Chapter 5

I give my TREASURES to her--all,--my pencil--blue-and-red;-- And, if little girls played marbles, MINE should all be HERS, instead! But SHE gave me her PHOTOGRAPH, and printed "Ever Thine" Across the back--in blue-and-red--that old sweet-heart of mine!

And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned,-- When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to . . .

When we should live together in a cozy little cot Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine.

When I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come.

But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and--my wife is standing there: Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign,-- To greet the LIVING presence of that old sweetheart of mine.

SQUIRE HAWKINS'S STORY

I hain't no hand at tellin' tales, Er spinnin' yarns, as the sailors say; Someway o' 'nother, language fails To slide fer me in the oily way That LAWYERS has; and I wisht it would, Fer I've got somepin' that I call good; But bein' only a country squire, I've learned to listen and admire, Ruther preferrin' to be addressed Than talk myse'f--but I'll do my best:--

Old Jeff Thompson--well, I'll say, Was the clos'test man I ever saw!-- Rich as cream, but the porest pay, And the meanest man to work fer--La! I've knowed that man to work one "hand"-- Fer little er nothin', you understand-- From four o'clock in the morning light Tel eight and nine o'clock at night, And then find fault with his appetite! He'd drive all over the neighberhood To miss the place where a toll-gate stood, And slip in town, by some old road That no two men in the county knowed, With a jag o' wood, and a sack o' wheat, That wouldn't burn and you couldn't eat! And the trades he'd make, 'll I jest de-clare, Was enough to make a preacher swear! And then he'd hitch, and hang about Tel the lights in the toll-gate was blowed out, And then the turnpike he'd turn in And sneak his way back home ag'in!

Some folks hint, and I make no doubt, That that's what wore his old wife out-- Toilin' away from day to day And year to year, through heat and cold, Uncomplainin'--the same old way The martyrs died in the days of old; And a-clingin', too, as the martyrs done, To one fixed faith, and her ONLY one,-- Little Patience, the sweetest child That ever wept unrickonciled, Er felt the pain and the ache and sting That only a mother's death can bring.

Patience Thompson!--I think that name Must 'a' come from a power above, Fer it seemed to fit her jest the same As a GAITER would, er a fine kid glove! And to see that girl, with all the care Of the household on her--I de-clare It was OUDACIOUS, the work she'd do, And the thousand plans that she'd putt through;

And sing like a medder-lark all day long, And drowned her cares in the joys o' song; And LAUGH sometimes tel the farmer's "hand," Away fur off in the fields, would stand A-listenin', with the plow half drawn, Tel the coaxin' echoes called him on; And the furries seemed, in his dreamy eyes, Like foot-paths a-leadin' to Paradise, As off through the hazy atmosphere The call fer dinner reached his ear.

Now LOVE'S as cunnin'a little thing As a hummin'-bird upon the wing, And as liable to poke his nose Jest where folks would least suppose,-- And more'n likely build his nest Right in the heart you'd leave unguessed, And live and thrive at your expense-- At least, that's MY experience. And old Jeff Thompson often thought, In his se'fish way, that the quiet John Was a stiddy chap, as a farm-hand OUGHT To always be,--fer the airliest dawn Found John busy--and "EASY," too, Whenever his wages would fall due!-- To sum him up with a final touch, He EAT so little and WORKED so much, That old Jeff laughed to hisse'f and said, "He makes ME money and airns his bread!--

But John, fer all of his quietude, Would sometimes drap a word er so That none but PATIENCE understood, And none but her was MEANT to know!-- Maybe at meal-times John would say, As the sugar-bowl come down his way, "Thanky, no; MY coffee's sweet Enough fer ME!" with sich conceit, SHE'D know at once, without no doubt, HE meant because she poured it out; And smile and blush, and all sich stuff, And ast ef it was "STRONG enough?" And git the answer, neat and trim, "It COULDN'T be too 'strong' fer HIM!"

And so things went fer 'bout a year, Tel John, at last, found pluck to go And pour his tale in the old man's ear-- And ef it had been HOT LEAD, I know It couldn't 'a' raised a louder fuss, Ner 'a' riled the old man's temper wuss! He jest LIT in, and cussed and swore, And lunged and rared, and ripped and tore, And told John jest to leave his door, And not to darken it no more! But Patience cried, with eyes all wet, "Remember, John, and don't ferget, WHATEVER comes, I love you yet!" But the old man thought, in his se'fish way, "I'll see her married rich some day; And THAT," thinks he, "is money fer ME-- And my will's LAW, as it ought to be!"

