kept asleep.

And all I could say, was "Kath'rine, oh Kath'rine, come to me!" And all I could think, was "Kath'rine!" and all that I could see, Was Sanders a-standin' near to me, his finger into his eye, And my wife a-bendin' over me, and tellin' me not to cry;

When, lo! Tom Smith he entered--his face lit up with grins And Kate a-hangin' on his arm, as neat as a row of pins! And Tom looked glad, but sheepish; and said, "Excuse me, Squire, But I 'loped with Kate, and married her an hour before the fire."

Well, children, I was shattered; 'twas more than I could bear-- And I up and went for Kate an' Tom, and hugged 'em then and there! And since that time, the times have changed, an' now they ain't so bad; And--Katherine, she's your mother now, and--Thomas Smith's your dad.

OTHER POEMS.

THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN.

They 've got a brand-new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They've done just as they said they'd do, And fetched it into church. They're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preacher's right They've hoisted up their new machine, In every body's sight. They've got a chorister and choir, Ag'in' my voice and vote; For it was never my desire, To praise the Lord by note!

I've been a sister good an' true For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read, And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led! And now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out!

To-day the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read, "I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies." I al'ays liked that blessed hymn-- I s'pose I al'ays will; It somehow gratifies my whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gondest thing A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near; An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in. I thought I'd chase their tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice is good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right; When they was high, then I was low, An' also contrawise; An' I too fast, or they too slow, To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know, They play a little tune; I didn't understand, an' so I started in too soon. I pitched it pretty middlin' high, I fetched a lusty tone, But oh, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone! They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown--I could but look-- She sits right front of me; She never was no singin'-book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough! It kep' her head a-bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off!

An' Deacon Tubbs--he all broke down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. An' when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true, For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But Death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day I to church will go, And never more come back; And when the folks gets up to sing-- Whene'er that time shall be-- I do not want no _patent_ thing A-squealin' over me!

THE EDITOR'S GUESTS.

The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care, His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair, His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head, His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread: There were thirty long pages from Howler, with underlined capitals topped, And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped; There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets and zephyrs, And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers; There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two, And his best leader hitched to a letter, which inquired if he wrote it, or who? There were raptures of praises from writers of the weakly mellifluous school, And one of his rival's last papers, informing him he was a fool; There were several long resolutions, with names telling whom they were by, Canonizing some harmless old brother who had done nothing worse than to die; There were traps on that table to catch him, and serpents to sting and to smite him; There were gift enterprises to sell him, and bitters attempting to bite him; There were long staring "ads" from the city, and money with never a one, Which added, "Please give this insertion, and send in your bill when you're _done_;" There were letters from organizations--their meetings, their wants, and their laws-- Which said, "Can you print this announcement for the good of our glorious cause?" There were tickets inviting his presence to festivals, parties, and shows, Wrapped in notes with "Please give us a notice" demurely slipped in at the close; In short, as his eye took the table, and ran o'er its ink-spattered trash, There was nothing it did not encounter, excepting perhaps it was cash.

The Editor dreamily pondered on several ponderous things. On different lines of action, and the pulling of different strings; Upon some equivocal doings, and some unequivocal duns; On how few of his numerous patrons were quietly prompt-paying ones; On friends who subscribed "just to help him," and wordy encouragement lent, And had given him plenty of counsel, but never had paid him a cent; On vinegar, kind-hearted people were feeding him every hour, Who saw not the work they were doing, but wondered that "printers are sour:" On several intelligent townsmen, whose kindness was so without stint That they kept an eye out on his business, and told him just what he should print; On men who had rendered him favors, and never pushed forward their claims, So long as the paper was crowded with "locals" containing their names; On various other small matters, sufficient his temper to roil, And finely contrived to be making the blood of an editor boil; And so one may see that his feelings could hardly be said to be smooth, And he needed some pleasant occurrence his ruffled emotions to soothe: He had it; for lo! on the threshold, a slow and reliable tread, And a farmer invaded the sanctum, and these are the words that he said:

"Good-mornin', sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body to-day? I'm glad you're to home; for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away. Your paper last week wa'n't so spicy nor sharp as the one week before: But I s'pose when the campaign is opened, you'll be whoopin' it up to 'em more. That feller that's printin' _The Smasher_ is goin' for you perty smart; And our folks said this mornin' at breakfast, they thought he was gettin' the start. But I hushed 'em right up in a minute, and said a good word for you; I told 'em I b'lieved you was tryin' to do just as well as you knew; And I told 'em that some one was sayin', and whoever 'twas it is so, That you can't expect much of no one man, nor blame him for what he don't know. But, layin' aside _pleasure_ for business, I've brought you my little boy Jim; And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen of him.

