Chapter 3

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the state of Kentucky One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices; Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic-- Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons and plantains! Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders-- These were the guides of the witch through the dank deeps of the forest. Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil; And, when the people awoke, seeing the hillside and valley Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror-- "Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!" Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor, Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter, Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming; Fonder of books than of chores you can imagine that Peter Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble. "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!" "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding and chiding-- Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

Peter got hold of some books--how I'm unable to tell you; Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions! It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend. Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil, Wrought with the brain, not a hoe--surely 'twas hostile to farming! "Fudge on the readin'!" they quoth; "that's what's the ruin of Peter!"

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms. Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ringdoves a-mating, Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!" "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" "Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding and chiding-- Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter; Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him-- Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys-- "See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on wood land and meadow! Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron! She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish musical nostrums; Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires and spiders, Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salmanders and toadstools; Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!"

Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos-- Thinking the reading of books must have unsettled his reason! "There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy! I will go out in the wet--you all can't hender me, nuther!"

Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning, Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow, Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley. Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor; Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened, Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had gone and done it! Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason-- Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis, And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition.

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter, Up from the spring-house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. Such are the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter Decades and decades ago down in the state of Kentucky-- Such are the voices that cry from the woodland and meadow, "Peter--O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding-- Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it! These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless, Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil. Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge!

Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened, Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. "Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"-- Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smokehouse proceeded; Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping, Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor-- Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter. Joining the search came the rest, brothers, and sisters and cousins, Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter! And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women. Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter.

Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers, Colonels and jedges galore from corn-fields and mint-beds and thickets. All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining. Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the Logans. The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the Morgans; The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays and Hardins, The Beynroths, the Sherlays, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys and Slaughters-- All famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming. Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in the hunt for the truant. To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter.

Still on these prosperous farms were heirs and assigns of the people Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate-- Still on these farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent) That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter. Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people; That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter, She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit (Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a chicken), She changed all these folks into birds and shrieking with demoniac venom: "Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever, Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos, Crooning of Peter the fool who scouted at stories of witches. Crying for Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!"

This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend: As I have told, so tell the folk and the legend, That it is true I believe, for on the breeze of the morning Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter; Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers, Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places-- Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming, Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis. Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden. Always neglecting his chores--given to books and to reading, Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief, Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage.

This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples, Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon; When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows, When from the spring-house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard, When from the redbud and gum and from redolent lilac, When from the dirt roads and pikes comes that calling for Peter; Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever! This is the legend of old, told in the tumtitty meter Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming (My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon,) Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended.

DIBDIN'S GHOST.

Dear wife, last midnight while I read The tomes you so despise, A specter rose beside the bed And spoke in this true wise; "From Canaan's beatific coast I've come to visit thee, For I'm Frognall Dibdin's ghost!" Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

I bade him welcome and we twain Discussed with buoyant hearts The various things that appertain To bibliomaniac arts. "Since you are fresh from t'other side, Pray tell me of that host That treasured books before they died," Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"They've entered into perfect rest, For in the life they've won There are no auctions to molest, No creditors to dun; Their heavenly rapture has no bounds Beside that jasper sea-- It is a joy unknown to Lowndes!" Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

Much I rejoiced to hear him speak Of biblio-bliss above, For I am one of those who seek What bibliomaniacs love; "But tell me--for I long to hear What doth concern me most-- Are wives admitted to that sphere?" Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"The women folk are few up there, For 'twere not fair you know That they our heavenly joy should share Who vex us here below! The few are those who have been kind To husbands such as we-- They knew our fads, and didn't mind," Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"But what of those who scold at us When we would read in bed? Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss If we buy books, instead? And what of those who've dusted not Our motley pride and boast? Shall they profane that sacred spot?" Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"Oh, no! they tread that other path Which leads where torments roll, And worms--yes bookworms--vent their wrath Upon the guilty soul! Untouched of bibliomaniac grace That saveth such as we, They wallow in that dreadful place!" Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"To my dear wife will I recite What things I've heard you say; She'll let me read the books by night She's let me buy by day; For we, together, by and by, Would join that heavenly host-- She's earned a rest as well as I!" Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

AN AUTUMN TREASURE-TROVE.

'Tis the time of the year's sundown, and flame Hangs on the maple bough; And June is the faded flower of a name; The thin hedge hides not a singer now. Yet rich am I; for my treasures be The gold afloat in my willow-tree.

Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew, Girded with blue and pearl, Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too; As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl, She sings while her soul brooding tearfully Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.

