Chapter 4
Bleak winters, when the naked spirit hears The break of hearts, through stinging sleet of tears, I deem that God is not disquieted; Against all stresses am I clothed and fed.
Nay, even with fixed eyes and broken breath, My feet dip down into the tides of death, Nor any friend be left, nor prayer be said, I deem that God is not disquieted.
WANT TO BE WHUR MOTHER IS.
"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!" Jeemses Rivers! won't some one ever shet that howl o' his? That-air yellin' drives me wild! Cain't none of ye stop the child? Want jer Daddy? "Naw." Gee whizz! "Want to be whur mother is!"
"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!" Coax him, Sairy! Mary, sing somepin far him! Lift him, Liz-- Bang the clock-bell with the key-- Er the _meat-ax!_ Gee-mun-nee! Listen to them lungs o' his! "Want to be whur mother is!"
"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!" Preacher guess'll pound all night on that old pulpit o' his; 'Pears to me some wimmin jest Shows religious interest Mostly 'fore their fambly's riz! "Want to be whur mother is!"
* * * * *
"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!" Nights like these and whipperwills allus brings that voice of his! Sairy; Mary; 'Lizabeth; Don't set there and ketch yer death In the dew--er rheumatiz-- Want to be whur mother is?
OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME.
I.
In the jolly winters Of the long-ago, It was not so cold as now-- O! No! No! Then, as I remember, Snowballs, to eat, Were as good as apples now, And every bit as sweet!
II.
In the jolly winters Of the dead-and-gone, Bub was warm as summer, With his red mitts on,-- Just in his little waist- And-pants all together, Who ever heard him growl About cold weather?
III.
In the jolly winters of the long-ago-- Was it _half_ so cold as now? O! No! No! Who caught his death o' cold, Making prints of men Flat-backed in snow that now's Twice as cold again?
IV.
In the jolly winters Of the dead-and-gone, Startin' out rabbit-hunting Early as the dawn,-- Who ever froze his fingers, Ears, heels, or toes,-- Or'd a cared if he had? Nobody knows!
V.
Nights by the kitchen-stove, Shelling white and red Corn in the skillet, and Sleepin' four abed! Ah! the jolly winters Of the long-ago! We were not so old as now-- O! No! No!
THREE DEAD FRIENDS.
Always suddenly they are gone-- The friends we trusted and held secure-- Suddenly we are gazing on, Not a _smiling_ face, but the marble-pure Dead mask of a face that nevermore To a smile of ours will make reply-- The lips close-locked as the eyelids are-- Gone--swift as the flash of the molten ore A meteor pours through a midnight sky, Leaving it blind of a single star.
Tell us, O Death, Remorseless Might! What is this old, unescapable ire You wreak on us?--from the birth of light Till the world be charred to a core of fire! We do no evil thing to you-- We seek to evade you--that is all-- That is your will--you will not be known Of men. What, then, would you have us do?-- Cringe, and wait till your vengeance fall, And your graves be fed, and the trumpet blown?
You desire no friends; but _we_--O we Need them so, as we falter here, Fumbling through each new vacancy, As each is stricken that we hold dear. One you struck but a year ago; And one not a month ago; and one-- (God's vast pity!)--and one lies now Where the widow wails, in her nameless woe, And the soldiers pace, with the sword and gun, Where the comrade sleeps, with the laureled brow.
And what did the first?--that wayward soul, Clothed of sorrow, yet nude of sin, And with all hearts bowed in the strange control Of the heavenly voice of his violin. Why, it was music the way he _stood_, So grand was the poise of the head and so Full was the figure of majesty!-- One heard with the eyes, as a deaf man would, And with all sense brimmed to the overflow With tears of anguish and ecstasy.
And what did the girl, with the great warm light Of genius sunning her eyes of blue, With her heart so pure, and her soul so white-- What, O Death, did she do to you? Through field and wood as a child she strayed, As Nature, the dear sweet mother led; While from her canvas, mirrored back, Glimmered the stream through the everglade Where the grapevine trailed from the trees to wed Its likeness of emerald, blue and black.
