Chapter 2
Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er The clapboard roof!--And her face--ah, me! Wasn't it good for a boy to see-- And wasn't it good for a boy to be Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
And O my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-day To welcome us:--Aunt Mary fell Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell The boys to come!" And all is well Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
WINTER FANCIES
I
Winter without And warmth within; The winds may shout And the storm begin; The snows may pack At the window pane, And the skies grow black, And the sun remain Hidden away The livelong day-- But here--in here is the warmth of May!
II
Swoop your spitefullest Up the flue, Wild Winds--do! What in the world do I care for you? O delightfullest Weather of all, Howl and squall, And shake the trees till the last leaves fall!
III
The joy one feels, In an easy chair, Cocking his heels In the dancing air That wreathes the rim of a roaring stove Whose heat loves better than hearts can love, Will not permit The coldest day To drive away The fire in his blood, and the bliss of it!
IV
Then blow, Winds, blow! And rave and shriek, And snarl and snow Till your breath grows weak-- While here in my room I'm as snugly shut As a glad little worm In the heart of a nut!
THE RUNAWAY BOY
Wunst I sassed my Pa, an' he Won't stand that, an' punished me,-- Nen when he was gone that day, I slipped out an' runned away.
I tooked all my copper-cents, An' clumbed over our back fence In the jimpson-weeds 'at growed Ever'where all down the road.
Nen I got out there, an' nen I runned some--an' runned again When I met a man 'at led A big cow 'at shooked her head.
I went down a long, long lane Where was little pigs a-play'n'; An' a grea'-big pig went "Booh!" An' jumped up, an' skeered me too.
Nen I scampered past, an' they Was somebody hollered "Hey!" An' I ist looked ever'where, An' they was nobody there.
I _Want_ to, but I'm 'fraid to try To go back.... An' by-an'-by Somepin' hurts my throat inside-- An' I want my Ma--an' cried.
Nen a grea'-big girl come through Where's a gate, an' telled me who Am I? an' ef I tell where My home's at she'll show me there.
But I couldn't ist but tell What's my _name_; an' she says well, An' she tooked me up an' says _She_ know where I live, she guess.
Nen she telled me hug wite close Round her neck!--an' off she goes Skippin' up the street! An' nen Purty soon I'm home again.
An' my Ma, when she kissed me, Kissed the _big girl_ too, an' _she_ Kissed me--ef I p'omise _shore_ I won't run away no more!
THE LITTLE COAT
Here's his ragged "roundabout"; Turn the pockets inside out: See; his pen-knife, lost to use, Rusted shut with apple-juice; Here, with marbles, top and string, Is his deadly "devil-sling," With its rubber, limp at last As the sparrows of the past! Beeswax--buckles--leather straps-- Bullets, and a box of caps,-- Not a thing of all, I guess, But betrays some waywardness-- E'en these tickets, blue and red, For the Bible-verses said-- Such as this his mem'ry kept-- "Jesus wept."
Here's a fishing hook-and-line, Tangled up with wire and twine, And dead angle-worms, and some Slugs of lead and chewing-gum, Blent with scents that can but come From the oil of rhodium. Here--a soiled, yet dainty note, That some little sweetheart wrote, Dotting,--"Vine grows round the stump," And--"My sweetest sugar lump!" Wrapped in this--a padlock key Where he's filed a touch-hole--see! And some powder in a quill Corked up with a liver pill; And a spongy little chunk Of "punk."
Here's the little coat--but O! Where is he we've censured so! Don't you hear us calling, dear? Back! come back, and never fear.-- You may wander where you will, Over orchard, field and hill; You may kill the birds, or do Anything that pleases you! Ah, this empty coat of his! Every tatter worth a kiss; Every stain as pure instead As the white stars overhead: And the pockets--homes were they Of the little hands that play Now no more--but, absent, thus Beckon us.
AN IMPETUOUS RESOLVE
When little Dickie Swope's a man, He's go' to be a Sailor; An' little Hamey Tincher, he's A-go' to be a Tailor: Bud Mitchell, he's a-go' to be A stylish Carriage-Maker; An' when _I_ grow a grea'-big man, I'm go' to be a Baker!
An' Dick'll buy his sailor-suit O' Hame; and Hame'll take it An' buy as fine a double-rigg As ever Bud can make it: An' nen all three'll drive roun' fer me An' we'll drive off togevver, A-slingin' pie-crust 'long the road Ferever an' ferever!
