All seemed delighted, though the elders more,Of course, than were the children.—Thus, beforeMuch interchange of mirthful compliment,The story-teller saidhisstories "went"(Like a bad candle)bestwhen they wentout,—And that some sprightly music, dashed about,Wouldwhollyquench his "glimmer," and inspireFar brighter lights.And, answering this desire,The flutist opened, in a rapturous strainOf rippling notes—a perfect April-rainOf melody that drenched the senses through;—Then—gentler—gentler—as the dusk sheds dew,It fell, by velvety, staccatoed halts,Swooning away in old "Von Weber's Waltz."Then the young ladies sang "Isle of the Sea"—In ebb and flow and wave so billowy,—Only with quavering breath and folded eyesThe listeners heard, buoyed on the fall and riseOf its insistent and exceeding stressOf sweetness and ecstatic tenderness ...With lifted fingeryet, Remembrance—List!—"Beautiful isle of the sea!" wells in a mistOf tremulous ...... After much whisperingAmong the children, Alex came to bringSome kind ofletter—as it seemed to be—To Cousin Rufus. This he carelesslyUnfolded—reading to himself alone,—But, since its contents became, later, known,And no one "plaguedsoawfulbad," the sameMay here be given—of course without full name,Fac-simile, or written kink or curlOr clue. It read:—"Wild Roved an indian GirlBrite al Floretty"deer freindI now take*this* These means to send thatSongto you & makemy Promus good to you in the RegardsOf doing What i Promust afterwards,thenotes&Wordsis both herePrintedSOSyou *kin* can gituncle Martto read you *them* those& cousin Rufus you can git toPlaythenotesfur you on eny Plezunt dayHis Legul Work aint *Pressin* Pressing.Ever thineAs shore as the Vinedoth the Stump intwinethou art my Lump of SackkerrineRinaldo Rinaldinethe Pirut in Captivity.... There droppedAnother square scrap.—But the hand was stoppedThat reached for it—Floretty suddenlyHad set a firm foot on her property—Thinking it was theletter, not thesong,—But blushing to discover she was wrong,When, with all gravity of face and air,Her precious letterhandedto her thereBy Cousin Rufus left her even moreIn apprehension than she was before.But, testing his unwavering, kindly eye,She seemed to put her last suspicion by,And, in exchange, handed the song to him.—A page torn from a song-book: Small and dimBoth notes and words were—but as plain as dayThey seemed to him, as he began to play—And plain toallthe singers,—as he ranAn airy, warbling prelude, then beganSinging and swinging in so blithe a strain,That every voice rang in the old refrain:From the beginning of the song, clean through,Floretty's features were a study toThe flutist who "readnotes" so readily,Yet read so little of the mysteryOf that face of the girl's.—IndeedonethingBewildered him quite into worrying,And that was, noticing, throughout it all,The Hired Man shrinking closer to the wall,She ever backing toward him through the throngOf barricading children—till the songWas ended, and at last he saw her nearEnough to reach and take him by the earAnd pinch it just a pang's worth of her ireAnd leave it burning like a coal of fire.He noticed, too, in subtle pantomimeShe seemed to dust him off, from time to time;And when somebody, later, asked if sheHad never heard the song before—"What!me?"She said—then blushed again and smiled,—"I've knowed that song senceAdamwas a child!—It's jes a joke o' this-here man's.—He's learnedToreadandwritea little, and its turnedHis fool-head some—That's all!"And then some oneOf the loud-wrangling boys said—"Coursethey's noneNo more,thesedays!—They's Fairiesustto be,But they're all dead, a hunderd years!" said he."Well, there's where you'remustakened!"—in replyThey heard Bud's voice, pitched sharp and thin and high.—"An' how you goin' toproveit!""Well, Ikin!"Said Bud, with emphasis,—"They's one lives inOur garden—and Isee'im wunst, wiv myOwn eyes—onetime I did.""Oh, what a lie!"—"'Sh!'""Well, nen," said the skeptic—seeing thereThe older folks attracted—"Tell uswhereYou saw him, an' all'bouthim!'"Yes, my son.—If you tell 'stories,' you may tell us one,"The smiling father said, while Uncle Mart,Behind him, winked at Bud, and pulled apartHis nose and chin with comical grimace—Then sighed aloud, with sanctimonious face,—"'How good and comely it is to seeChildren and parents in friendship agree!'—You fire away, Bud, on your Fairy-tale—YourUncle'shere to back you!"Somewhat pale,And breathless as to speech, the little manGathered himself. And thus his story ran.