And what did he, who, the last of these, Faced you, with never a fear, O Death? Did you hate _him_ that he loved the breeze, And the morning dews, and the rose's breath? Did you hate him that he answered not Your hate again--but turned, instead, His only hate on his country's wrongs? Well--you possess him, dead!--but what Of the good he wrought? With laureled head He bides with us in his deeds and songs.
Laureled, first, that he bravely fought, And forged a way to our flag's release; Laureled, next--for the harp he taught To wake glad songs in the days of peace-- Songs of the woodland haunts he held As close in his love as they held their bloom In their inmost bosoms of leaf and vine-- Songs that echoed, and pulsed and welled Through the town's pent streets, and the sick child's room, Pure as a shower in soft sunshine.
Claim them, Death; yet their fame endures, What friend next will you rend from us In that cold, pitiless way of yours, And leave us a grief more dolorous? Speak to us!--tell us, O Dreadful Power!-- Are we to have not a lone friend left?-- Since, frozen, sodden, or green the sod,-- In every second of every hour, _Some one_, Death, you have left thus bereft, Half inaudibly shrieks to God.
IN BOHEMIA.
Ha! My dear! I'm back again-- Vendor of Bohemia's wares! Lordy! How it pants a man Climbing up those awful stairs! Well, I've made the dealer say Your sketch _might_ sell, anyway! And I've made a publisher Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.
In Bohemia, Kate, my dear-- Lodgers in a musty flat On the top floor--living here Neighborless, and used to that,-- Like a nest beneath the eaves, So our little home receives Only guests of chirping cheer-- We'll be happy, Kate, my dear!
Under your north-light there, you At your easel, with a stain On your nose of Prussian blue, Paint your bits of shine and rain; With my feet thrown up at will O'er my littered window-sill, I write rhymes that ring as clear As your laughter, Kate, my dear.
Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair-- Bite my pencil-tip and gaze At you, mutely mooning there O'er your "Aprils" and your "Mays!" Equal inspiration in Dimples of your cheek and chin, And the golden atmosphere Of your paintings, Kate, my dear!
_Trying_! Yes, at times it is, To clink happy rhymes, and fling On the canvas scenes of bliss, When we are half famishing!-- When your "jersey" rips in spots, And your hat's "forget-me-nots" Have grown tousled, old and sere-- It is trying, Kate, my dear!
But--as sure--_some_ picture sells, And--sometimes--the poetry-- Bless us! How the parrot yells His acclaims at you and me! How we revel then in scenes Of high banqueting!--sardines-- Salads--olives--and a sheer Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear!
Even now I cross your palm, With this great round world of gold!-- "Talking wild?" Perhaps I am-- Then, this little five-year-old!-- Call it anything you will, So it lifts your face until I may kiss away that tear Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear.
IN THE DARK.
O in the depths of midnight What fancies haunt the brain! When even the sigh of the sleeper Sounds like a sob of pain.
A sense of awe and of wonder I may never well define,-- For the thoughts that come in the shadows Never come in the shine.
The old clock down in the parlor Like a sleepless mourner grieves, And the seconds drip in the silence As the rain drips from the eaves.
And I think of the hands that signal The hours there in the gloom, And wonder what angel watchers Wait in the darkened room.
And I think of the smiling faces That used to watch and wait, Till the click of the clock was answered By the click of the opening gate.--
They are not there now in the evening-- Morning or noon--not there; Yet I know that they keep their vigil, And wait for me Somewhere.
WET WEATHER TALK.
It ain't no use to grumble and complain; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice.
Men giner'ly, to all intents-- Although they're ap' to grumble some-- Puts most their trust in Providence, And takes things as they come;-- That is, the commonality Of men that's lived as long as me, Has watched the world enough to learn They're not the boss of the concern.
With _some_, of course, it's different-- I've seed _young_ men that knowed it all, And didn't like the way things went On this terrestial ball! But, all the same, the rain some way Rained jest as hard on picnic-day; Er when they railly wanted it, It maybe wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existence, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men-- Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then; But maybe, while you're wondern' who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you ain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too-- They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waiting round to do Before the plowin''s done; And maybe, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm--and jest about The time the corn 's a-jintin' out!
