Chapter 3

I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fac', They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a almanack-- Er _somers_--'bout "puore happiness"--perhaps some folks'll laugh At the idy--"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."--

But its jest as true as preachin'!--fer that was a sister's kiss, And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:-- "_She_ was happy, _bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown_."-- And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down!

I don't know how I acted--I don't know _what_ I said, Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead; And the hosses kind o' glimmered before me in the road, And the lines fell from my fingers--and that was all I knowed--

Fer--well, I don't know how long--They's a dim rememberence Of a sound o' snortin' bosses, and a stake-and-ridered fence A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where

_I_ was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside down A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round! And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague Sort o' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg.

Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, And wonder what was left _me_ worth livin' fer below, When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know!

And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind When Brown and Mary married--Railly must a-been my _mind_ Was kindo' out o' kilter!--fer I hated Brown, you see, Worse'n _pizen_--and the feller whittled crutches out fer _me_--

And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respec'-- And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck! My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one.

Then I went to work in airnest--I had nothin' much in view But to drownd out rickollections--and it kep' me busy, too! But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day.

Then I'd think how little _money_ was, compared to happiness-- And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess! But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year, Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near!

Well!--A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand Astin' how I 'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land-- "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"--

And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."-- I'd never been West, anyhow--a most too wild fer me, I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town Said I'd find myself mistakend when I come to look around.

So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train, A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again-- And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be, I think it's more 'n likely she'd a-went along with me!

Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! But finally they called out my stopping-place at last: And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' I was a train O' cars, and _skeered_ at sumpin', runnin' down a country lane!

Well, in the mornin' airly--after huntin' up the man-- The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land-- We started fer the country;' and I ast the history Of the farm--its former owner--and so-forth, etcetery!

And--well--it was _interestin'_--I su'prised him, I suppose, By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!-- But his su'prise was greater, and it made him wonder more, When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!--

_It was Mary_: They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here-- Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.-- It was with us in that meeting I don't want you to fergit! And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit!

I _bought_ that farm, and _deeded_ it, afore I left the town, With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown! And fu'thermore, I took her and _the childern_--fer you see, They'd never seed their Grandma--and I fetched 'em home with me.

So _now_ you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more, Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!--And I've jest come into town To git a pair o' license fer to _marry_ Mary Brown.

DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL.

I.

Dawn, noon and dewfall! Bluebird and robin Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms bobbin'! Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wishin' I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fishin'!

II.

On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over, Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' clover: Fish all out a visitin'--'cept some dratted minnor! Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to dinner.

III.

Trompin' home acrost the fields: Lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin' In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a-thinkin':-- Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to cherr me! And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me!

NESSMUK.

I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry! True forester thou art, and still to be, Even in happier fields than thou hast known. Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown Of groves delectable--"preserves" for thee-- Ranged but by friends of thine--I name thee three:--

First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green, Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene: These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise, Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should.

AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY.

I've thought a power on men and things, As my uncle ust to say,-- And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings! W'y, they ain't no use to pray! Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet, And _tears_ won't bring it, w'y, you try _sweat_, As my uncle ust to say.

They's some don't know their A, B, Cs, As my uncle ust to say, And yit don't waste no candle-grease, Ner whistle their lives away! But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme No ringin' song fer to last all time, They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, As my uncle ust to say.

Whoever's Foreman of all things here, As my uncle ust to say, He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, And our round-up, night and day: And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west, And north and south, and worst and best I ain't got nothin' to suggest, As my uncle ust to say.

THE SINGER.

While with Ambition's hectic flame He wastes the midnight oil, And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, To rest him from his toil,--

Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, Above him spreads her wings, And fans the embers of his lips To ashes as he sings.

A FULL HARVEST.

Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, Seein' sich craps! I'll undertake to say There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway Afore this season!--Folks is keerless tho', And too fergitful--'caze we'd ort 'o show More thankfulness!--Jes' looky hyonder, hey?-- And watch that little reaper wadin' thue That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground-- Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around The field--like it had nothin' else to do On'y jes' waste it all on me and you!

BLIND.

