Chapter 2

O from our life's full measure And rich hoard of worldly treasure We often turn our weary eyes away, And hand in hand we wander Down the old path winding yonder To the orchard where the children used to play

Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds; The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'er: The grove's a paradise of singing birds- The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door Yet lonely, lonely still, Let us prosper as we will, Our old hearts seem so empty everyway-- We can only through a mist See the faces we have kissed In the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure And rich hoard of worldly treasure We often turn our weary eyes away, And hand in hand we wander Down the old path winding yonder To the orchard where the children used to play.

GRIGGSBY'S STATION

Pap's got his pattent-right, and rich as all creation; But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before? Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pity To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs, And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city! city!-- And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree! And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and see!

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation-- Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin', A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through; And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin' Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!

I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin'; And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land.

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more, Shet away safe in the woods around the old location-- Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin', And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone, And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin', And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin' on.

And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty, Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried --for His own sake and Katy's,--and I want to cry with Katy As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.

What's in all this grand life and high situation, And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door?-- Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE

I

Tell you what I like the best-- 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine,--some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else'

II

Orchard's where I'd ruther be-- Needn't fence it in fer me!-- Jes' the whole sky overhead, And the whole airth underneath-- Sorto' so's a man kin breathe Like he ort, and kindo' has Elbow-room to keerlessly Sprawl out len'thways on the grass Where the shadders thick and soft As the kivvers on the bed Mother fixes in the loft Allus, when they's company!

III

Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there-- S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer Through the wavin' leaves above, Like a feller 'at's in love And don't know it, ner don't keer! Ever'thing you hear and see Got some sort o' interest-- Maybe find a bluebird's nest Tucked up there conveenently Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be Up some other apple-tree! Watch the swallers skootin' past 'Bout as peert as you could ast, Er the Bob-white raise and whiz Where some other's whistle is

IV

Ketch a shadder down below, And look up to find the crow-- Er a hawk,--away up there, 'Pearantly FROZE in the air!-- Hear the old hen squawk, and squat Over ever' chick she's got, Suddent-like!--and she knows where That-air hawk is, well as you!-- You jes' bet yer life she do!-- Eyes a-glitterin' like glass, Waitin' till he makes a pass!

V

Pee-wees' singin', to express My opinion, 's second class, Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, Weedin' out the lonesomeness; Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass, In them base-ball clothes o' his, Sportin' round the orchard jes' Like he owned the premises! Sun out in the fields kin sizz, But flat on yer back, I guess, In the shade's where glory is! That's jes' what I'd like to do Stiddy fer a year er two!

VI

Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in' My convictions!--'long about Here in June especially!-- Under some old apple-tree, Jes' a-restin' through and through I could git along without Nothin' else at all to do Only jes' a-wishin' you Wuz a-gittin' there like me, And June was eternity!

VII

Lay out there and try to see Jes' how lazy you kin be!-- Tumble round and souse yer head In the clover-bloom, er pull Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes And peek through it at the skies, Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead, Maybe, smilin' back at you In betwixt the beautiful Clouds o' gold and white and blue. Month a man kin railly love June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

VIII

March ain't never nothin' new! Aprile's altogether too Brash fer me! and May--I jes' 'Bominate its promises, Little hints o' sunshine and Green around the timber-land-- A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout er two,-- Drap asleep, and it turns in 'Fore daylight and SNOWS ag'in!-- But when JUNE comes--Clear my th'oat With wild honey!--Rench my hair In the dew! and hold my coat! Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!-- June wants me, and I'm to spare! Spread them shadders anywhere, I'll git down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that!

SEPTEMBER DARK

I

The air falls chill; The whippoorwill Pipes lonesomely behind the hill: The dusk grows dense, The silence tense; And lo, the katydids commence.

II

Through shadowy rifts Of woodland, lifts The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, While left and right The fireflies' light Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.

III

O Cloudland, gray And level, lay Thy mists across the face of Day! At foot and head, Above the dead, O Dews, weep on uncomforted!

THE CLOVER

Some sings of the lily, 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 lily 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

OLD OCTOBER

Old October's purt' nigh gone, And the frosts is comin' on Little HEAVIER every day-- Like our hearts is thataway! Leaves is changin' overhead Back from green to gray and red, Brown and yeller, with their stems Loosenin' on the oaks and e'ms; And the balance of the trees Gittin' balder every breeze-- Like the heads we're scratchin' on! Old October's purt' nigh gone.

I love Old October so, I can't bear to see her go-- Seems to me like losin' some Old-home relative er chum-- 'Pears like sorto' settin' by Some old friend 'at sigh by sigh Was a-passin' out o' sight Into everlastin' night! Hickernuts a feller hears Rattlin' down is more like tears Drappin' on the leaves below-- I love Old October so!

Can't tell what it is about Old October knocks me out!-- I sleep well enough at night-- And the blamedest appetite Ever mortal man possessed,-- Last thing et, it tastes the best!-- Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws, 'Iles and limbers up my jaws Fer raal service, sich as new Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too.-- Yit, fer all, they's somepin' 'bout Old October knocks me out!

OLD-FASHIONED ROSES

They ain't no style about 'em, And they're sorto' pale and faded, Yit the doorway here, without 'em, Would be lonesomer, and shaded With a good 'eal blacker shadder Than the morning-glories makes, And the sunshine would look sadder Fer their good old-fashion' sakes,

I like 'em 'cause they kindo'-- Sorto' MAKE a feller like 'em! And I tell you, when I find a Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, It allus sets me thinkin' O' the ones 'at used to grow And peek in thro' the chinkin' O' the cabin, don't you know!

And then I think o' mother, And how she ust to love 'em-- When they wuzn't any other, 'Less she found 'em up above 'em! And her eyes, afore she shut 'em, Whispered with a smile and said We must pick a bunch and putt 'em In her hand when she wuz dead.

But, as I wuz a-sayin', They ain't no style about 'em Very gaudy er displaying But I wouldn't be without 'em,-- 'Cause I'm happier in these posies, And the hollyhawks and sich, Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses In the roses of the rich.

A COUNTRY PATHWAY

I come upon it suddenly, alone-- A little pathway winding in the weeds That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way, Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, I take the path that leads me as it may-- Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, Is startled by my step as on I fare-- A garter-snake across the dusty trail Glances and--is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother all the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night. O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes!

So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- My avant-courier must be obeyed! Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there awhile

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- "You dog our country--walks

"And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- We will not suffer tamely what you do, And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sic Our bumblebees on you!"

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast--

Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth-- Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands, Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, Put berries in my hands:

Or the path climbs a bowlder--wades a slough-- Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, Goes gayly dancing o'er a deep bayou On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse, With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook-- The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed-- Swings pivoting about, with wary look Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge. And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my sombre way Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom Of his own shadows--till the perfect day Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled. And where the valley's dint in Nature's face Dimples a smiling world.

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, Where, like a gem in costly setting held, The old log cabin gleams.

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on Adown your alley-way, and run before Among the roses crowding up the lawn And thronging at the door,--

And carry up the echo there that shall Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay The household out to greet the prodigal That wanders home to-day.

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; ain't 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.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

Up and down old Brandywine, In the days 'at's past and gone-- With a dad-burn hook-and line And a saplin' pole--swawn! I've had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever ANYwhere! Heaven to come can't discount MINE Up and down old Brandywine!

Hain't no sense in WISHIN'--yit Wisht to goodness I COULD jes "Gee" the blame' world round and git Back to that old happiness!-- Kindo' drive back in the shade "The old Covered Bridge" there laid 'Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!--it hain't no DREAM 'At I'm wantin',--but THE FAC'S As they wuz; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks!-- Gim me back my bare feet--and Stonebruise too!--And scratched and tanned! And let hottest dog-days shine Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees 'Long the banks, pour down yer noon, Kindo' curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer's tune; And the smokin', chokin' dust O' the turnpike at its wusst-- SATURD'YS, say, when it seems Road's jes jammed with country teams!--

Whilse the old town, fur away 'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land, Dozed-like in the heat o' day Peaceful' as a hired hand. Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor O' the old bridge!--grind and roar With yer blame percession-line-- Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw-hat Off the foot-log!--what _I_ care?-- Fist shoved in the crown o' that-- Like the old Clown ust to wear. Wouldn't swop it fer a' old Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!-- Keep yer KING ef you'll gim me Jes the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal My best "goggle-eye!"--but you Can't lay hands on joys I feel Nibblin' like they ust to do! So, in memory, to-day Same old ripple lips away At my "cork" and saggin' line, Up and down old Bradywine!

There the logs is, round the hill, Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift Out sunfish from daylight till Dewfall--'fore he'd leave "The Drift" And give US a chance--and then Kindo' fish back home again, Ketchin' 'em jes left and right Where WE hadn't got "a bite!"

Er, 'way windin' out and in,-- Old path th'ough the iurnweeds And dog-fennel to yer chin-- Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds And cat-tails, smack into where Them--air woods--hogs ust to scare Us clean 'crosst the County-line, Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o' the dam It 'ud coax us furder still To'rds the old race, slow and ca'm, Slidin' on to Huston's mill-- Where, I'spect, "The Freeport crowd" Never WARMED to us er 'lowed We wuz quite so overly Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it 'peared like ever'thing-- Fur away from home as THERE-- Had more RELISH-like, i jing!-- Fish in stream, er bird in air! O them rich old bottom-lands, Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands! Wortermelons--MASTER-MINE! Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!--Lumps o' raw Gold and green,--jes oozy th'ough With ripe yaller--like you've saw Custard-pie with no crust to: And jes GORGES o' wild plums, Till a feller'd suck his thumbs Clean up to his elbows! MY!-- ME SOME MORE ER LEM ME DIE!

Up and down old Brandywine!... Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!-- Flick me with a pizenvine And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose! --Old now as I then wuz young, 'F I could sing as I HAVE sung, Song 'ud surely ring DEE-VINE Up and down old Brandywine!

WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY

When country roads begin to thaw In mottled spots of damp and dust, And fences by the margin draw Along the frosty crust Their graphic silhouettes, I say, The Spring is coming round this way.