These here cy-clones a-foolin' round-- And back'ard crops--and wind and rain, And yit the corn that's wallered down May elbow up again! They ain't no sense, as I kin see, In mortals, sich as you and me, A-faultin' Nature's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence!
It ain't no use to grumble and complain; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice.
WHERE SHALL WE LAND.
"_Where shall we land you, sweet_?"--Swinburne.
All listlessly we float Out seaward in the boat That beareth Love. Our sails of purest snow Bend to the blue below And to the blue above. Where shall we land?
We drift upon a tide Shoreless on every side, Save where the eye Of Fancy sweeps far lands Shelved slopingly with sands Of gold and porphyry. Where shall we land?
The fairy isles we see, Loom up so mistily-- So vaguely fair, We do not care to break Fresh bubbles in our wake To bend our course for there. Where shall we land?
The warm winds of the deep Have lulled our sails to sleep, And so we glide Careless of wave or wind, Or change of any kind, Or turn of any tide. Where shall we land?
We droop our dreamy eyes Where our reflection lies Steeped in the sea, And, in an endless fit Of languor, smile on it And its sweet mimicry. Where shall we land?
"Where shall we land?" God's grace! I know not any place So fair as this-- Swung here between the blue Of sea and sky, with you To ask me, with a kiss, "Where shall we land?"
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
William Williams his name was--or so he said;--Bill Williams they called him, and them 'at knowed him best called him Bill Bills.
The first I seed o' Bills was about two weeks after he got here. The Settlement wasn't nothin' but a baby in them days, far I mind 'at old Ezry Sturgiss had jist got his saw and griss-mill a-goin', and Bills had come along and claimed to know all about millin', and got a job with him; and millers in them times was wanted worse'n congerss-men, and I reckon got better wages; far afore Ezry built, ther wasn't a dust o' meal er flour to be had short o' the White Water, better'n sixty mild from here, the way we had to fetch it. And they used to come to Ezry's far ther grindin' as far as that; and one feller I knowed to come from what used to be the old South Fork, over eighty mild from here, and in the wettest, rainyest weather; and mud! _Law!_
Well, this-here Bills was a-workin' far Ezry at the time--part the time a-grindin', and part the time a-lookin' after the sawin', and gittin' out timber and the like. Bills was a queer-lookin' feller, shore! About as tall a build man as Tom Carter--but of course you don't know nothin' o' Tom Carter. A great big hulk of a feller, Tom was; and as far back as Fifty-eight used to make his brags that he could cut and put up his seven cord a day.
Well, what give Bills this queer look, as I was a-goin' on to say, was a great big ugly scar a-runnin' from the corner o' one eye clean down his face and neck, and I don't know how far down his breast--awful lookin'; and he never shaved, and ther wasn't a hair a-growin' in that scar, and it looked like a--some kind o' pizen snake er somepin' a crawlin' in the grass and weeds. I never seed sich a' out-an'-out onry-lookin' chap, and I'll never fergit the first time I set eyes on him.
Steve and me--Steve was my youngest brother; Steve's be'n in Californy now far, le' me see,--well, anyways, I reckon, over thirty year.--Steve was a-drivin' the team at the time--I allus let Steve drive; 'peared like Steve was made a-purpose far hosses. The beatin'est hand with hosses 'at ever you _did_ see-an'-I-know! W'y, a hoss, after he got kind o' used to Steve a-handlin' of him, would do anything far _him_! And I've knowed that boy to swap far hosses 'at cou'dn't hardly make a shadder; and, afore you knowed it, Steve would have 'em a-cavortin' around a-lookin' as peert and fat and slick!
Well, we'd come over to Ezry's far some grindin' that day; and Steve wanted to price some lumber far a house, intendin' to marry that Fall--and would a-married, I reckon, ef the girl hadn't a-died jist as she'd got her weddin' clothes done, and that set hard on Steve far awhile. Yit he rallied, you know, as a youngster will; but he never married, someway--never married. Reckon he never found no other woman he could love well enough, 'less it was--well, no odds.--The Good Bein's jedge o' what's best far each and all.