"My family stock is increasin', while other folks' seems to run short. I've got a right smart of a family--it's one of the old-fashioned sort: There's Ichabod, Isaac, and Israel, a-workin' away on the farm-- They do 'bout as much as one good boy, and make things go off like a charm. There's Moses and Aaron are sly ones, and slip like a couple of eels; But they're tol'able steady in one thing--they al'ays git round to their meals. There's Peter is busy inventin' (though _what_ he invents I can't see), And Joseph is studyin' medicine--and both of 'em boardin' with me. There's Abram and Albert is married, each workin' my farm for myself, And Sam smashed his nose at a shootin', and so he is laid on the shelf. The rest of the boys are all growin', 'cept this little runt, which is Jim, And I thought that perhaps I'd be makin' an editor outen o' him.

"He ain't no great shakes for to labor, though I've labored with him a good deal, And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help but to feel; But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig. I keep him a-carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs, And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs; And then there is things to be doin' a-helpin' the women indoors; There's churnin' and washin' of dishes, and other descriptions of chores; But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'm afraid, So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade. His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim, But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him!

"It ain't much to get up a paper--it wouldn't take him long for to learn; He could feed the machine, I'm thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow to turn. And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do; Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements right through. I used for to wonder at readin' and where it was got up, and how; But 'tis most of it made by machinery--I can see it all plain enough now. And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs, Each one with a gauge and a chopper to see to the length of the lines; And I hear a New York clairvoyant is runnin' one sleeker than grease, And _a-rentin'_ her heaven-born productions at a couple of dollars apiece; An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I've a whim, If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen of Jim!"

The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye, Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made his reply: "Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both? Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath? Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek? Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week? Can he courteously talk to an equal, and browbeat an impudent dunce? Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half a dozen at once? Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch, And be sure that he knows how much _to_ know, and knows how to not know too much? Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride? Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros' hide? Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage, and vim? If so, we perhaps can be makin an editor 'outen of him.'"

The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread; And he said, "Jim, I guess we'll be goin'; he's probably out of his head."

But lo! on the rickety stair-case, another reliable tread, And entered another old farmer, and these are the words that he said:

"Good-morning, sir, Mr. Editor, how is the folks to-day? I owe you for next year's paper; I thought I'd come in and pay. And Jones is agoin' to take it, and this is his money here; I shut down on lendin' it to him, and coaxed him to try it a year. And here is a few little items that happened last week in our town: I thought they'd look good for the paper, and so I just jotted 'em down. And here is a basket of cherries my wife picked expressly for you; And a small bunch of flowers from Jennie--she thought she must send somethin' too. You're doin' the politics bully, as all of our family agree; Just keep your old goose-quill a-floppin', and give 'em a good one for me. And now you are chuck full of business, and I won't be takin' your time; I've things of my own I must 'tend to--good-day, sir, I b'lieve I will climb."

The Editor sat in his sanctum and brought down his fist with a thump: "God bless that old farmer," he muttered, "he's a regular Editor's trump."

And 'tis thus with our noble profession, and thus it will ever be, still; There are some who appreciate its labors, and some who perhaps never will. But in the great time that is coming, when loudly the trumpet shall sound, And they who have labored and rested shall come from the quivering ground; When they who have striven and suffered to teach and ennoble the race, Shall march at the front of the column, each one in his God-given place, As they pass through the gates of The City with proud and victorious tread, The editor, printer, and "devil," will travel not far from the head.

THE HOUSE WHERE WE WERE WED.

I've been to the old farm-house, good-wife, Where you and I were wed; Where the love was born to our two hearts That now lies cold and dead. Where a long-kept secret to you I told, In the yellow beams of the moon, And we forged our vows out of love's own gold, To be broken so soon, so soon!

I passed through all the old rooms, good-wife; I wandered on and on; I followed the steps of a flitting ghost, The ghost of a love that is gone. And he led me out to the arbor, wife, Where with myrtles I twined your hair; And he seated me down on the old stone step, And left me musing there.

The sun went down as it used to do, And sunk in the sea of night; The two bright stars that we called ours Came slowly unto my sight; But the one that was mine went under a cloud-- Went under a cloud, alone; And a tear that I wouldn't have shed for the world, Fell down on the old gray stone.

But there be words can ne'er be unsaid, And deeds can ne'er be undone, Except perhaps in another world, Where life's once more begun. And maybe some time in the time to come, When a few more years are sped, We'll love again as we used to love, In the house where we were wed.

OUR ARMY OF THE DEAD.

