Part 3

The lawyer, meanwhile, in his hiding-place cooped, Low-grunted and hitched and contorted and stooped, But hung to the place like a man in a dream; And when the young Irishman went for the team, To stay or to fly, he could hardly tell which; But hoping to get Neatly out of it yet, He concluded to hang till the very last hitch.

The churn was one side of the house, recollect, So rods with the horse-power outside could connect; And Bess stood so near that she took the lamp's gleam in While her mother was cheerfully pouring the cream in; Who, being near-sighted, and minding her cup, Had no notion of what she was covering up; But the lawyer, meanwhile, had he dared to have spoke, Would have owned that he saw the whole cream of the joke.

But just as the voice of young Patrick came strong And clear through the window, "All ready! go 'long!" And just as the dasher its motion began, Stirred up by its knocks, Like a jack-in-the-box He jumped from his damp, dripping prison--and ran; And made a frog-leap o'er the stove and a chair, With some crisp Bible words not intended as prayer.

All over the kitchen he rampaged and tore, And ran against everything there but the door; Tipped over old 'Liakim flat on his back, And left a long trail of rich cream on his track. "Ou! ou! 'tis a ghost!" quavered 'Liakim's wife; "A ghost, if I ever saw one in my life!" "The devil!" roared 'Liakim, rubbing his shin. "No! no!" shouted Patrick, who just then came in: "It's only a lawyer: the devil ne'er runs-- To bring on him a laugh-- In the shape of a calf; It isn't the devil; it's one of his sons! If so that the spalpeen had words he could utther. He'd swear he loved Bessie, an' loved no one butther."

Now Joe lay full length on the scantling o'erhead, And tried to make out What it all was about, By list'ning to all that was done and was said; But somehow his balance became uncontrolled, And he on the plastering heavily rolled. It yielded instanter, came down with a crash, And fell on the heads of the folks with a smash. And there his plump limbs through the orifice swung, And he caught by the arms and disgracefully hung, His ponderous body, so clumsy and thick, Wedged into that posture as tight as a brick. And 'Liakim Smith, by amazement made dumb At those legs in the air Hanging motionless there, Concluded that this time the devil had come; And seizing a chair, he belabored them well, While the head pronounced words that no printer would spell.

And there let us leave them, 'mid outcry and clatter, To come to their wits, and then settle the matter; And take for the moral this inference fair: If you're courting a girl, court her honest and square.

THE SONG OF HOME.

"Sing me a song, my Alice, and let it be your choice, So as you pipe out plainly, and give me the sweet o' your voice; An' it be not new-fashioned: the new-made tunes be cold, An' never awake my fancy like them that's good an' old. Fie on your high-toned gimcracks, with rests an' beats an' points, Shaking with trills an' quavers--creakin' in twenty joints! Sing me the good old tunes, girl, that roll right off the tongue, Such as your mother gave me when she an' I was young."

So said the Farmer Thompson, smoking his pipe of clay, Close by his glowing fire-place, at close of a winter day. He was a lusty fellow, with grizzled beard unshorn, Hair half combed and flowing, clothing overworn; Boots of mammoth pattern, with many a patch and rent; Hands as hard as leather, body with labor bent; Face of resolution, and lines of pain and care, Such as the slow world's vanguards are ever doomed to bear; While from his eyes the yearnings of unemployed desire Gleamed like the fitful embers of a half-smothered fire.

Alice, the country maiden, with the sweet, loving face, Sung these words to an old air, with an unstudied grace:

There's nothing like an old tune, when friends are far apart, To 'mind them of each other, and draw them heart to heart. New strains across our senses on magic wings may fly, But there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high.

The scenes we have so oft recalled when once again we view, Have lost the smile they used to wear, and seem to us untrue; We gaze upon their faded charms with disappointed eye; And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high.

We clasp the hands of former friends--we feel again their kiss-- But something that we loved in them, in sorrow now we miss; For women fade and men grow cold as years go hurrying by; And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high.

The forest where we used to roam, we find it swept away; The cottage where we lived and loved, it moulders to decay; And all that feeds our hungry hearts may wither, fade, and die; And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high.

"That was well sung, my Alice," the farmer proudly said, When the last strain was finished and the last word had fled; "That is as true as Gospel; and since you've sung so well, I'll give you a bit of a story you've never heard me tell.