We lived _then_ about eight mild from Ezry's, and it tuck about a day to make the trip; so you kin kind o' git an idee o' how the roads was in them days.
Well, on the way over I noticed Steve was mighty quiet-like, but I didn't think nothin' of it, tel at last he says, says he, "Tom, I want you to kind o' keep an eye out far Ezry's new hand," meanin Bills. And then I kind o' suspicioned somepin' o' nother was up betwixt 'em; and shore enough ther was, as I found out afore the day was over.
I knowed 'at Bills was a mean sort of a man, from what I'd heerd. His name was all over the neighborhood afore he'd be'n here two weeks.
In the first place, he come in a suspicious sort o' way. Him and his wife, and a little baby only a few months old, come through in a kivvered wagon with a fambly a-goin' som'ers in The Illinoy; and they stopped at the mill, far some meal er somepin', and Bills got to talkin' with Ezry 'bout millin', and one thing o' nother, and said he was expeerenced some 'bout a mill hisse'f, and told Ezry ef he'd give him work he'd stop; said his wife and baby wasn't strong enough to stand trav'lin', and ef Ezry'd give him work he was ready to lick into it then and there; said his woman could pay her board by sewin' and the like, tel they got ahead a little; and then, ef he liked the neighberhood, he said he'd as leave settle there as anywheres; he was huntin' a home, he said, and the outlook kind o' struck him, and his woman railly needed rest, and wasn't strong enough to go much furder. And old Ezry kind o' tuck pity on the feller; and havin' houseroom to spare, and railly in need of a good hand at the mill, he said all right; and so the feller stopped and the wagon druv ahead and left 'em; and they didn't have no things ner nothin'--not even a cyarpet-satchel, ner a stitch o' clothes, on'y what they had on their backs. And I think it was the third er fourth day after Bills stopped 'at he whirped Tomps Burk, the bully o' here them days, tel you would n't a-knowed him!
Well, I'd heerd o' this, and the fact is I'd made up my mind 'at Bills was a bad stick, and the place was n't none the better far his bein' here. But, as I was a-goin' on to say,--as Steve and me driv up to the mill, I ketched sight o' Bills the first thing, a-lookin' out o' where some boards was knocked off, jist over the worter-wheel; and he knowed Steve--I could see that by his face; and he hollered somepin', too, but what it was I couldn't jist make out, far the noise o' the wheel; but he looked to me as ef he'd hollered somepin' mean a-purpose so's Steve _wouldn't_ hear it, and _he'd_ have the consolation o' knowin' 'at he'd called Steve some onry name 'thout givin' him a chance to take it up. Steve was allus quiet like, but ef you raised his dander one't--and you could do that 'thout much trouble, callin' him names er somepin', particular' anything 'bout his mother. Steve loved his mother--allus loved his mother, and would fight far her at the drap o' the hat. And he was her favo-_rite_--allus a-talkin' o' "her boy, Steven," as she used to call him, and so proud of him, and so keerful of him allus, when he 'd be sick er anything; nuss him like a baby, she would.
So when Bills hollered, Steve didn't pay no attention; and I said nothin', o' course, and didn't let on like I noticed him. So we druv round to the south side and hitched; and Steve 'lowed he'd better feed; so I left him with the hosses and went into the mill.