By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar, And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore, On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone was laid, On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed, Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await, Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State, With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head, Is a band of noble heroes--is our Army of the Dead.

On the lake-encircled homestead of the thriving Wolverine, On the beauteous Western prairies, with their carpeting of green, By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's pride and boast, On the rugged Rocky Mountains, and the weird Pacific coast, In the listless, sunny Southland, with its blossoms and its vines, On the bracing Northern hill-tops, and amid their murmuring pines, Over all our happy country--over all our Nation spread, Is a band of noble heroes--is our Army of the Dead.

Not with musket, and with saber, and with glad heart beating fast; Not with cannon that had thundered till the bloody war was past; Not with voices that are shouting with the vim of victory's note; Not with armor gayly glistening, and with flags that proudly float; Not with air of martial vigor, nor with steady, soldier tramp, Come they grandly marching to us--for the boys are all in camp. With forgetfulness upon it--each within his earthy bed, Waiting for his marching orders--is our Army of the Dead.

Fast asleep the boys are lying, in their low and narrow tents, And no battle-cry can wake them, and no orders call them hence; And the yearnings of the mother, and the anguish of the wife, Can not with their magic presence call the soldier back to life; And the brother's manly sorrow, and the father's mournful pride, Can not give back to his country him who for his country died. They who for the trembling Nation in its hour of trial bled, Lie, in these its years of triumph, with our Army of the Dead.

When the years of Earth are over, and the cares of Earth are done, When the reign of Time is ended, and Eternity begun, When the thunders of Omniscience on our wakened senses roll, And the sky above shall wither, and be gathered like a scroll; When, among the lofty mountains, and across the mighty sea, The sublime celestial bugler shall ring out the reveille, Then shall march with brightest laurels, and with proud, victorious tread, To their station up in heaven, our Grand Army of the Dead!

APPLE-BLOSSOMS.

Underneath an apple-tree Sat a maiden and her lover; And the thoughts within her he Yearned, in silence, to discover. Round them danced the sunbeams bright, Green the grass-lawn stretched before them; While the apple-blossoms white Hung in rich profusion o'er them.

Naught within her eyes he read That would tell her mind unto him; Though their light, he after said, Quivered swiftly through and through him; Till at last his heart burst free From the prayer with which 'twas laden, And he said, "When wilt thou be Mine for evermore, fair maiden?"

"When," said she, "the breeze of May With white flakes our heads shall cover, I will be thy brideling gay-- Thou shall be my husband-lover." "How," said he, in sorrow bowed, "Can I hope such hopeful weather? Breeze of May and Winter's cloud Do not often fly together."

Quickly as the words he said, From the west a wind came sighing, And on each uncovered head Sent the apple-blossoms flying; "'Flakes of white!' thou'rt mine," said he, "Sooner than thy wish or knowing!" "Nay, I heard the breeze," quoth she, "When in yonder forest blowing."

APPLES GROWING.

Underneath an apple-tree Sat a dame of comely seeming, With her work upon her knee, And her great eyes idly dreaming. O'er the harvest-acres bright, Came her husband's din of reaping; Near to her, an infant wight Through the tangled grass was creeping.

On the branches long and high, And the great green apples growing, Rested she her wandering eye, With a retrospective knowing. "This," she said, "the shelter is, Where, when gay and raven-headed, I consented to be his, And our willing hearts were wedded.

"Laughing words and peals of mirth, Long are changed to grave endeavor; Sorrow's winds have swept to earth Many a blossomed hope forever. Thunder-heads have hovered o'er-- Storms my path have chilled and shaded; Of the bloom my gay youth bore, Some has fruited--more has faded."

Quickly, and amid her sighs, Through the grass her baby wrestled, Smiled on her its father's eyes, And unto her bosom nestled. And with sudden, joyous glee, Half the wife's and half the mother's, "Still the best is left," said she: "I have learned to live for others."

ONE AND TWO.

I. If you to me be cold, Or I be false to you, The world will go on, I think, Just as it used to do; The clouds will flirt with the moon, The sun will kiss the sea, The wind to the trees will whisper, And laugh at you and me; But the sun will not shine so bright, The clouds will not seem so white, To one, as they will to two; So I think you had better be kind, And I had best be true, And let the old love go on, Just as it used to do.

II. If the whole of a page be read, If a book be finished through, Still the world may read on, I think, Just as it used to do; For other lovers will con The pages that we have passed, And the treacherous gold of the binding Will glitter unto the last. But lids have a lonely look, And one may not read the book-- It opens only to two; So I think you had better be kind, And I had best be true, And let the reading go on, Just as it used to do.