WHO SANTY-CLAUS WUZ
Jes' a little bit o' feller--I remember still-- Ust to almost cry fer Christmas, like a youngster will. Fourth o' July's nothin' to it!--New Year's ain't a smell! Easter-Sunday--Circus-day--jes' all dead in the shell! Lawzy, though! at night, you know, to set around an' hear The old folks work the story off about the sledge an' deer, An' "Santy" skootin' round the roof, all wrapt in fur an' fuzz-- Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!
Ust to wait, an' set up late, a week er two ahead; Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed; Kittle stewin' on the fire, an' Mother settin' here Darnin' socks, an' rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer; Pap gap', an' wonder where it wuz the money went, An' quar'l with his frosted heels, an' spill his liniment; An' me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir an' buzz, Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!
Size the fire-place up an' figger how "Ole Santy" could Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would; Wisht 'at I could hide an' see him--wunderd what he'd say Ef he ketched a feller layin' fer him thataway! But I _bet_ on him, an' _liked_ him, same as ef he had Turned to pat me on the back an' say, "Look here, my lad, Here's my pack,--jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!" Long afore I knowed who "Santy-Claus" wuz!
Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it 'peared to be-- Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough fer me!-- Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child Climbin' in my lap to-night, an' beggin' me to tell 'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so well I'm half sorry fer this little-girl-sweetheart of his-- Long afore She knows who "Santy-Claus" is!
THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS
They all climbed up on a high board-fence-- Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes-- Nine little Goblins that had no sense, And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies; And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat-- And I asked them what they were staring at.
And the first one said, as he scratched his head With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear And rasped its claws in his hair so red-- "This is what this little arm is fer!" And he scratched and stared, and the next one said, "How on earth do _you_ scratch your head?"
And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge-- Laughed and laughed till his face grew black; And when he choked, with a final twinge Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back With a fist that grew on the end of his tail Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.
And the third little Goblin leered round at me-- And there were no lids on his eyes at all-- And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he, "What is the style of your socks this fall?" And he clapped his heels--and I sighed to see That he had hands where his feet should be.
Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim, Bowed his head, and I saw him slip His eyebrows off, as I looked at him, And paste them over his upper lip; And then he moaned in remorseful pain-- "Would--Ah, would I'd me brows again!"
And then the whole of the Goblin band Rocked on the fence-top to and fro, And clung, in a long row, hand in hand, Singing the songs that they used to know-- Singing the songs that their grandsires sung In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.
And ever they kept their green-glass eyes Fixed on me with a stony stare-- Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise, And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair, And I felt the heart in my breast snap to As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.
And they sang "You're asleep! There is no board-fence, And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes!-- 'Tis only a vision the mind invents After a supper of cold mince-pies,-- And you're doomed to dream this way," they said,-- "_And you sha'n't wake up till you're clean plum dead!_"
TIME OF CLEARER TWITTERINGS
I.
Time of crisp and tawny leaves, And of tarnished harvest sheaves, And of dusty grasses--weeds-- Thistles, with their tufted seeds Voyaging the Autumn breeze Like as fairy argosies: Time of quicker flash of wings, And of clearer twitterings In the grove, or deeper shade Of the tangled everglade,-- Where the spotted water-snake Coils him in the sunniest brake; And the bittern, as in fright, Darts, in sudden, slanting flight, Southward, while the startled crane Films his eyes in dreams again.
II
Down along the dwindled creek We go loitering. We speak Only with old questionings Of the dear remembered things Of the days of long ago, When the stream seemed thus and so In our boyish eyes:--The bank Greener then, through rank on rank Of the mottled sycamores, Touching tops across the shores: Here, the hazel thicket stood-- There, the almost pathless wood Where the shellbark hickory tree Rained its wealth on you and me. Autumn! as you loved us then, Take us to your heart again!
III
Season halest of the year! How the zestful atmosphere Nettles blood and brain, and smites Into life the old delights We have tasted in our youth, And our graver years, forsooth! How again the boyish heart Leaps to see the chipmunk start From the brush and sleek the sun Very beauty, as he runs! How again a subtle hint Of crushed pennyroyal or mint, Sends us on our knees, as when We were truant boys of ten-- Brown marauders of the wood, Merrier than Robin Hood!
