Part 2

Death comes alike to ev'ry man That ever was borned on earth; Then let us do the best we can To live fer all life's wurth.

Ef storms and tempusts dred to see Makes black the heavens ore, They done the same in Galilee Two thousand years before.

But after all, the golden sun Poured out its floods on them That watched and waited fer the One Then borned in Bethlyham.

Also, the star of holy writ Made noonday of the night, Whilse other stars that looked at it Was envious with delight.

The sages then in wurship bowed, From ev'ry clime so fare; O, sinner, think of that glad crowd That congergated thare!

They was content to fall in ranks With One that knowed the way From good old Jurden's stormy banks Clean up to Jedgmunt Day.

No matter, then, how all is mixed In our near-sighted eyes, All things is fer the best, and fixed Out straight in Paradise.

Then take things as God sends 'em here, And, ef we live er die, Be more and more contenteder, Without a-astin' why.

O, Thou that doth all things devise And fashon fer the best, He'p us who sees with mortul eyes To overlook the rest.

WORTERMELON TIME

Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin-- Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best, And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast; And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; air you?

They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line; And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows; And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine, I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.

It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red. And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best; But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head, Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west.

You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines-- 'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, shore;-- I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines, Which may be a fact you have heerd of before.

But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with care, You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy, And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.

I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two, And the friends you love the best is gethered all around-- And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the core fer you!"

And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all, Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls, And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite.

Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat-- A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands, And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat-- 'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick understands.

Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat, And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed betwixt The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth, And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.

Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn, And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day, And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a'comin' on.

And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees, And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice, And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees, And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice.

Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin-- Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

MY PHILOSOFY

I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be, Much posted on philosofy; But thare is times, when all alone, I work out idees of my own. And of these same thare is a few I'd like to jest refer to you-- Pervidin' that you don't object To listen clos't and rickollect.

I allus argy that a man Who does about the best he can Is plenty good enugh to suit This lower mundane institute-- No matter ef his daily walk Is subject fer his neghbor's talk, And critic-minds of ev'ry whim Jest all git up and go fer him!

I knowed a feller onc't that had The yeller-janders mighty bad,-- And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet Would stop and give him some receet Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say He kindo' thought they'd go away Without no medicin', and boast That he'd git well without one doste.

He kep' a-yellerin' on--and they Perdictin' that he'd die some day Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed, The feller did, and lost his head, And wundered in his mind a spell-- Then rallied, and, at last, got well; But ev'ry friend that said he'd die Went back on him eternally!

Its natchurl enugh, I guess, When some gits more and some gits less, Fer them-uns on the slimmest side To claim it ain't a fare divide; And I've knowed some to lay and wait, And git up soon, and set up late, To ketch some feller they could hate Fer goin' at a faster gait.

The signs is bad when folks commence A-findin' fault with Providence, And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake At ev'ry prancin' step they take. No man is grate tel he can see How less than little he would be Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare He hung his sign out anywhare.

My doctern is to lay aside Contensions, and be satisfied: Jest do your best, and praise er blame That follers that, counts jest the same. I've allus noticed grate success Is mixed with troubles, more or less, And it's the man who does the best That gits more kicks than all the rest.

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, its then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!-- O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!... I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on _me_-- I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT

"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree; "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee; "Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight; And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.

The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence; The old path down the gardenwalks still holds her footprints' dents; And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to come And start it on its wortery errant down the old bee-gum.

The bee-hives all is quiet; and the little Jersey steer, When any one comes nigh it, acts so lonesome-like and queer; And the little Banty chickens kindo' cutters faint and low, Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they didn't know.

They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees; And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze; And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed; And all the song her red-bird sings is "Little Haly's dead!"

The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass, Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she passed; And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo'-sorto' doubt That Haly's little sunburnt hands'll ever pull it out.

Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me, Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tendurly? I question--and what answer?--only tears, and tears alone, And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear-drops as my own.

"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree; "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee; "Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight, And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.

THE MULBERRY TREE

O, it's many's the scenes which is dear to my mind As I think of my childhood so long left behind; The home of my birth, with its old puncheon-floor, And the bright morning-glorys that growed round the door; The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft, Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me, And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.

And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake, I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake, And the long purple berries that rained on the ground Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around. And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade, I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee To foller them off to the mulberry tree.

Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail, And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail, And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands, The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants. But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more-- What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me, With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!

Then its who can fergit the old mulberry tree That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about? O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay, Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day, And a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be, They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.

TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN

Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me, Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity, You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart, Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.

When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you Had the only consolation that I could listen to-- Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow, And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know.

But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare-- Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air-- And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare, And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare.

I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away; I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray; And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two-- And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you!

We set thare by the smoke-house--me and you out thare alone-- Me a-thinkin'--you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone-- You a-talkin'--me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago, And a-writin' "Marthy--Marthy" with my finger in the snow!

William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then; And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again; And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say: "Be rickonciled and bear it--we but linger fer a day!"

At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me-- Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be; And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here, In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.

It was better than the meetin', too, that 9-mile talk we had Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad; When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare," And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare.

And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike, In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like-- Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind, A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of mind!

And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight:-- Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fight With the old stag-deer that pronged him--how he battled fer his life, And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.

Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three-- When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way, And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.

Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest," And thare, beyent the covered bridge, "The Counterfitters' Nest"-- Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted--that a man was murdered thare, And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.

And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two-- You know we talked about the times when the old road was new: How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't _dim_onstrate?

Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past; But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last; And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end, I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.

With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane, And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane, I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name, Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same!

MY FIDDLE

My fiddle?--Well, I kindo' keep her handy, don't you know! Though I ain't so much inclined to tromp the strings and switch the bow As I was before the timber of my elbows got so dry, And my fingers was more limber-like and caperish and spry; Yit I can plonk and plunk and plink, And tune her up and play, And jest lean back and laugh and wink At ev'ry rainy day!