They was jist a-stoppin' far dinner. Most of 'em brought ther dinners--lived so far away, you know. The two Smith boys lived on what used to be the old Warrick farm, five er six mild, anyhow, from wher' the mill stood. Great stout fellers, they was; and little Jake, the father of 'em, wasn't no man at all--not much bigger'n you, I rickon. Le' me see, now:--Ther was Tomps Burk, Wade Elwood, and Joe and Ben Carter, and Wesley Morris, John Coke--wiry little cuss, he was, afore he got his leg sawed off--and Ezry, and--Well, I don't jist mind all the boys--'s a long time ago, and I never was much of a hand far names.--Now, some folks'll hear a name and never fergit it, but I can't boast of a good ricollection, 'specially o' names; and far the last thirty year my mem'ry's be'n a-failin' me, ever sence a spell o' fever 'at I brought on onc't--fever and rheumatiz together. You see, I went a-sainin' with a passel o' the boys, fool-like, and let my clothes freeze on me a-comin' home. Wy, my breeches was like stove-pipes when I pulled 'em off. 'Ll, ef I didn't pay far that spree! Rheumatiz got a holt o' me and helt me there flat o' my back far eight weeks, and couldn't move hand er foot 'thout a-hollerin' like a' Injun. And I'd a-be'n there yit, I reckon, ef it had n't a-be'n far a' old hoss-doctor, name o' Jones; and he gits a lot o' sod and steeps it in hot whisky and pops it on me, and I'll-be-switched-to-death ef it didn't cuore me up, far all I laughed and told him I'd better take the whisky inardly and let him keep the grass far his doctor bill. But that's nuther here ner there:--As I was a-saying 'bout the mill: As I went in, the boys had stopped work and was a-gittin' down ther dinners, and Bills amongst 'em, and old Ezry a-chattin' away--great hand, he was, far his joke, and allus a-cuttin' up and a-gittin' off his odd-come-shorts on the boys. And that day he was in particular good humor. He'd brought some liquor down far the boys, and he'd be'n drinkin' a little hisse'f, enough to feel it. He didn't drink much--that is to say, he didn't git drunk adzactly; but he tuck his dram, you understand. You see, they made ther own whisky in them days, and it was n't nothin' like the bilin' stuff you git now. Old Ezry had a little still, and allus made his own whisky, enough far fambly use, and jist as puore as worter, and as harmless. But now-a-days the liquor you git's rank pizen. They say they put tobacker in it, and strychnine, and the Lord knows what; ner I never knowed why, 'less it was to give it a richer-lookin' flavor, like. Well, Ezry he 'd brought up a jug, and the boys had be'n a-takin' it purty free; I seed that as quick as I went in. And old Ezry called out to me to come and take some, the first thing. Told him I did n't b'lieve I keered about it; but nothin' would do but I must take a drink with the boys; and I was tired anyhow and I thought a little would n't hurt; so I takes a swig; and as I set the jug down Bills spoke up and says, "You're a stranger to me, and I'm a stranger to you, but I reckon we can drink to our better acquaintance," er somepin' to that amount, and poured out another snifter in a gourd he'd be'n a-drinkin' coffee in, and handed it to me. Well, I could n't well refuse, of course, so I says, "Here 's to us," and drunk her down--mighty nigh a half pint, I reckon. Now, I railly did n't want it, but, as I tell you, I was obleeged to take it, and I downed her at a swaller and never batted an eye, far, to tell the fact about it, I liked the taste o' liquor; and I do yit, only I know when I' got enough. Jist then I didn't want to drink on account o' Steve. Steve couldn't abide liquor in no shape ner form--far medicine ner nothin', and I 've allus thought it was his mother's doin's.
Now, a few months afore this I 'd be'n to Vincennes, and I was jist a-tellin' Ezry what they was a-astin' far ther liquor there--far I 'd fetched a couple o' gallon home with me 'at I 'd paid six bits far, and pore liquor at that: And I was a-tellin' about it, and old Ezry was a-sayin' what an oudacious figger that was, and how he could make money a-sellin' it far half that price, and was a-goin' on a-braggin' about his liquor--and it was a good article--far new whisky,--and jist then Steve comes in, jist as Bills was a-sayin' 'at a man 'at wouldn't drink that whisky wasn't no man at all. So, of course, when they ast Steve to take some and he told 'em no, 'at he was much obleeged, Bills was kind o' tuck down, you understand, and had to say somepin'; and says he, "I reckon you ain't no better 'n the rest of us, and _we 've_ be'n a-drinkin' of it." But Steve did n't let on like he noticed Bills at all, and rech and shuck hands with the other boys and ast how they was all a-comin' on.