"When the cry o' the axes first through these parts was heard, I was young and happy, and chipper as a bird; Fast as a flock o' pigeons the days appeared to fly, With no one 'round for a six mile except your mother an' I. Now we are rich, an' no one except the Lord to thank; Acres of land all 'round us, money in the bank; But happiness don't stick by me, an' sunshine ain't so true As when I was five-an'-twenty, with twice enough to do.

"As for the way your mother an' I made livin' go, Just some time you ask her--of course she ought to know. When she comes back in the morning from nursing Rogers' wife, She'll own she was happy in them days as ever in her life. For I was sweet on your mother;--why should not I be? She was the gal I had fought for--she was the world to me; And since we'd no relations, it never did occur To me that I was a cent less than all the world to her.

"But it is often doubtful which way a tree may fall; When you are tol'ble certain, you are not sure at all. When you are overconscious of travelin' right--that day Look for a warnin' guide-post that points the other way. For when you are feeling the safest, it very oft falls out You rush head-foremost into a big bull-thistle o' doubt.

"'Twas in the fall o' '50 that I set out, one day, To hunt for deer an' turkey, or what came in my way; And wanderin' through the forest, my home I did not seek, Until I was gone from the cabin the better part of a week.

"As Saturday's sun was creeping its western ladder down, I stopped for a bit of supper at the house of Neighbor Brown. He was no less my neighbor that he lived ten miles away; For neighborhoods then was different from what they are to-day.

"Now Mrs. Brown was clever--a good, well-meaning soul-- And brought to time exactly things under her control. By very few misgoings were her perfections marred; She meant well, with one trouble--she meant it 'most too hard.

"Now when I had passed the time o' day, and laughed at Brown's last jokes, Nat'rally I asked 'em if they had seen my folks. Whereat she shrugged her shoulders quite dangerous-wise, And looked as if a jury was sittin' in her eyes; And after a prudent silence I thought would never end, Asked if my wife had a brother, or cousin, or other friend; For some one, passing my cabin, she'd heard, had lately found Rather a sleek an' han'some young fellow hanging round; Of course it was a brother, or somethin' of that sort? I told her 'twas a brother, and cut my supper short.

"Which same was wrong, as viewed through a strictly moral eye; But who, to shield his wife's name, wouldn't sometime tell a lie? 'Twas nothing but a lie, girl, and for a lie 'twas meant: If brothers sold at a million, she couldn't ha' raised a cent.

"Home I trudged in a hurry--who could that fellow be? Home I trudged in a hurry, bound that I would see; And when I reached my cabin I thought 'twas only fair To peep in at the window an' find out what was there.

"A nice, good-fashioned fellow as any in the land Sat by my wife quite closely, a-holdin' of her hand, An' whispering something into her willin'-listenin' ear, Which I should judge by her actions she rather liked to hear.

"Now seeing such singular doin's before my very eyes, The Devil he came upon me, and took me by surprise; He put his hand on my mouth, girl, and never a word I said, But raised my gun an' aimed it straight at the stranger's head.

"Lightly I touched the trigger; I drew a good long breath-- My heart was full o' Satan, my aim was full o' death; But at that very instant they broke out, clear an' strong, A-singing, both together, a good old-fashioned song.

"That simple little song, girl, still in my ears does ring; 'Twas one I had coaxed your mother while courting her to sing; Never a word I remember how any verses goes, But this is a little ditty that every body knows: How though about a palace you might forever hang, You'll never feel so happy as in your own shebang.

"It woke the recollections of happy days an' years-- I slowly dropped my rifle, an' melted into tears.

* * * * *

"It was a neighbor's daughter, made on the tomboy plan, Who, keeping my wife company, had dressed like a spruce young man! An' full of new-born praises to Him where they belong, I thanked the Lord for makin' the man who made that good old song!"

PAUL'S RUN OFF WITH THE SHOW.

Jane, 'tis so--it is so! How _can_ I--his mother--bear it? Paul's run off with the show!

Put all his things in the garret-- All o' his working gear; He's never a-going to wear it, Never again coming here. If he gets sick, deaf, or blind, If he falls and breaks his leg, He can borrow an organ an' grind, He can hobble about and beg. Let him run--good luck behind him!... I wonder which way they went? I suppose I might follow an' find him.-- But no! let him keep to his bent! I'm never a-going to go For a boy that runs off with the show!

Lay his books up in the chamber; He never will want them now; Never _did_ want them much. He al'ays could run and clamber, Make somersets on the mow, Hand-springs, cart-wheels, an' such, And other profitless turning; But when it came to learning, He would always shirk somehow!