IV
Ah! will any minstrel say, In his sweetest roundelay, What is sweeter, after all, Than black haws, in early Fall-- Fruit so sweet the frost first sat, Dainty-toothed, and nibbled at! And will any poet sing Of a lusher, richer thing Than a ripe May-apple, rolled Like a pulpy lump of gold Under thumb and finger-tips, And poured molten through the lips? Go, ye bards of classic themes, Pipe your songs by classic streams! I would twang the redbird's wings In the thicket while he sings!
THE CIRCUS-DAY PARADE
Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played! And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed, As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own, And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known! And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind, Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined!
How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue, And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you. Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore, Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that they wore!
How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed, And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side! How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame, With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.
How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast, And the mystery within it only hinted of at last From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!
And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town, With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down, And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.
Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played! And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed. As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG
The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's best Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,-- 'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest, An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed, An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest.-- Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
I don't know what in the world it means-- Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!-- An' nen when I _tell_ him I don't, he leans Like he was a-grindin' on some machines An' says: Ef I _don't_, w'y, I don't know _beans!_ Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!--
Out on the margin of Moonshine Land, Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand, Writing his name with his tail in the sand, And swiping it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks? Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! Or what _is_ the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks?-- Crouching low by the winding creeks And holding his breath for weeks and weeks! Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things! Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! 'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings; And she sits and as sadly and softly sings As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,-- Tickle me, Dear, Tickle me here, Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
WAITIN' FER THE CAT TO DIE
Lawzy! don't I rickollect That-'air old swing in the lane! Right and proper, I expect, Old times _can't_ come back again; But I want to state, ef they _Could_ come back, and I could say What _my_ pick 'ud be, i jing! I'd say, Gimme the old swing 'Nunder the old locus'-trees On the old place, ef you please!-- Danglin' there with half-shet eye, Waitin' fer the cat to die!
I'd say, Gimme the old gang Of barefooted, hungry, lean, Ornry boys you want to hang When you're growed up twic't as mean! The old gyarden-patch, the old Truants, and the stuff we stol'd! The old stompin'-groun', where we Wore the grass off, wild and free As the swoop of the old swing, Where we ust to climb and cling, And twist roun', and fight, and lie-- Waitin' fer the cat to die!
'Pears like I 'most allus could Swing the highest of the crowd-- Jes sail up there tel I stood Downside-up, and screech out loud,-- Ketch my breath, and jes drap back Fer to let the old swing slack, Yit my tow-head dippin' still In the green boughs, and the chill Up my backbone taperin' down, With my shadder on the ground' Slow and slower trailin' by-- Waitin' fer the cat to die!
Now my daughter's little Jane's Got a kind o' baby-swing On the porch, so's when it rains She kin play there--little thing! And I'd limped out t'other day With my old cheer this-a-way, Swingin' _her_ and rockin' too, Thinkin' how _I_ ust to do At _her_ age, when suddently, "Hey, Gran'pap!" she says to me, "Why you rock so slow?" ... Says I, "Waitin' fer the cat to die!"
NAUGHTY CLAUDE
When Little Claude was naughty wunst At dinner-time, an' said He won't say "_Thank you_" to his Ma, She maked him go to bed An' stay two hours an' not git up,-- So when the clock struck Two, Nen Claude says,--"Thank you, Mr. Clock, I'm much obleeged to you!"
THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN
O the South Wind and the Sun How each loved the other one-- Full of fancy--full of folly-- Full of jollity and fun! How they romped and ran about, Like two boys when school is out, With glowing face, and lisping lip, Low laugh, and lifted shout!
And the South Wind--he was dressed With a ribbon round his breast That floated, flapped and fluttered In a riotous unrest; And a drapery of mist, From the shoulder and the wrist Flowing backward with the motion Of the waving hand he kissed.
And the Sun had on a crown Wrought of gilded thistledown, And a scarf of velvet vapor, And a raveled-rainbow gown; And his tinsel-tangled hair, Tossed and lost upon the air, With glossier and flossier Than any anywhere.
And the South Wind's eyes were two Little dancing drops of dew, As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips, And blew and blew and blew! And the Sun's--like diamond-stone, Brighter yet than ever known, As he knit his brows and held his breath, And shone and shone and shone!
And this pair of merry fays Wandered through the summer days; Arm-in-arm they went together Over heights of morning haze-- Over slanting slopes of lawn They went on and on and on, Where the daisies looked like star-tracks Trailing up and down the dawn.
And where'er they found the top Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop, They chucked it underneath the chin And praised the lavish crop, Till it lifted with the pride Of the heads it grew beside, And then the South Wind and the Sun Went onward satisfied.