Some peoples thinks they ain't no FairiesnowNo more yet!—But theyis, I bet! 'Cause efTheywuzn'tFairies, nen I' like to knowWho'd w'ite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' tellWhat Fairiesdoes, an' how theirpicturelooks,An' all an' ever'thing! W'y, ef they don'tBe Fairies anymore, nen little boys'U'd istsleepwhen they go to sleep an' wontHave ist no dweams at all,—'Cause Fairies—goodFairies—they're a-purpose to make dweams!But theyisFairies—an' Iknowthey is!'Cause one time wunst, when its all Summertime,An' don't haf to be no fires in the stoveEr fireplace to keep warm wiv—ner don't hafTo wear old scwatchy flannen shirts at all,An' aint no fweeze—ner cold—ner snow!—An'—an'Old skweeky twees got all the gween leaves onAn' ist keeps noddin', noddin' all the time,Like they 'uz lazy an' a-twyin' to goTo sleep an' couldn't, 'cause the wind won't quitA-blowin' in 'em, an' the birds won't stopA-singin' so's theykin.—But tweesdon'tsleep,I guess! Butlittle boyssleeps—an'dweams, too.—An' that's a sign they's Fairies.So, one time,When I ben playin' "Store" wunst over inThe shed of their old stable, an' Ed HowardHe maked me quit a-bein' pardners, 'causeI dwinked the 'tend-like sody-water upAn' et the shore-nuff cwackers.—W'y, nen IClumbed over in our garden where the gwapesWuz purt'-nigh ripe: An' I wuz ist a-layin'There on th' old cwooked seat 'at Pa maked inOur arber,—an' so I 'uz layin' thereA-whittlin' beets wiv my new dog-knife, an'A-lookin' wite up through the twimbly leaves—An' wuzn't 'sleep at all!—An'-sir!—first thingYou know, a littleFairyhopped out there!Aleetle-teenty Fairy!—hope-may-die!An' he look' down at me, he did—An' heAin't bigger'n ayellerbird!—an' heSay "Howdy-do!" he did—an' I couldhearHim—ist asplain!NenIsay "Howdy-do!"An' he say "I'mall hunkey, Nibsey; howIsyourfolks comin' on?"An' nen I say"My name ain't 'Nibsey,' neever—my name'sBud.An' what'syourname?" I says to him.An'heIst laugh an' say "'Bud's' awfulfunnyname!"An' he ist laid back on a big bunch o' gwapesAn' laugh' an' laugh', he did—like somebody'Uz tick-el-un his feet!An' nen I say—"What'syourname," nen I say, "afore you bustYo'-se'f a-laughin' 'boutmyname?" I says.An' nen he dwy up laughin'—kindo' mad—An' say "W'y,myname'sSquidjicum," he says.An' nenIlaugh an' say—"Gee!what a name!"An' when I make fun of his name, like that,He ist git awful mad an' spunky, an''Fore you know, he ist gwabbed holt of a vine—A big long vine 'at's danglin' up there, an'He ist helt on wite tight to that, an' downHe swung quick past my face, he did, an' istKicked at me hard's he could!But I'm too quickFerMr. Squidjicum!I ist weached outAn' ketched him, in my hand—an' helt him, too,An'squeezedhim, ist like little wobins whenThey can't fly yet an' git flopped out their nest.An' nen I turn him all wound over, an'Look at him clos't, you know—wite clos't,—'cause efHeisa Fairy, w'y, I want to seeThewingshe's got—But he's dwessed up so fine'At I can'tseeno wings.—An' all the timeHe's twyin' to kick me yet: An' so I takeF'esh holts an'squeezeagin—an' harder, too;An' I says, "Hold up, Mr. Squidjicum!—You're kickin' the w'ong man!" I says; an' nenI istsqueeze' him, purt'-nigh mybest, I did—An' I heerd somepin' bust!—An' nen he cwiedAn' says, "You better look out what you're doin'!—You' bust' my spiderweb-suspen'ners, an'You' got my woseleaf-coat all cwinkled upSo's I can't go to old Miss Hoodjicum'sTea-party, 's'afternoon!"An' nen I says—"Who's 'old Miss Hoodjicum'?" I saysAn'heSays "Ef you lemme loose I'll tell you."SoI helt the little skeezics 'way fur outIn one hand—so's he can't jump down t' th' groundWivout a-gittin' all stove up: an' nenI says, "You're loose now.—Go ahead an' tell'Bout the 'tea-party' where you're goin' atSo awful fast!" I says.An' nen he say,—"No use totellyou 'bout it, 'cause you won'tBelieve it, 'less you go there your own se'fAn' see it wiv your own two eyes!" he says.An'hesays: "Ef you lemmeshore-nuffloose,An' p'omise 'at you'll keep wite still, an' won'tTetch nothin' 'at you see—an' never tellNobody in the world—an' lemme loose—W'y, nen I'lltakeyou there!"But I says, "YesAn' ef I let you loose, you'llrun!" I says.An' he says "No, I won't!