So when, in the course of a month er so, A WIDOWER, with a farm er two, Comes to Jeff's, w'y, the folks, you know, Had to TALK--as the folks'll do: It was the talk of the neighberhood-- PATIENCE and JOHN, and THEIR affairs;-- And this old chap with a few gray hairs Had "cut John out," it was understood. And some folks reckoned "Patience, too, Knowed what SHE was a-goin' to do-- It was LIKE her--la! indeed!-- All she loved was DOLLARS and CENTS-- Like old JEFF--and they saw no need Fer JOHN to pine at HER negligence!"

But others said, in a KINDER way, They missed the songs she used to sing-- They missed the smiles that used to play Over her face, and the laughin' ring Of her glad voice--that EVERYthing Of her OLD se'f seemed dead and gone, And this was the ghost that they gazed on!

Tel finally it was noised about There was a WEDDIN' soon to be Down at Jeff's; and the "cat was out" Shore enough!--'Ll the JEE-MUN-NEE! It RILED me when John told me so,-- Fer _I_ WAS A FRIEND O' JOHN'S, you know; And his trimblin' voice jest broke in two-- As a feller's voice'll sometimes do.-- And I says, says I, "Ef I know my biz-- And I think I know what JESTICE is,-- I've read SOME law--and I'd advise A man like you to wipe his eyes And square his jaws and start AGIN, FER JESTICE IS A-GOIN' TO WIN!" And it wasn't long tel his eyes had cleared As blue as the skies, and the sun appeared In the shape of a good old-fashioned smile That I hadn't seen fer a long, long while.

So we talked on fer a' hour er more, And sunned ourselves in the open door,-- Tel a hoss-and-buggy down the road Come a-drivin' up, that I guess John KNOWED,-- Fer he winked and says, "I'll dessappear-- THEY'D smell a mice ef they saw ME here!" And he thumbed his nose at the old gray mare, And hid hisse'f in the house somewhere.

Well.--The rig drove up: and I raised my head As old Jeff hollered to me and said That "him and his old friend there had come To see ef the squire was at home." . . . I told 'em "I was; and I AIMED to be At every chance of a weddin'-fee!" And then I laughed--and they laughed, too,-- Fer that was the object they had in view. "Would I be on hands at eight that night?" They ast; and 's-I, "You're mighty right, I'LL be on hand!" And then I BU'ST Out a-laughin' my very wu'st,-- And so did they, as they wheeled away And drove to'rds town in a cloud o' dust. Then I shet the door, and me and John Laughed and LAUGHED, and jest LAUGHED on, Tel Mother drapped her specs, and BY JEEWHILLIKERS! I thought she'd DIE!-- And she couldn't 'a' told, I'll bet my hat, What on earth she was laughin' at!

But all o' the fun o' the tale hain't done!-- Fer a drizzlin' rain had jest begun, And a-havin' 'bout four mile' to ride, I jest concluded I'd better light Out fer Jeff's and save my hide,-- Fer IT WAS A-GOIN' TO STORM, THAT NIGHT! So we went down to the barn, and John Saddled my beast, and I got on; And he told me somepin' to not ferget, And when I left, he was LAUGHIN' yet.

And, 'proachin' on to my journey's end, The great big draps o' the rain come down, And the thunder growled in a way to lend An awful look to the lowerin' frown The dull sky wore; and the lightnin' glanced Tel my old mare jest MORE'N pranced, And tossed her head, and bugged her eyes To about four times their natchurl size, As the big black lips of the clouds 'ud drap Out some oath of a thunderclap, And threaten on in an undertone That chilled a feller clean to the bone!

But I struck shelter soon enough To save myse'f. And the house was jammed With the women-folks, and the weddin'stuff:-- A great, long table, fairly CRAMMED With big pound-cakes--and chops and steaks-- And roasts and stews--and stumick-aches Of every fashion, form, and size, From twisters up to punkin-pies! And candies, oranges, and figs, And reezins,--all the "whilligigs" And "jim-cracks" that the law allows On sich occasions!--Bobs and bows Of gigglin' girls, with corkscrew curls, And fancy ribbons, reds and blues, And "beau-ketchers" and "curliques" To beat the world! And seven o'clock Brought old Jeff;-and brought--THE GROOM,-- With a sideboard-collar on, and stock That choked him so, he hadn't room To SWALLER in, er even sneeze, Er clear his th'oat with any case Er comfort--and a good square cough Would saw his Adam's apple off!