You think it is a sorry thing That I am blind. Your pitying Is welcome to me; yet indeed, I think I have but little need Of it. Though you may marvel much That _we_, who see by sense of touch And taste and hearing, see things _you_ May never look upon; and true Is it that even in the scent Of blossoms _we_ find something meant No eyes have in their faces read, Or wept to see interpreted.

And you might think it strange if now I told you you were smiling. How Do I know that? I hold your hand-- _Its_ language I can understand-- Give both to me, and I will show You many other things I know. Listen: We never met before Till now?--Well, you are something lower Than five-feet-eight in height; and you Are slender; and your eyes are blue--

Your mother's eyes--your mother's hair-- Your mother's likeness everywhere Save in your walk--and that is quite Your father's; nervous.--Am I right? I thought so. And you used to sing, But have neglected everything Of vocalism--though you may Still thrum on the guitar, and play A little on the violin,-- I know that by the callous in The finger-tips of your left hand-- And, by-the-bye, though nature planned You as most men, you are, I see, "_Left_-handed," too,--the mystery Is clear, though,--your right arm has been Broken, to "break" the left one in. And so, you see, though blind of sight, I still have ways of seeing quite Too well for you to sympathize Excessively, with your good eyes.-- Though _once_, perhaps, to be sincere, Within the whole asylum here, From cupola to basement hall, I was the blindest of them all!

Let us move further down the walk-- The man here waiting hears my talk, And is disturbed; besides, he may Not be quite friendly anyway. In fact--(this will be far enough; Sit down)--the man just spoken of Was once a friend of mine. He came For treatment here from Burlingame-- A rich though brilliant student there, Who read his eyes out of repair, And groped his way up here, where we Became acquainted, and where he Met one of our girl-teachers, and, If you 'll believe me, asked her hand In marriage, though the girl was blind As I am--and the girl _declined_. Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he? And handsome, eloquently wide And high of brow, and dignified With every outward grace, his sight Restored to him, clear and bright As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still For the blind girl that never will Be wife of his. How do I know? You will recall a while ago I told you he and I were friends. In all that friendship comprehends, I was his friend, I swear! why now, Remembering his love, and how His confidence was all my own, I hear, in fancy, the low tone Of his deep voice, so full of pride And passion, yet so pacified With his affliction, that it seems An utterance sent out of dreams Of saddest melody, withal So sorrowfully musical It was, and is, must ever be-- But I'm digressing, pardon me. _I_ knew not anything of love In those days, but of that above All worldly passion,--for my art-- Music,--and that, with all my heart And soul, blent in a love too great For words of mine to estimate. And though among my pupils she Whose love my friend sought came to me I only knew her fingers' touch Because they loitered overmuch In simple scales, and needs must be Untangled almost constantly. But she was bright in other ways, And quick of thought, with ready plays Of wit, and with a voice as sweet To listen to as one might meet In any oratorio-- And once I gravely told her so,-- And, at my words, her limpid tone Of laughter faltered to a moan, And fell from that into a sigh That quavered all so wearily, That I, without the tear that crept Between the keys, had known she wept; And yet the hand I reached for then She caught away, and laughed again. And when that evening I strolled With my old friend, I, smiling, told Him I believed the girl and he Were matched and mated perfectly: He was so noble; she, so fair Of speech, and womanly of air; He, strong, ambitious; she, as mild And artless even as a child; And with a nature, I was sure, As worshipful as it was pure And sweet, and brimmed with tender things Beyond his rarest fancyings. He stopped me solemnly. He knew, He said, how good, and just, and true Was all I said of her; but as For his own virtues, let them pass, Since they were nothing to the one That he had set his heart upon; For but that morning she had turned Forever from him. Then I learned That for a month he had delayed His going from us, with no aid Of hope to hold him,--meeting still Her ever firm denial, till Not even in his new-found sight He found one comfort or delight. And as his voice broke there, I felt The brother-heart within me melt In warm compassion for his own That throbbed so utterly alone. And then a sudden fancy hit Along my brain; and coupling it With a belief that I, indeed, Might help my friend in his great need, I warmly said that I would go Myself, if he decided so, And see her for him--that I knew My pleadings would be listened to Most seriously, and that she Should love him, listening to me. Go; bless me! And that was the last-- The last time his warm hand shut fast Within my own--so empty since, That the remembered finger-prints I 've kissed a thousand times, and wet Them with the tears of all regret!