My playin' 's only middlin'--tunes I picked up when a boy-- The kindo'-sorto' fiddlin' that the folks calls "cordaroy"; "The Old Fat Gal," and "Rye-straw," and "My Sailyor's on the Sea," Is the old cowtillions _I_ "saw" when the ch'ice is left to me; And so I plunk and plonk and plink, And rosum-up my bow And play the tunes that makes you think The devil's in your toe!

I was allus a romancin', do-less boy, to tell the truth, A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of my youth, And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly pranks That wasn't worth a botton of anybody's thanks! But they tell me, when I ust to plink And plonk and plunk and play, My music seemed to have the kink O' drivin' cares away!

That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin' love! From the strings acrost her middle, to the schreechin' keys above-- From her "apern," over "bridge," and to the ribbon round her throat, She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' "Love me" ev'ry note! And so I pat her neck, and plink Her strings with lovin' hands,-- And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think She kindo' understands!

THE CLOVER

Some sings of the lilly, and daisy, and rose, And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days; But what is the lilly and all of the rest Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?

I never set eyes on a clover-field now, Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again; And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream, Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.

And so I love clover--it seems like a part Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart; And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now; And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die, To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye, And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume.

NEGHBORLY POEMS

ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE

BY

BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE

_Us farmers in the country, as the seasons go and come, Is purty much like other folks,--we're apt to grumble some! The Spring's too back'ard fer us, er too for'ard--ary one-- We'll jaw about it anyhow, and have our way er none! The thaw's set in too suddent; er the frost's stayed in the soil Too long to give the wheat a chance, and crops is bound to spoil! The weather's eether most too mild, er too outrageous rough, And altogether too much rain, er not half rain enugh!_

_Now what I'd like and what you'd like is plane enugh to see: It's jest to have old Providence drop round on you and me And ast us what our views is first, regardin' shine er rain, And post 'em when to shet her off, er let her on again! And yit I'd ruther, after all--considern other chores I' got on hands, a-tendin' both to my affares and yours-- I'd ruther miss the blame I'd git, a-rulin' things up thare, And spend my extry time in praise and gratitude and prayer._

ERASMUS WILSON

'Ras Wilson, I respect you, 'cause You're common, like you allus was Afore you went to town and s'prised The world by gittin' "reckonized," And yit perservin', as I say, Your common hoss-sense ev'ryway! And when that name o' yourn occurs On hand-bills, er in newspapers, Er letters writ by friends 'at ast About you, same as in the past, And neghbors and relations 'low You're out o' the tall timber now, And "gittin' thare" about as spry's The next!--as _I say_, when my eyes, Er ears, lights on your name, I mind The first time 'at I come to find You--and my Rickollection yells, Jest jubilunt as old sleigh-bells-- "'Ras Wilson! Say! Hold up! and shake A paw, fer old acquaintance sake!" My _Rickollection_, more'n like, Hain't overly too apt to strike The what's-called "cultchurd public eye" As wisdom of the deepest dye,-- And yit my _Rickollection_ makes So blame lots fewer bad mistakes, Regardin' human-natchur' and The fellers 'at I've shook theyr hand, Than my _best jedgemunt's_ done, the day I've met 'em--'fore I got away,-- 'At--Well, 'Ras Wilson, let me grip _Your_ hand in warmest pardnership!

Dad-burn ye!--Like to jest haul back A' old flat-hander, jest che-whack! And take you 'twixt the shoulders, say, Sometime you're lookin' t'other way!-- Er, maybe whilse you're speakin' to A whole blame Courthouse-full o' 'thu- Syastic friends, I'd like to jest Come in-like and break up the nest Afore you hatched anuther cheer, And say: "'Ras, _I_ can't stand hitched here All night--ner wouldn't ef I could!-- But Little Bethel Neghborhood, You ust to live at, 's sent some word Fer you, ef ary chance occurred To git it to ye,--so ef you _Kin_ stop, I'm waitin' fer ye to!"

You're common, as I said afore-- You're common, yit oncommon _more_.-- You allus kindo' 'pear, to me, What all mankind had ort to be-- Jest _natchurl_, and the more hurraws You git, the less you know the cause-- Like as ef God Hisse'f stood by Where best on earth hain't half knee-high, And _seein'_ like, and knowin' _He_ 'S the Only Grate Man really, You're jest content to size your hight With any feller-man's in sight.-- And even then they's scrubs, like me, Feels stuck-up, in your company! Like now:--I want to go with you Plum out o' town a mile er two Clean past the Fair-ground whare's some hint O' pennyrile er peppermint, And bottom-lands, and timber thick Enugh to sorto' shade the crick! I want to _see_ you--want to set Down somers, whare the grass hain't wet, And kindo' _breathe_ you, like puore air-- And taste o' your tobacker thare, And talk and chaw! Talk o' the birds We've knocked with cross-bows.--Afterwards Drop, mayby, into some dispute 'Bout "pomgrannies," er cal'mus-root-- And how _they_ growed, and _whare_?--on tree Er vine?--Who's best boy-memory!-- And wasn't it _gingsang_, insted O' cal'mus-root, growed like you said?-- Er how to tell a coon-track from A mussrat's;--er how milksick come-- Er ef _cows_ brung it?--Er why now We never see no "muley"-cow-- Ner "frizzly"-chicken--ner no "clay- Bank" mare--ner nothin' thataway!-- And what's come o' the _yellow_-core Old wortermelons?--hain't no more.-- Tomattusus, the same--all _red_- Uns nowadays--All past joys fled-- Each and all jest gone k-whizz! Like our days o' childhood is!