But as fer PATIENCE--MY! Oomh-OOMH!-- I never saw her look so sweet!-- Her face was cream and roses, too; And then them eyes o' heavenly blue Jest made an angel all complete! And when she split 'em up in smiles And splintered 'em around the room, And danced acrost and met the groom, And LAUGHED OUT LOUD--It kind o' spiles My language when I come to that-- Fer, as she laid away his hat, Thinks I, "THE PAPERS HID INSIDE OF THAT SAID HAT MUST MAKE A BRIDE A HAPPY ONE FER ALL HER LIFE, Er else a WRECKED AND WRETCHED WIFE!" And, someway, then, I thought of JOHN,-- Then looked towards PATIENCE. . . . She was GONE!-- The door stood open, and the rain Was dashin' in; and sharp and plain Above the storm we heerd a cry-- A ringin', laughin', loud "Good-by!" That died away, as fleet and fast A hoss's hoofs went splashin' past! And that was all. 'Twas done that quick! . . . You've heerd o' fellers "lookin' sick"? I wisht you'd seen THE GROOM jest then-- I wisht you'd seen them two old men, With starin' eyes that fairly GLARED At one another, and the scared And empty faces of the crowd,-- I wisht you could 'a' been allowed To jest look on and see it all,-- And heerd the girls and women bawl And wring their hands; and heerd old Jeff A-cussin' as he swung hisse'f Upon his hoss, who champed his bit As though old Nick had holt of it: And cheek by jowl the two old wrecks Rode off as though they'd break their necks.

And as we all stood starin' out Into the night, I felt the brush Of some one's hand, and turned about, And heerd a voice that whispered, "HUSH!-- THEY'RE WAITIN' IN THE KITCHEN, AND YOU'RE WANTED. DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" Well, ef my MEMORY serves me now, I think I winked.--Well, anyhow, I left the crowd a-gawkin' there, And jest slipped off around to where The back door opened, and went in, And turned and shet the door ag'in, And maybe LOCKED it--couldn't swear,-- A woman's arms around me makes Me liable to make mistakes.-- I read a marriage license nex', But as I didn't have my specs I jest INFERRED it was all right, And tied the knot so mortal-tight That Patience and my old friend John Was safe enough from that time on!

Well, now, I might go on and tell How all the joke at last leaked out, And how the youngsters raised the yell And rode the happy groom about Upon their shoulders; how the bride Was kissed a hunderd times beside The one _I_ give her,--tel she cried And laughed untel she like to died! I might go on and tell you all About the supper--and the BALL.-- You'd ought to see me twist my heel Through jest one old Furginny reel Afore you die! er tromp the strings Of some old fiddle tel she sings Some old cowtillion, don't you know, That putts the devil in yer toe!

We kep' the dancin' up tel FOUR O'clock, I reckon--maybe more.-- We hardly heerd the thunders roar, ER THOUGHT about the STORM that blowed-- AND THEM TWO FELLERS ON THE ROAD! Tel all at onc't we heerd the door Bu'st open, and a voice that SWORE,-- And old Jeff Thompson tuck the floor. He shuck hisse'f and looked around Like some old dog about half-drowned-- HIS HAT, I reckon, WEIGHED TEN POUND To say the least, and I'll say, SHORE, HIS OVERCOAT WEIGHED FIFTY more-- THE WETTEST MAN YOU EVER SAW, TO HAVE SO DRY A SON-IN-LAW!

He sized it all; and Patience laid Her hand in John's, and looked afraid, And waited. And a stiller set O' folks, I KNOW, you never met In any court room, where with dread They wait to hear a verdick read.

The old man turned his eyes on me: "And have you married 'em?" says he. I nodded "Yes." "Well, that'll do," He says, "and now we're th'ough with YOU,-- YOU jest clear out, and I decide And promise to be satisfied!" He hadn't nothin' more to say. I saw, of course, how matters lay, And left. But as I rode away I heerd the roosters crow fer day.

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 a while.

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 sick 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 boulder--wades a slough-- Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, Goes gaily 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 somber 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 valley-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.

THE OLD GUITAR

Neglected now is the old guitar And moldering into decay; Fretted with many a rift and scar That the dull dust hides away, While the spider spins a silver star In its silent lips to-day.

The keys hold only nerveless strings-- The sinews of brave old airs Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings So closely here declares A sad regret in its ravelings And the faded hue it wears.

But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, Has cherished a smile for me; And its features hint of a fairer face That comes with a memory Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place And a moonlit balcony.

Music sweeter than words confess, Or the minstrel's powers invent, Thrilled here once at the light caress Of the fairy hands that lent This excuse for the kiss I press On the dear old instrument.