I was trimming him out for a preacher, When he got over being wild (He was always a sturdy creature-- A sinfully thrifty child); A Cartwright preacher, perhaps, As could eat strong boiled dinners, Talk straight to saucy chaps, And knock down fightin' sinners; I told him of all Heaven's mercies, Raked his sins o'er and o'er, Made him learn Scripture verses, Half a thousand or more; I sung the hymn-book through him, I whipped the Bible into him, In grace to make him grow: What did such training call for? What did I name him Paul for?-- To have him run off with a show?

All o' the wicked things That are found in circus rings, I taught him to abhor 'em; But he always was crazy for 'em. I know what such follies be; For once in my life--woe's me-- Let's see-- 'Twas the fall before Paul was born I myself was crazy for shows. How it happened, Goodness knows: But howe'er it did befall-- Whate'er may ha' been the reason-- For once I went to all The circuses of the season. I watched 'em, high an' low, Painfully try to be jolly; I laughed at the tricks o' the clown: I went and saw their folly, In order to preach it down: Little enough did I know That Paul would run off with a show!

What'll they do with the boy? They'll stand him upon a horse, To his exceeding joy, To teach him to ride, of course. Sakes! he can do that now!

He can whip old Jim to a jump, And ride upon him standing, And never get a thump-- Never a bit of harm. He has trained all the beasts on the farm, From the ducks to the brindle cow, To follow his commanding. Sakes! that it should be so! Him's I've brought up i' the bosom Of church, and all things good: All my pains--I shall lose 'em-- Might have known that I would. I had hopes beyond my countin', I had faith as big as a mountain; But somehow I knew all the while He'd turn out in some such style-- Always had that fear.

Well, he's never comin' back here. If he comes to any harm, If he falls an' sprains his arm. If he slips and breaks his leg, He can hobble about an' beg. He can--Who is that boy out there, Jane. Skulkin' 'long by the railroad track, Head an' feet all bare, Jane, One eye dressed in black?

My boy! Come in! come in! Come in! come in! come in! Come in--you sha'n't be hurt. Come in--you shall rest--you shall rest. Why, you're all over blood an' dirt! Did they hurt you?--well, well, it's too bad. So you thought the old home the best? You won't run off ag'in? Well, come in, come in, poor lad; Come in--come in--come in!

THE KEY TO THOMAS' HEART.

Ride with me, Uncle Nathan? * * I don't care an' I do. My poor old heart's in a hurry; I'm anxious to get through. My soul outwalks my body; my legs are far from strong; An' it's mighty kind o' you, doctor, to help the old man along.

I'm some'at full o' hustle; there's business to be done. I've just been out to the village to see my youngest son. You used to know him, doctor, ere he his age did get, An' if I ain't mistaken, you sometimes see him yet.

We took him through his boyhood, with never a ground for fears; But somehow he stumbled over his early manhood's years. The landmarks that we showed him, he seems to wander from, Though in his heart there was never a better boy than Tom.

He was quick o' mind an' body in all he done an' said; But all the gold he reached for, it seemed to turn to lead. The devil of grog it caught him, an' held him, though the while He has never grudged his parents a pleasant word an' smile.

The devil of grog it caught him, an' then he turned an' said. By that which fed from off him, he henceforth would be fed; An' that which lived upon him, should give him a livin' o'er; An' so he keeps that groggery that's next to Wilson's store.

But howsoe'er he's wandered, I've al'ays so far heard That he had a sense of honor, an' never broke his word; An' his mother, from the good Lord, she says, has understood That, if he agrees to be sober, he'll keep the promise good.

An' so when just this mornin' these poor old eyes o' mine Saw all the women round him, a-coaxin' him to sign, An' when the Widow Adams let fly a homespun prayer, An' he looked kind o' wild like, an' started unaware,

An' glanced at her an instant, an' then at his kegs o' rum, I somehow knew in a minute the turnin'-point had come; An' he would be as good a man as ever yet there's been, Or else let go forever, an' sink in the sea of sin.

An' I knew, whatever efforts might carry him or fail, There was only one could help God to turn the waverin' scale; An' I skulked away in a hurry--I was bound to do my part-- To get the mother, who carries the key to Thomas' heart.

She's gettin' old an' feeble, an' childish in her talk; An' we've no horse an' buggy, an' she will have to walk; But she would be fast to come, sir, the gracious chance to seize, If she had to crawl to Thomas upon her hands an' knees.

* * * * *

Crawl?--walk? No, not if I know it! So set your mind at rest. Why, hang it! I'm Tom's customer, and said to be his best! But if this blooded horse here will show his usual power, Poor Tom shall see his mother in less than half an hour.

THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

I.

Good folks ever will have their way-- Good folks ever for it must pay.

But we, who are here and everywhere, The burden of their faults must bear.

We must shoulder others' shame-- Fight their follies, and take their blame;

Purge the body, and humor the mind; Doctor the eyes when the soul is blind;

Build the column of health erect On the quicksands of neglect:

Always shouldering others' shame-- Bearing their faults and taking the blame!

II.

Deacon Rogers, he came to me; "Wife is agoin' to die," said he.

"Doctors great, an' doctors small, Haven't improved her any at all.

"Physic and blister, powders and pills, And nothing sure but the doctors' bills!

"Twenty women, with remedies new, Bother my wife the whole day through.

"Sweet as honey, or bitter as gall-- Poor old woman, she takes 'em all.

"Sour or sweet, whatever they choose; Poor old woman, she daren't refuse.

"So she pleases whoe'er may call, An' Death is suited the best of all.

"Physic and blister, powder an' pill-- Bound to conquer, and sure to kill!"

III.

Mrs. Rogers lay in her bed. Bandaged and blistered from foot to head.

Blistered and bandaged from head to toe, Mrs. Rogers was very low.

Bottle and saucer, spoon and cup, On the table stood bravely up;

Physics of high and low degree; Calomel, catnip, boneset tea;

Every thing a body could bear, Excepting light and water and air.

IV.

I opened the blinds; the day was bright, And God gave Mrs. Rogers some light.

I opened the window; the day was fair, And God gave Mrs. Rogers some air.

Bottles and blisters, powders and pills, Catnip, boneset, sirups, and squills;

Drugs and medicines, high and low, I threw them as far as I could throw.

"What are you doing?" my patient cried; "Frightening Death," I coolly replied.

"You are crazy!" a visitor said: I flung a bottle at his head.

V.

Deacon Rogers he came to me; "Wife is a-gettin' her health," said he.

"I really think she will worry through; She scolds me just as she used to do.

"All the people have poohed an' slurred-- All the neighbors have had their word;

"'Twere better to perish, some of 'em say, Than be cured in such an irregular way."

VI.

"Your wife," said I, "had God's good care, And His remedies, light and water and air.

"All of the doctors, beyond a doubt, Couldn't have cured Mrs. Rogers without."

VII.

The deacon smiled and bowed his head; "Then your bill is nothing," he said.

"God's be the glory, as you say! God bless you, doctor! good-day! good-day!"

VIII.

If ever I doctor that woman again, I'll give her medicine made by men.

THE CHRISTMAS BABY.

"Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid, But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did: Teimes are bad." _English Ballad._

Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way, Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day, Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven, An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven?

Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse; An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes, An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame), An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name!

An' all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall; An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all; An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight, An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night;

An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do, An' but for the preacher's good wife, who often helps us through, An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part, Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven afore _ye_ was ready to start!

An' now _ye_ have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound, A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound! With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build, An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled!

No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one! Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy--I only was just in fun. Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks; But we don't get much victual, an' half our livin' is jokes!

Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee; I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me. Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play, An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day!

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old, But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold; An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there, An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair!

Say! when ye come from heaven, my little namesake dear, Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here? That was yer little sister--she died a year ago, An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you, I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd, Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God!

DECORATION-DAY POEMS.

COVER THEM OVER.

Cover them over with beautiful flowers; Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours; Lying so silent, by night and by day, Sleeping the years of their manhood away: Years they had marked for the joys of the brave; Years they must waste in the sloth of the grave. All the bright laurels that promised to bloom Fell to the earth when they went to the tomb. Give them the meed they have won in the past; Give them the honors their merits forecast; Give them the chaplets they won in the strife; Give them the laurels they lost with their life. Cover them over--yes, cover them over-- Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover: Crown in your heart these dead heroes of ours. And cover them over with beautiful flowers!

Cover the faces that motionless lie, Shut from the blue of the glorious sky: Faces once lighted with smiles of the gay-- Faces now marred by the frown of decay. Eyes that beamed friendship and love to your own; Lips that sweet thoughts of affection made known; Brows you have soothed in the day of distress; Cheeks you have flushed by the tender caress. Faces that brightened at War's stirring cry; Faces that streamed when they bade you good-by; Faces that glowed in the battle's red flame, Paling for naught, till the Death Angel came. Cover them over--yes, cover them over-- Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover: Kiss in your hearts these dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers!