Chapter 2
"I set--while Aunty's washin'--on my little long-leg stool, An' watch the little boys an' girls 'a-skippin' by to school; An' I peck on the winder, an' holler out an' say: 'Who wants to fight The Little Man 'at dares you all to-day?' An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls peeks through, An' they all says: 'Cause you're so big, you think we're 'feared o' you!' An' nen they yell, an' shake their fist at me, like I shake mine-- They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"
"Well," whispered my friend, with rather odd irrelevance, I thought, "of course you see through the scheme of the fellows by this time, don't you?"
"I see nothing," said I, most earnestly, "but a poor little wisp of a child that makes me love him so I dare not think of his dying soon, as he surely must! There; listen!" And the plaintive gaiety of the homely poem ran on:
"At evening, when the ironin's done, an' Aunty's fixed the fire, An' filled an' lit the lamp, an' trimmed the wick an' turned it higher, An' fetched the wood all in far night, an' locked the kitchen door, An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up through the floor-- She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' makes the tea, An' fries the liver an' the mush, an' cooks a egg far me; An' sometimes--when I cough so hard--her elderberry wine Don't go so bad far little boys with 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"
"Look!" whispered my friend, touching me with his elbow. "Look at the Professor!"
"Look at everybody!" said I. And the artless little voice went on again half quaveringly:
"But Aunty's all so childish-like on my account, you see, I'm 'most afeared she'll be took down--an' 'at's what bothers _me!_-- 'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would git sick an' die, I don't know what she'd do in Heaven--till _I_ come, by an' by:-- Far she's so ust to all my ways, an' ever'thing, you know, An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' worry over so!-- 'Cause all the little childerns there's so straight an' strong an' fine, They's nary angel 'bout the place with 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"
The old Professor's face was in his handkerchief; so was my friend's in his; and so was mine in mine, as even now my pen drops and I reach for it again.
I half regret joining the mad party that had gathered an hour later in the old law-office where these two graceless characters held almost nightly revel, the instigators and conniving hosts of a reputed banquet whose _menu's_ range confined itself to herrings, or "blind robins," dried beef, and cheese, with crackers, gingerbread, and sometimes pie; the whole washed down with anything but
"----Wines that heaven knows when Had sucked the fire of some forgotten sun, And kept it through a hundred years of gloom Still glowing in a heart of ruby."
But the affair was memorable. The old Professor was himself lured into it, and loudest in his praise of Hedrick's realistic art; and I yet recall him at the orgie's height, excitedly repulsing the continued slurs and insinuations of the clammy-handed Sweeney, who, still contending against the old man's fulsome praise of his more fortunate rival, at last openly declared that Hedrick was _not_ a poet, _not_ a genius, and in no way worthy to be classed in the same breath with _himself_--"the gifted but unfortunate _Sweeney_, sir--the unacknowledged author, sir--'y gad, sir!--of the two poems that held you spell-bound to-night!"
DOWN AROUND THE RIVER POEMS
DOWN AROUND THE RIVER.
Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Have to furse with 'Lizey Ann--but lawzy! I fergive her! Drives me off the place, and says 'at all 'at she's a-wishin', Land o' gracious! time'll come I'll git enough o' fishin'! Little Dave, a-choppin' wood, never 'pears to notice; Don't know where she's hid his hat, er keerin' where his coat is,-- Specalatin', more 'n like, he haint a-goin' to mind me, And guessin' where, say twelve o'clock, a feller'd likely find me.
Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Clean out o' sight o' home, and skulkin' under kivver Of the sycamores, jack-oaks, and swamp-ash and ellum-- Idies all so jumbled up, you kin hardly tell 'em!-- _Tired_, you know, but _lovin'_ it, and smilin' jest to think 'at Any sweeter tiredness you'd fairly want to _drink_ it. Tired o' fishin'--tired o' fun--line out slack and slacker-- All you want in all the world's a little more tobacker!
Hungry, but _a-hidin'_ it, er jes' a-not a-keerin':- Kingfisher gittin' up and skootin' out o' hearin'; Snipes on the t'other side, where the County Ditch is, Wadin' up and down the aidge like they'd rolled their britches! Old turkle on the root kindo-sorto drappin' Intoo th' worter like he don't know how it happen! Worter, shade and all so mixed, don't know which you'd orter Say, th' _worter_ in the shadder--_shadder_ in the _worter!_
Somebody hollerin'--'way around the bend in Upper Fork--where yer eye kin jes' ketch the endin' Of the shiney wedge o' wake some muss-rat's a-makin' With that pesky nose o' his! Then a sniff o' bacon, Corn-bread and 'dock-greens--and little Dave a-shinnin' 'Crost the rocks and mussel-shells, a-limpin' and a-grinnin', With yer dinner far ye, and a blessin' from the giver. Noon-time and June-time down around the river!
KNEELING WITH HERRICK.
Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent.-- Give me content-- Full-pleasured with what comes to me, What e'er it be: An humble roof--a frugal board, And simple hoard; The wintry fagot piled beside The chimney wide, While the enwreathing flames up-sprout And twine about The brazen dogs that guard my hearth And household worth: Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow The rafters low; And let the sparks snap with delight, As ringers might That mark deft measures of some tune The children croon: Then, with good friends, the rarest few Thou holdest true, Ranged round about the blaze, to share My comfort there,-- Give me to claim the service meet That makes each seat A place of honor, and each guest Loved as the rest.
ROMANCIN'.
I' b'en a-kindo musin', as the feller says, and I'm About o' the conclusion that they ain't no better time, When you come to cipher on it, than the times we used to know When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto solem'-like and low!
You git my idy, do you?--_Little_ tads, you understand-- Jes' a wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y was a _man_.-- Yit here I am, this minute, even forty, to a day, And fergittin' all that's in it, wishin' jes' the other way!
I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate Whur the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,-- But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue, And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do!--
I jes' gee-haw the hosses, and unhook the swingle-tree, Whur the hazel-bushes tosses down their shadders over me, And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and set Jes' a-thinkin' here, 'y gravy! till my eyes is wringin'-wet!
Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the _present_, I kin see-- Kindo like my sight was double--all the things that _used to be_; And the flutter o' the robin, and the teeter o' the wren Sets the willer branches bobbin "howdy-do" thum Now to Then!
The deadnin' and the thicket's jes' a bilin' full of June, Thum the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's tune; And the catbird in the bottom, and the sap-suck on the snag, Seems ef they cain't--od-rot'em!--jes' do nothin' else but brag!
They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay, And that sassy little critter jes' a-peckin' all the day; They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the thrush, And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the brush!
They's music _all around_ me!--And I go back, in a dream-- Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep--and in the stream That used to split the medder whur the dandylions growed, I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the road.
Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!--and they's other fellers, too, With their hickry poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and a few Little "shiners" on our stringers, with their tails tiptoein' bloom, As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy journey home.
I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout!" I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam, And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern of the dam.
I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill; And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growlin' still; And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe, And jes' git in and row it like the miller used to do.
W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortal plain I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane; And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n "money musk" Far the lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin'and a-dancin'in the dusk.
And so I keep on musin', as the feller says, till I'm Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they hain't no better time, When you come to cipher on it, than the _old_ times,--and, I swear, I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it!" jes' as soft as any prayer!
HAS SHE FORGOTTEN.
I.
Has she forgotten? On this very May We were to meet here, with the birds and bees, As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away The vines from these old granites, cold and gray-- And yet, indeed, not grim enough were they To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstacies, Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies. Has she forgotten--that the May has won Its promise?--that the bird-songs from the tree Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly? Has she forgotten life--love--everyone-- Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?
II.
Low, low down in the violets I press My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear, And yet hold silence, though I call her dear, Just as of old, save for the tearfulness Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress? Has she forgotten thus the old caress That made our breath a quickened atmosphere That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep In memory of days that used to be,-- Has she forgotten these? And, in her sleep, Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?
III.