—I hope may die!"Nen I says, "Cwoss your heart you won't!"An'heIst cwoss his heart; an' nen I weach an' setThe little feller up on a long vine—An' he 'uz so tickled to git loose agin,He gwab' the vine wiv boff his little handsAn' ist take an' turn in, he did, an' skin'Bout forty-'leven cats!Nen when he gitThrough whirlin' wound the vine, an' set on topOf it agin, w'y nen his "woseleaf-coat"He bwag so much about, it's ist all toredUp, an' ist hangin' strips an' rags—so heLook like his Pa's a dwunkard. An' so nenWhen he see what he's done—a-actin' upSo smart,—he's awful mad, I guess; an' istPout out his lips an' twis' his little faceIst ugly as he kin, an' set an' tearHis whole coat off—an' sleeves an' all.—An' nenHe wad it all togevver an' istthrowIt at me ist as hard as he kin dwive!An' when I weach to ketch him, an' 'uz goin'To give him 'nuvver squeezin',he ist flewedClean up on top the arber!—'Cause, you know,Theywuzwings on him—when he tored hiscoatClean off—theywuzwingsunder there. But theyWuz purty wobbly-like an' wouldn't workHardly at all—'Cause purty soon, when IThrowed clods at him, an' sticks, an' got him shooedDown off o' there, he come a-floppin' downAn' lit k-bang! on our old chicken-coop,An' ist laid there a-whimper'n' like a child!An' I tiptoed up wite clos't, an' I says "What'sThe matter wiv ye, Squidjicum?"An'heSays: "Dog-gone! when my wings gits stwaight agin,Where you allcwumpled'em," he says, "I betI'll ist fly clean away an' won't take youTo old Miss Hoodjicum's at all!" he says.An' nen I ist weach out wite quick, I did,An' gwab the sassy little snipe agin—Nen tooked my topstwing an' tie down his wingsSo's hecan'tfly, 'less'n I want him to!An' nen I says: "Now, Mr. Squidjicum,You better ist light out," I says, "to oldMiss Hoodjicum's, an' showmehow to gitThere, too," I says; "er ef you don't," I says,"I'll climb up wiv you on our buggy-shedAn' push you off!" I says.An nen he sayAll wight, he'll show me there; an' tell me nenTo set him down wite easy on his feet,An' loosen up the stwing a little whereIt cut him under th' arms. An' nen he says,"Come on!" he says; an' went a-limpin' 'longThe garden-path—an' limpin' 'long an' 'longTel—purty soon he come on 'long to where'sA grea'-big cabbage-leaf. An' he stoop downAn' say "Come on inunder here wiv me!"SoIstoop down an' crawl inunder there,Like he say.An' inunder there's a grea'Big clod, they is—a awful grea' big clod!An' nen he says, "Roll this-here clod away!"An' so I roll' the clod away. An' nenIt's all wet, where the dew'z inunder whereThe old clod wuz,—an' nen the Fairy heGit on the wet-place: Nen he say to me"Git on the wet-place, too!" An' nen he say,"Now hold yer breff an' shet yer eyes!" he says,"Tel I saySquinchy-winchy!" Nen he say—Somepinin Dutch, I guess.—An' nen I feltLike we 'uz sinkin' down—an' sinkin' down!—Tel purty soon the little Fairy weachAn' pinch my nose an' yell at me an' say,"Squinchy-winchy! Look wherever you please!"Nen when I looked—Oh! they 'uz purtyest placeDown there you ever saw in all the World!—They 'uz istflowersan'woses—yes, an'tweesWivblossomson an'big ripe applesboff!An' butterflies, they wuz—an' hummin'-birds—An'yellowbirds an'bluebirds—yes, an'red!—An' ever'wheres an' all awound 'uz vinesWiv ripe p'serve-pears on 'em!—Yes, an' allAn' ever'thing 'at's ever gwowin' inA garden—er canned up—all ripe at wunst!—It wuz ist like a garden—only it'Uzlittletit o' garden—'bout big woundAs ist our twun'el-bed is.—An' all woundAn' wound the little garden's a gold fence—An' little gold gate, too—an' ash-hopper'At's all gold, too—an' ist full o' gold ashes!An' wite in th' middle o' the garden wuzA little gold house, 'at's ist 'bout as bigAs ist a bird-cage is: An'inthe houseThey 'uz whole-lotsmoreFairies there—'cause IPicked up the little house, an 'peeked in atThe winders, an' I see 'em all in thereIstbuggin' wound! An' Mr. SquidjicumHe twy to make me quit, but I gwabhim,An' poke him down the chimbly, too, I did!