I know not how to rightly tell How fared my quest, and what befell Me, coming in the presence of That blind girl, and her blinder love. I know but little else than that Above the chair in which she sat I leant--reached for, and found her hand, And held it for a moment, and Took up the other--held them both-- As might a friend, I will take oath: Spoke leisurely, as might a man Praying for no thing other than He thinks Heaven's justice;--She was blind, I said, and yet a noble mind Most truly loved her; one whose fond Clear-sighted vision looked beyond The bounds of her infirmity, And saw the woman, perfectly Modeled, and wrought out pure and true And lovable. She quailed, and drew Her hands away, but closer still I caught them. "Rack me as you will!" She cried out sharply--"Call me 'blind'-- Love ever is--I am resigned! Blind is your friend; as blind as he Am I--but blindest of the three-- Yea, blind as death--you will not see My love for you is killing me!"

There is a memory that may Not ever wholly fade away From out my heart, so bright and fair The light of it still glimmers there. Why, it did seem as though my sight Flamed back upon me, dazzling white And godlike. Not one other word Of hers I listened for or heard, But I _saw_ songs sung in her eyes Till they did swoon up drowning-wise, As my mad lips did strike her own And we flashed one and one alone! Ah! was it treachery for me To kneel there, drinking eagerly That torrent-flow of words that swept Out laughingly the tears she wept?-- Sweet words! O sweeter far, maybe, Than light of day to those that see,-- God knows, who did the rapture send To me, and hold it from my friend.

And we were married half a year Ago,--and he is--waiting here, Heedless of that--or anything, But just that he is lingering To say good-bye to her, and bow-- As you may see him doing now,-- For there's her footstep in the hall; God bless her!--help him!--save us all!

RIGHT HERE AT HOME.

Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom, Where strangers allus joke us when they come, And brag o' _their_ old States and interprize-- Yit _settle_ here; and 'fore they realize, They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive!

Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, Fer me and you and plain old happiness: We hear the World's lots grander--likely so,-- We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.-- We know _its_ ways aint _our_ ways--so we'll stay Right here at home, boys, where we know the way.

Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do Man's plenty rich enough--and knows it, too, And's got a' extry dollar, any time, To boost a feller up 'at _wants_ to climb And 's got the git-up in him to go in And _git there_, like he purt'-nigh allus kin!

Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!-- Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's'; And where a _common_ feller's jes as good As ary other in the neighborhood: The World at large don't worry you and me Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be!

Right here at home, boys--jes right where we air!-- Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere: Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,-- All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight, Right here at home, boys, ef we _size_ 'em right.

Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place Is sacerd to us as our mother's face, Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled And kissed us--dyin' so and rickonciled, Seein' us all at home here--none astray-- Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day.

THE LITTLE FAT DOCTOR.

He seemed so strange to me, every way-- In manner, and form, and size, From the boy I knew but yesterday,-- I could hardly believe my eyes!

To hear his name called over there, My memory thrilled with glee And leaped to picture him young and fair In youth, as he used to be.

But looking, only as glad eyes can, For the boy I knew of yore, I smiled on a portly little man I had never seen before!--

Grave as a judge in courtliness-- Professor-like and bland-- A little fat doctor and nothing less, With his hat in his kimboed hand.

But how we talked old times, and "chaffed" Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim"--- And how the little fat doctor laughed, And how I laughed with him!

"And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn to see The face of the youth that was, To know no boy could smile on me As the little fat doctor does!"

THE SHOEMAKER.

Thou Poet, who, like any lark, Dost whet thy beak and trill From misty morn till murky dark, Nor ever pipe thy fill: Hast thou not, in thy cheery note, One poor chirp to confer-- One verseful twitter to devote Unto the Shoe-ma-ker?

At early dawn he doth peg in His noble work and brave; And eke from cark and wordly sin He seeketh soles to save; And all day long, with quip and song, Thus stitcheth he the way Our feet may know the right from wrong, Nor ever go a stray.

Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker, Nor slight his lasting fame: Alway he waxeth tenderer In warmth of our acclaim;-- Aye, more than any artisan We glory in his art Who ne'er, to help the under man, Neglects the upper part.

But toe the mark for him, and heel Respond to thee in kine-- Or kid--or calf, shouldst thou reveal A taste so superfine: Thus let him jest--join in his laugh-- Draw on his stock, and be A shoer'd there's no rival half Sole liberal as he.

Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker For all his goodly deeds,-- Yea, bless him free for booting thee-- The first of all thy needs! And when at last his eyes grow dim, And nerveless drops his clamp, In golden shoon pray think of him Upon his latest tramp.

THE OLD RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN.

The old sea captain has sailed the seas So long, that the waves at mirth, Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these, Were as near playmates from birth: He has loved both the storm and the calm, because They seemed as his brothers twain,-- The flapping sail was his soul's applause, And his rapture, the roaring main.

But now--like a battered hulk seems he, Cast high on a foreign strand, Though he feels "in port," as it need must be, And the stay of a daughter's hand-- Yet ever the round of the listless hours,-- His pipe, in the languid air-- The grass, the trees, and the garden flowers, And the strange earth everywhere!

And so betimes he is restless here In this little inland town, With never a wing in the atmosphere But the wind-mill's, up and down; His daughter's home in this peaceful vale, And his grandchild 'twixt his knees-- But never the hail of a passing sail, Nor the surge of the angry seas!

He quits his pipe, and he snaps its neck-- Would speak, though he coughs instead, Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck With a reeling mast o'erhead! Ho! the old sea captain's cheeks glow warm, And his eyes gleam grim and weird, As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm, In the cloud of his beetling beard.

ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

What intuition named thee?--Through what thrill Of the awed soul came the command divine Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine Should palpitate with his whose raptures will Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill Their undulating ways up through the fine Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised His voice therein, and, quit of every stress Of earthly ache and longing and despair, Knew certainly each simple thing he praised Was no less worthy, for its lowliness, Than any joy of all the glory There.

TO THE SERENADER.

Tinkle on, O sweet guitar, Let the dancing fingers Loiter where the low notes are Blended with the singer's: Let the midnight pour the moon's Mellow wine of glory Down upon him through the tune's Old romantic story!

I am listening, my love, Through the cautious lattice, Wondering why the stars above All are blinking at us; Wondering if his eyes from there Catch the moonbeam's shimmer As it lights the robe I wear With a ghostly glimmer.

Lilt thy song, and lute away In the wildest fashion:-- Pour thy rippling roundelay O'er the heights of passion!-- Flash it down the fretted strings Till thy mad lips, missing All but smothered whisperings, Press this rose I'm kissing.

THE WIFE-BLESSÉD.

I.

In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur, Lorn-faced and long of hair-- In youth--in youth he painted her A sister of the air-- Could clasp her not, but felt the stir Of pinions everywhere.

II.

She lured his gaze, in braver days, And tranced him sirenwise; And he did paint her, through a haze Of sullen paradise, With scars of kisses on her face And embers in her eyes.

III.

And now--nor dream nor wild conceit-- Though faltering, as before-- Through tears he paints her, as is meet, Tracing the dear face o'er With lilied patience meek and sweet As Mother Mary wore.

SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION.

I thought the deacon liked me, yit I warn't adzackly shore of it-- Fer, mind ye, time and time agin, When jiners 'ud be comin' in, I'd seed him shakin' hands as free With all the sistern as with me! But jurin' last Revival, where He called on _me_ to lead in prayer, An' kneeled there with me, side by side, A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"-- That settled things as fur as them- Thare other wimmin was concerned!-- And--well!--I know I must a-turned A dozen colors!--_Flurried_?--_la_!-- No mortal sinner never saw A gladder widder than the one A-kneelin' there and wonderun' Who'd pray'--So glad, upon my word, I railly could n't thank the Lord!

THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT.

All hope of rest withdrawn me?-- What dread command hath put This awful curse upon me-- The curse of the wandering foot! Forward and backward and thither, And hither and yon again-- Wandering ever! And whither? Answer them, God! Amen.