The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem Still blooms; and the tiny sets In the circle all are here; the gem In the keys, and the silver frets; But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them-- Alas for the heart's regrets!--

Alas for the loosened strings to-day, And the wounds of rift and scar On a worn old heart, with its roundelay Enthralled with a stronger bar That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay Like that of the old guitar!

"FRIDAY AFTERNOON"

TO WILLIAM MORRIS PIERSON

[1868-1870]

Of the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, The old school-day romances Are the dearest, after all!--. When some sweet thought revises The half-forgotten tune That opened "Exercises" On "Friday Afternoon."

We seem to hear the clicking Of the pencil and the pen, And the solemn, ceaseless ticking Of the timepiece ticking then; And we note the watchful master, As he waves the warning rod, With our own heart beating faster Than the boy's who threw the wad.

Some little hand uplifted, And the creaking of a shoe:-- A problem left unsifted For the teacher's hand to do: The murmured hum of learning-- And the flutter of a book; The smell of something burning, And the school's inquiring look.

The bashful boy in blushes; And the girl, with glancing eyes, Who hides her smiles, and hushes The laugh about to rise,-- Then, with a quick invention, Assumes a serious face, To meet the words, "Attention! Every scholar in his place!"

The opening song, page 20.-- Ah! dear old "Golden Wreath," You willed your sweets in plenty; And some who look beneath The leaves of Time will linger, And loving tears will start, As Fancy trails her finger O'er the index of the heart.

"Good News from Home"--We hear it Welling tremulous, yet clear And holy as the spirit Of the song we used to hear-- "Good news for me" (A throbbing And an aching melody)-- "Has come across the"--(sobbing, Yea, and salty) "dark blue sea!"

Or the paean "Scotland's burning!" With its mighty surge and swell Of chorus, still returning To its universal yell-- Till we're almost glad to drop to Something sad and full of pain-- And "Skip verse three," and stop, too, Ere our hearts are broke again.

Then "the big girls'" compositions, With their doubt, and hope, and glow Of heart and face,--conditions Of "the big boys"--even so,-- When themes of "Spring," and "Summer" And of "Fall," and "Winter-time" Droop our heads and hold us dumber Than the sleigh-bell's fancied chime.

Elocutionary science-- (Still in changeless infancy!)-- With its "Cataline's Defiance," And "The Banner of the Free": Or, lured from Grandma's attic, A ramshackle "rocker" there, Adds a skreek of the dramatic To the poet's "Old Arm-Chair."

Or the "Speech of Logan" shifts us From the pathos, to the fire; And Tell (with Gessler) lifts us Many noble notches higher.-- Till a youngster, far from sunny, With sad eyes of watery blue, Winds up with something "funny," Like "Cock-a-doodle-do!"

Then a dialogue--selected For its realistic worth:-- The Cruel Boy detected With a turtle turned to earth Back downward; and, in pleading, The Good Boy--strangely gay At such a sad proceeding-- Says, "Turn him over, pray!"

So the exercises taper Through gradations of delight To the reading of "The Paper," Which is entertaining--quite! For it goes ahead and mentions "If a certain Mr. O. Has serious intentions That he ought to tell her so."

It also "Asks permission To intimate to 'John' The dubious condition Of the ground he's standing on"; And, dropping the suggestion To "mind what he's about," It stuns him with the question: "Does his mother know he's out?"

And among the contributions To this "Academic Press" Are "Versified Effusions" By--"Our lady editress"-- Which fact is proudly stated By the CHIEF of the concern,-- "Though the verse communicated Bears the pen-name 'Fanny Fern.' "

. . . . . . When all has been recited, And the teacher's bell is heard, And visitors, invited, Have dropped a kindly word, A hush of holy feeling Falls down upon us there, As though the day were kneeling, With the twilight for the prayer.

. . . . . . Midst the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, Thus the old school-day romances Are the dearest, after all!-- When some sweet thought revises The half-forgotten tune That opened "Exercises," On "Friday Afternoon."

"JOHNSON'S BOY"

The world is turned ag'in' me, And people says, "They guess That nothin' else is in me But pure maliciousness!" I git the blame for doin' What other chaps destroy, And I'm a-goin' to ruin Because I'm "Johnson's boy."

THAT ain't my name--I'd ruther They'd call me IKE or PAT-- But they've forgot the other-- And so have _I_, for that! I reckon it's as handy, When Nibsy breaks his toy, Or some one steals his candy, To say 'twas "JOHNSON'S BOY!"

You can't git any water At the pump, and find the spout So durn chuck-full o' mortar That you have to bore it out; You tackle any scholar In Wisdom's wise employ, And I'll bet you half a dollar He'll say it's "Johnson's boy!"