To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes, I mean to weld our faces--through the dense Incalculable darkness make pretense That she has risen from her reveries To mate her dreams with mine in marriages Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease Of every longing nerve of indolence,-- Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun My senses with her kisses--drawl the glee Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly, Across mine own, forgetful if is done The old love's awful dawn-time when said we, "To-day is ours!".... Ah, Heaven! can it be She has forgotten me--forgotten me!
A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG.
It's the curiousest thing in creation, Whenever I hear that old song, "Do They Miss Me at Home?" I'm so bothered, My life seems as short as it's long!-- Far ever'thing 'pears like adzackly It 'peared, in the years past and gone,-- When I started out sparkin', at twenty, And had my first neckercher on!
Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer Right now than my parents was then, You strike up that song, "Do They Miss Me?" And I'm jest a youngster again!-- I'm a-standin' back there in the furries A-wishin' far evening to come, And a-whisperin' over and over Them words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it The first time I heerd it; and so, As she was my very first sweetheart, It reminds of her, don't you know,-- How her face ust to look, in the twilight, As I tuck her to spellin'; and she Kep' a-hummin' that song 'tel I ast her, Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me!
I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, And hear her low answerin' words, And then the glad chirp of the crickets As clear as the twitter of birds; And the dust in the road is like velvet, And the ragweed, and fennel, and grass Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies Of Eden of old, as we pass.
"Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower-- And softer--and sweet as the breeze That powdered our path with the snowy White bloom of the old locus'-trees! Let the whippoorwills he'p you to sing it, And the echoes 'way over the hill, 'Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus Of stars, and our voices is still.
But, oh! "They's a chord in the music That's missed when _her_ voice is away!" Though I listen from midnight 'tel morning, And dawn, 'tel the dusk of the day; And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards And on through the heavenly dome, With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' The words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
THE LOST PATH.
Alone they walked--their fingers knit together, And swaying listlessly as might a swing Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.
Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane, And from the covert of the hazel-thicket The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.
The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases Along the road-side in the shadows dim, Went following the blossoms of their faces As though their sweets must needs be shared with him.
Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle Fell swooningly away in faint farewells.
And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er them, And folded all the landscape from their eyes, They only know the dusky path before them Was leading safely on to Paradise.
THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW.
"--_And any little tiny kickshaws_."--Shakespeare.
O the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me, 'Tis sweeter than the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree, Wi' denty flavorin's o' spice an' musky rosemarie, The little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
'Tis luscious wi' the stalen tang o' fruits frae ower the sea, An' e'en its fragrance gars we laugh wi' langin' lip an' ee, Till a' its frazen sheen o' white maun melten hinnie be-- Sae weel I luve the kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
O I luve the tiny kickshaw, an' I smack my lips wi' glee, Aye mickle do I luve the taste o' sic a luxourie, But maist I luve the luvein' han's that could the giftie gie O' the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
HIS MOTHER.
DEAD! my wayward boy--_my own_-- Not _the Law's!_ but _mine_--the good God's free gift to me alone, Sanctified by motherhood.
"Bad," you say: Well, who is not? "Brutal"--"with a heart of stone"-- And "red-handed."--Ah! the hot Blood upon your own!
I come not, with downward eyes, To plead for him shamedly,-- God did not apologize When He gave the boy to me.
Simply, I make ready now For _His_ verdict.--_You_ prepare-- You have killed us both--and how Will you face us There!
KISSING THE ROD.
O heart of mine, we shouldn't Worry so! What we've missed of calm we couldn't Have, you know! What we've met of stormy pain, And of sorrow's driving rain, We can better meet again, If it blow!
We have erred in that dark hour We have known, When our tears fell with the shower, All alone!-- Were not shine and shadow blent As the gracious Master meant?-- Let us temper our content With His own.
For, we know, not every morrow Can be sad; So, forgetting all the sorrow We have had, Let us fold away our fears, And put by our foolish tears, And through all the coming years Just be glad.
HOW IT HAPPENED.
I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone-- And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John A-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way, And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day! I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the time He settled in the neighborhood, and had n't ary a dime Er dollar, when he married, far to start housekeepin' on!-- So I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone!
I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done That all her sisters kep' a gittin' married, one by one, And her without no chances--and the best girl of the pack-- An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back! And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on, When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John, And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline To not see what a wife they 'd git if they got Evaline!
I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction she Was sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,-- She 'd come, and leave her housework, far to be'p out little Jane, And talk of _her own_ mother 'at she 'd never see again-- Maybe sometimes cry together--though, far the most part she Would have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at we Felt lonesomer 'n ever when she 'd put her bonnet on And say she 'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!
I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,--and more and more I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,-- Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John-- You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life Far a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife-- 'Less some one married _Evaline_, and packed her off some day!-- So I got to thinkin' of her--and it happened thataway.
BABYHOOD.
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger: Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.
Turn back the leaves of life; don't read the story,-- Let's find the _pictures_, and fancy all the rest:-- We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best!
Turn to the brook, where the honeysuckle, tipping O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze, And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust trees.
Turn to the lane, where we used to "teeter-totter," Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold, Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold:
Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel Of the sunny sandbar in the middle-tide, And the ghostly dragonfly pauses in his travel To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died.
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger: Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.
THE DAYS GONE BY.
O the days gone by! O the days gone by! The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye; The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale; When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky, And my happy heart brimmed over in the days gone by.
In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped By the honey-suckle's tangles where the water-lilies dipped, And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink, And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's wayward cry And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by.
O the days gone by! O the days gone by! The music of the laughing lip, the luster of the eye; The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin's magic ring-- The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything,-- When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh, In the golden olden glory of the days gone by.
MRS. MILLER
John B. McKinney, Attorney and Counselor at Law, as his sign read, was, for many reasons, a fortunate man. For many other reasons he was not. He was chiefly fortunate in being, as certain opponents often strove to witheringly designate him, "the son of his father," since that sound old gentleman was the wealthiest farmer in that section, with but one son and heir to, in time, supplant him in the role of "county god," and haply perpetuate the prouder title of "the biggest tax-payer on the assessment list." And this fact, too, fortunate as it would seem, was doubtless the indirect occasion of a liberal percentage of all John's misfortunes. From his earliest school-days in the little town, up to his tardy graduation from a distant college, the influence of his father's wealth invited his procrastination, humored its results, encouraged the laxity of his ambition, "and even now," as John used, in bitter irony, to put it, "it is aiding and abetting me in the ostensible practice of my chosen profession, a listless, aimless undetermined man of forty, and a confirmed bachelor at that!" At the utterance of this self-depreciating statement, John generally jerked his legs down from the top of his desk; and, rising and kicking his chair back to the wall, he would stump around his littered office till the manilla carpet steamed with dust. Then he would wildly break away, seeking refuge either in the open street, or in his room at the old-time tavern, The Eagle House, "where," he would say, "I have lodged and boarded, I do solemnly asseverate, for a long, unbroken, middle-aged eternity of ten years, and can yet assert, in the words of the more fortunately-dying Webster, that 'I still live!'"
Extravagantly satirical as he was at times, John had always an indefinable drollery about him that made him agreeable company to his friends, at least; and such an admiring friend he had constantly at hand in the person of Bert Haines. Both were Bohemians in natural tendency, and, though John was far in Bert's advance in point of age, he found the young man "just the kind of a fellow to have around;" while Bert, in turn, held his senior in profound esteem--looked up to him, in fact, and in even his eccentricities strove to pattern after him. And so it was, when summer days were dull and tedious, these two could muse and doze the hours away together; and when the nights were long, and dark, and deep, and beautiful, they could drift out in the noon-light of the stars, and with "the soft complaining flute" and "warbling lute," "lay the pipes," as John would say, for their enduring popularity with the girls! And it was immediately subsequent to one of these romantic excursions, when the belated pair, at two o'clock in the morning, had skulked up a side stairway of the old hotel, and gained John's room, with nothing more serious happening than Bert falling over a trunk and smashing his guitar,--just after such a night of romance and adventure it was that, in the seclusion of John's room, Bert had something of especial import to communicate.
"Mack," he said, as that worthy anathematized a spiteful match, and then sucked his finger.