All day pure white and saffron at eve, Clouds awaiting the sun Turn them at length to ghosts that leave When the moon's white path is slowly run Till the morning comes, and with joy for me O'er my gold agleam in the willow-tree.

The lilacs that blew on the breast of May Are an old and lost delight; And the rose lies ruined in his careless way As the wind turns the poplars underwhite, Yet richer am I for the autumn; see All my misty gold in the willow-tree.

WHEN THE POET CAME.

The ferny places gleam at morn, The dew drips off the leaves of corn; Along the brook a mist of white Fades as a kiss on lips of light; For, lo! the poet with his pipe Finds all these melodies are ripe!

Far up within the cadenced June Floats, silver-winged, a living tune That winds within the morning's chime And sets the earth and sky to rhyme; For, lo! the poet, absent long, Breathes the first raptures of his song!

Across the clover-blossoms, wet, With dainty clumps of violet, And wild red roses in her hair, There comes a little maiden fair. I cannot more of June rehearse-- She is the ending of my verse.

Ah, nay! For through perpetual days Of summer gold and filmy haze, When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet, I yet will see those dew-washed feet, And o'er the tracts of Life and Time They make the cadence for my rhyme.

THE PERPETUAL WOOING.

The dull world clamors at my feet And asks my hand and helping sweet; And wonders when the time shall be I'll leave off dreaming dreams of thee. It blames me coining soul and time And sending minted bits of rhyme-- A-wooing of thee still.

Shall I make answer? This it is: I camp beneath thy galaxies Of starry thoughts and shining deeds; And, seeing new ones, I must needs Arouse my speech to tell thee, dear, Though thou art nearer, I am near-- A-wooing of thee still.

I feel thy heart-beat next mine own; Its music hath a richer tone. I rediscover in thine eyes A balmier, dewier paradise. I'm sure thou art a rarer girl-- And so I seek thee, finest pearl, A-wooing of thee still.

With blood of roses on thy lips-- Canst doubt my trembling?--something slips Between thy loveliness and me-- So commonplace, so fond of thee. Ah, sweet, a kiss is waiting where That last one stopped thy lover's prayer-- A-wooing of thee still.

When new light falls upon thy face My gladdened soul discerns some trace Of God, or angel, never seen In other days of shade and sheen. Ne'er may such rapture die, or less Than joy like this my heart confess-- A-wooing of thee still.

Go thou, O soul of beauty, go Fleet-footed toward the heavens aglow. Mayhap, in following, thou shalt see Me worthier of thy love and thee. Thou wouldst not have me satisfied Until thou lov'st me--none beside-- A-wooing of thee still.

This was a song of years ago-- Of spring! Now drifting flowers of snow Bloom on the window-sills as white As gray-beard looking through love's light And holding blue-veined hands the while. He finds her last--the sweetest smile-- A-wooing of her still.

MY PLAYMATES.

The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool-- Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool; It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill; So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checker-berries grow.

What has become of Ezra Marsh who lived on Baker's hill? And what's become of Noble Pratt whose father kept the mill? And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell, And of Roxie Root who 'tended school in Boston for a spell? They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful play-- They do not answer to my call! My playmates--where are they?

What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago? I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown, And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles who spelled the whole school down! And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow and all Who I'm sure would answer could they only hear my call!

I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men! And one--I shall not name her--could I see her gentle face And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place! The flowers and hopes of springtime--they perished long ago And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow.

O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise? O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago? You see I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far; I am looking for my playmates--I wonder where they are!

MEDIAEVAL EVENTIDE SONG.

Come hither, lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings ye angell, as onely angells may, And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

To them that have no lyttel chylde Godde sometimes sendeth down A lyttel chylde that ben a lyttel lampkyn of His own, And, if soe be they love that chylde, He willeth it to staye, But, elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye.

And, sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye chylde, And sendeth angells singing whereby it ben beguiled-- They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his playe And bear him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.

I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me-- If I colde sing that angell songe, hoy joysome I sholde bee! For, with my arms about him my music in his eare, What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?

Soe come, my lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell, yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

ALASKAN BALLADRY.

Krinken was a little child-- It was summer when he smiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, Let me warm my heart with thee"-- But the child heard not the sea Calling, yearning evermore For the summer on the shore.