—An' y'ort to seehimhop out 'mongst 'em there!Ist like he 'uz the boss an' ist got back!—"Hain't ye got on them-air dew-dumplin's yet?"He says.An' they says no.An' nen he says"Better git at 'em nen!" he says, "wite quick—'Cause old Miss Hoodjicum's a-comin'!"NenThey all set wound a little gold tub—an'All 'menced a-peelin' dewdwops, ist like they'Uzpeaches.—An', it looked so funny, IIst laugh' out loud, an'dwoppedthe little house,—An' 't busted like a soap-bubble!—An't skeeredMe so, I—I—I—I,—it skeered me so,I—istwakedup.—No! Iain'tbenasleepAn'dreamit all, likeyouthink,—but it's shoreFer-certainfactan' cwoss my heart it is!
All were quite gracious in their plaudits ofBud's Fairy; but another stir aboveThat murmur was occasioned by a sweetYoung lady-caller, from a neighboring street,Who rose reluctantly to say good-nightTo all the pleasant friends and the delightExperienced,—as she had promised sureTo be back home by nine. Then paused, demure,And wondered was itverydark.—Oh,no!—She hadcomeby herself and she could goWithout anescort. Ah, you sweet girls all!What young gallant but comes at such a call,Your most abject of slaves! Why, there were threeYoung men, and several men of family,Contesting for the honor—which at lastWas given to Cousin Rufus; and he castA kingly look behind him, as the pairVanished with laughter in the darkness there.As order was restored, with everythingSuggestive, in its way, of "romancing,"Some one observed thatnowwould be the chanceForNoeyto relate a circumstanceThathe—the very specious rumor went—Had been eye-witness of, by accident.Noey turned pippin-crimson; then turned paleAs death; then turned to flee, without avail.—"There!head him off!Now!hold him in his chair!—Tell us the Serenade-tale, now, Noey.—There!"
"They ain't much 'tale' about it!" Noey said.—"K'tawby grapes wuz gittin' good-n-redI rickollect; and Tubb Kingry and me'Ud kindo' browse round town, daytime, to seeWhat neighbers 'peared to have the most to spare'At wuz git-at-able and no dog thereWhen we come round to git 'em, say 'bout tenO'clock at night when mostly old folks thenWuz snorin' at each other like they yitHelt some old grudge 'at never slep' a bit.Well, at thePars'nige—ef ye'll call to mind,—They's 'bout the biggest grape-arber you'll find'Most anywheres.—And mostly there, we knowedThey wuzk'tawbiesthick as ever growed—And more'n they'dp'serve.—Besides I've heerdMa say k'tawby-grape-p'serves jes 'pearedA waste o' sugar, anyhow!—And soMy conscience stayed outside and lem me goWith Tubb, one night, the back-way, clean up throughThat long black arber to the end next toThe house, where the k'tawbies, don't you know,Wuz thickest. And t'uz lucky we wentslow,—Fer jest as we wuz cropin' tords the gray-End, like, of the old arber—heerd Tubb sayIn a skeered whisper, 'Hold up! They's some oneJes slippin' in here!—andlooks like a gunHe's carryin'!' Igolly!we both spreadOut flat aginst the ground!"'What's that?' Tubb said.—And jest then—'plink! plunk! plink!' we heerd somethingUnder the back-porch-winder.—Then, i jing!Of course we rickollected 'bout the youngSchool-mam 'at wuz a-boardin' there, and sung,And played on the melodium in the choir.—And she 'uz 'bout as purty to admireAs any girl in town!—the fac's is, sheJestwuz, them times, to a dead certainty,The belle o' this-here bailywick!—But—Well,—I'd best git back to what I'm tryin' to tell:—It wuz some feller come to serenadeMiss Wetherell: And there he plunked and playedHis old guitar, and sung, and kep' his eyeSet on her winder, blacker'n the sky!—And black itstayed.—But mayby she wuz 'wayFrom home, er wore out—bein'Saturday!"Itseemeda good-'eallonger, but IknowHe sung and plunked there half a' hour er soAfore, it 'peared like, he could ever gitHis own free qualified consents to quitAnd go off 'bout his business. When he wentI bet you could a-bought him fer a cent!"And now, behold ye all!—as Tubb and meWuz 'bout to raise up,—right in front we seeA feller slippin' out the arber, squareSmack under that-air little winder whereTheotherfeller had been standin'.