Over meadow-lands they tripped, Where the dandelions dipped In crimson foam of clover bloom And dripped and dripped and dripped! And they clinched the bumble-stings, Gauming honey on their wings, And bundling them in lily-bells, With maudlin murmurings.
And the humming-bird, that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle horns, They mesmerized and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And, with whispered laughter, slipped away, And left him hanging there.
And they braided blades of grass Where the truant had to pass; And they wriggled through the rushes And the reeds of the morass, Where they danced, in rapture sweet, O'er the leaves that laid a street Of undulant mosaic for The touches of their feet.
By the brook with mossy brink, Where the cattle came to drink, They trilled and piped and whistled With the thrush and bobolink, Till the kine, in listless pause, Switched their tails in mute applause, With lifted heads, and dreamy eyes, And bubble-dripping jaws.
And where the melons grew, Streaked with yellow, green and blue, These jolly sprites went wandering Through spangled paths of dew; And the melons, here and there, They made love to, everywhere, Turning their pink souls to crimson With caresses fond and fair.
Over orchard walls they went, Where the fruited boughs were bent Till they brushed the sward beneath them Where the shine and shadow blent; And the great green pear they shook Till the sallow hue forsook Its features, and the gleam of gold Laughed out in every look.
And they stroked the downy cheek Of the peach, and smoothed it sleek, And flushed it into splendor; And, with many an elfish freak, Gave the russet's rust a wipe-- Prankt the rambo with a stripe, And the winesap blushed its reddest As they spanked the pippins ripe.
Through the woven ambuscade That the twining vines had made, They found the grapes, in clusters, Drinking up the shine and shade-- Plumpt, like tiny skins of wine, With a vintage so divine That the tongue of Fancy tingled With the tang of muscadine.
And the golden-banded bees, Droning o'er the flowery leas, They bridled, reined, and rode away Across the fragrant breeze, Till in hollow oak and elm They had groomed and stabled them In waxen stalls that oozed with dews Of rose and lily-stem.
Where the dusty highway leads, High above the wayside weeds, They sowed the air with butterflies Like blooming flower-seeds, Till the dull grasshopper sprung Half a man's-height up, and hung Tranced in the heat, with whirring wings, And sung and sung and sung!
And they loitered, hand in hand, Where the snipe along the sand Of the river ran to meet them As the ripple meets the land, Till the dragonfly, in light Gauzy armor, burnished bright, Came tilting down the waters In a wild, bewildered flight.
And they heard the kildee's call, And afar, the waterfall, But the rustle of a falling leaf They heard above it all; And the trailing willow crept Deeper in the tide that swept The leafy shallop to the shore, And wept and wept and wept!
And the fairy vessel veered From its moorings--tacked and steered For the center of the current-- Sailed away and disappeared: And the burthen that it bore From the long-enchanted shore-- "Alas! the South Wind and the Sun!" I murmur evermore.
For the South Wind and the Sun, Each so loves the other one, For all his jolly folly, And frivolity and fun, That our love for them they weigh As their fickle fancies may, And when at last we love them most, They laugh and sail away.
THE JOLLY MILLER
[Restored Romaunt.]
It was a Jolly Miller lived on the River Dee; He looked upon his piller, and there he found a flea: "O Mr. Flea! you have bit' me, And you shall shorely die!" So he scrunched his bones against the stones-- And there he let him lie!
Twas then the Jolly Miller he laughed and told his wife, And _she_ laughed fit to kill her, and dropped her carvin'-knife!-- "O Mr. Flea!" "Ho-ho!" "Tee-hee!" They _both_ laughed fit to kill, Until the sound did almost drownd The rumble of the mill!
_"Laugh on, my Jolly Miller! and Missus Miller, too!-- But there's a weeping-willer will soon wave over you!"_ The voice was all so awful small-- So very small and slim!-- He durst' infer that it was her, Ner her infer 'twas him!
That night the Jolly Miller, says he, "It's Wifey dear, That cat o' yourn, I'd kill her!--her actions is so queer,-- She rubbin' 'ginst the grindstone-legs, And yowlin' at the sky-- And I 'low the moon haint greener Than the yaller of her eye!"
And as the Jolly Miller went chuckle-un to bed, Was _Somepin_ jerked his piller from underneath his head! "O Wife," says he, on-easi-lee, "Fetch here that lantern there!" But _Somepin_ moans in thunder tones, "_You tetch it ef you dare!_"