Krinken on the beach one day Saw a maiden Nis at play-- On the pebbly beach she played In the summer Krinken made. Fair and very fair was she-- Just a little child was he. "Krinken," said the maiden Nis "Let me have a little kiss-- Just a kiss and go with me To the summer lands that be Down within the silver sea!"

Krinken was a little child-- By the maiden Nis beguiled, Hand in hand with her went he-- And 'twas summer in the sea! And the hoary sea and grim To its bosom folded him-- Clasped and kissed the little form, And the ocean's heart was warm. But upon the misty shore Winter brooded evermore.

With that winter in my heart, Oft in dead of night I start-- Start and lift me up and weep, For those visions in my sleep Mind me of the yonder deep! 'Tis _his_ face lifts from the sea-- 'Tis _his_ voice calls out to me-- _Thus_ the winter bides with me.

Krinken was the little child By the maiden Nis beguiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Reached its longing arms to him, Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, Let me warm my heart with thee!" But the sea calls out no more And 'tis winter on the shore-- Summer in the silver sea Where with maiden Nis went he-- And the winter bides with me!

ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG--THE STORK.

Welcome, O truant stork! And where have you been so long? And do you bring that grace of spring That filleth my heart with song?

Descend upon my roof-- Bide on this ash content; I would have you know what cruel woe Befell me when you went.

All up in the moody sky (A shifting threat o'er head!) They were breaking the snow and bidding it go Cover the beautiful dead.

Came snow on garden spot, Came snow on mere and wold, Came the withering breath of white robed death, And the once warm earth was cold.

Stork, the tender rose tree, That bloometh when you are here, Trembled and sighed like a waiting bride-- Then drooped on a virgin bier.

But the brook that hath seen you come Leaps forth with a hearty shout, And the crocus peeps from the bed where it sleeps To know what the noise is about.

Welcome, O honest friend! And bide on my roof content; For my heart would sing of the grace of spring, When the winter of woe is spent.

THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL.

_Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth, To fill our hearts with heedless mirth This holy Christmasse time; But give us of thy heavenly cheere That we may hold thy love most deere And know thy peace sublime._

* * * * *

Full merry waxed King Pelles court With Yuletide cheere and Yuletide sport, And, when the board was spread, Now wit ye well 'twas good to see So fair and brave a companie With Pelles at the head.

"Come hence, Elaine," King Pelles cried, "Come hence and sit ye by my side, For never yet, I trow, Have gentle virtues like to thine Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine, Nor shall be nevermo!"

"Sweete sir, my father," quoth Elaine, "Me it repents to give thee pain-- Yet, tarry I may not; For I shall soond and I shall die If I behold this companie And see not Launcelot!

"My heart shall have no love but this-- My lips shall know no other kiss, Save only, father, thine; So graunt me leave to seek my bower, The lonely chamber in the toure, Where sleeps his child and mine."

Then frowned the King in sore despite; "A murrain seize that traitrous knight, For that he lies!" he cried-- "A base, unchristian paynim he, Else, by my beard, he would not be A recreant to his bride!

"Oh, I had liefer yield my life Than see thee the deserted wife Of dastard Launcelot! Yet, an' thou hast no mind to stay, Go with thy damosels away-- Lo, I'll detain ye not."

Her damosels in goodly train Back to her chamber led Elaine, And when her eyes were cast Upon her babe, her tears did flow And she did wail and weep as though Her heart had like to brast.

The while she grieved the Yuletide sport Waxed lustier in King Pelles' court, And louder, houre by houre, The echoes of the rout were borne To where the lady, all forlorn, Made moning in the toure,

"Swete Chryste," she cried, "ne let me hear Their ribald sounds of Yuletide cheere That mock at mine and me; Graunt that my sore affliction cease And give me of the heavenly peace That comes with thoughts of thee!"

Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light Made all that lonely chamber bright, And o'er the infant's bed A spirit hand, as samite pail, Held sodaine foorth the Holy Grail Above the infant's head.

And from the sacred golden cup A subtle incense floated up And filled the conscious air, Which, when she breather, the fair Elaine Forgot her grief, forgot her pain. Forgot her sore despair.

And as the Grail's mysterious balm Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm, Great mervail 'twas to see The sleeping child stretch one hand up As if in dreams he held the cup Which none mought win but he.

Through all the night King Pelles' court Made mighty cheer and goodly sport. Nor never recked the joy That was vouchsafed that Christmass tide To Launcelot's deserted bride And to her sleeping boy.