—AndThe thing he wuz a-carryin' in his handWuzn't nogunat all!—It wuz aflute,—Andwhoop-ee!how it did git up and tootAnd chirp and warble, tel a mockin'-bird'Ud dast to never let hisse'f be heerdFerever, after sich miracalous, highJim-cracks and grand skyrootics played there byYer Cousin Rufus!—Yes-sir; it wuz him!—And what's more,—all a-suddent that-air dimDark winder o' Miss Wetherell's wuz litUp like a' oyshture-sign, and under itWe see him sort o' wet his lips and smileDown 'long his row o' dancin' fingers, whileHe kindo' stiffened up and kinked his breathAnd everlastin'ly jest blowed the pethOut o' that-air old one-keyed flute o' his.And, bless their hearts, that's all the 'tale' they is!"And even as Noey closed, all radiantlyThe unconscious hero of the history,Returning, met a perfect driving stormOf welcome—a reception strangely warmAndunaccountable, tohim, althoughMostgratifying,—and he told them so."I only urge," he said, "my right to beEnlightened." And a voice said: "Certainly:—During your absence we agreed that youShould tell us all a story, old or new,Just in the immediate happy frame of mindWe knew you would return in."So, resigned,The ready flutist tossed his hat aside—Glanced at the children, smiled, and thus complied.
My little story, Cousin Rufus said,Is not so much a story as a fact.It is about a certain willful boy—An aggrieved, unappreciated boy,Grown to dislike his own home very much,By reason of his parents being notAt all up to his rigid standard andRequirements and exactions as a sonAnd disciplinarian.So, sullenlyHe brooded over his dishearteningEnvironments and limitations, till,At last, well knowing that the outside worldWould yield him favors never found at home,He rose determinedly one July dawn—Even before the call for breakfast—and,Climbing the alley-fence, and bitterlyShaking his clenched fist at the woodpile, heEvanished down the turnpike.—Yes: he had,Once and for all, put into executionHis long low-muttered threatenings—He hadRun off!—He had—had run away from home!His parents, at discovery of his flight,Bore up first-rate—especially his Pa,—Quite possibly recalling his own youth,And therefrom predicating, by high noon,The absent one was very probablyDisporting his nude self in the delightsOf the old swimmin'-hole, some hundred yardsBelow the slaughter-house, just east of town.The stoic father, too, in his surmiseWas accurate—For, lo! the boy was there!And there, too, he remained throughout the day—Save at one starving interval in whichHe clad his sunburnt shoulders long enoughTo shy across a wheatfield, shadow-like,And raid a neighboring orchard—bitterly,And with spasmodic twitchings of the lip,Bethinking him how all the other boysHadhomesto go to at the dinner-hour—Whilehe—alas!—he had no home!—At leastThese very words seemed rising mockingly,Until his every thought smacked raw and sourAnd green and bitter as the apples heIn vain essayed to stay his hunger with.Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boysReturned rejuvenated for the longWet revel of the feverish afternoon.—Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swamAnd spluttered, in their weltering merriment,He tried to laugh, too,—but his voice was hoarseAnd sounded to him like some other boy's.And then he felt a sudden, poking sortOf sickness at the heart, as though some coldAnd scaly pain were blindly nosing itDown in the dreggy darkness of his breast.The tensioned pucker of his purple lipsGrew ever chillier and yet more tense—The central hurt of it slow spreading tillIt did possess the little face entire.And then there grew to be a knuckled knot—An aching kind of core within his throat—An ache, all dry and swallowless, which seemedTo ache on just as bad when he'd pretendHe didn't notice it as when he did.It was a kind of a conceited pain—An overbearing, self-assertive andBarbaric sort of pain that clean outhurtA boy's capacity for suffering—So, many times, the little martyr needsMust turn himself all suddenly and diveFrom sight of his hilarious playmates andSurreptitiously weep under water.ThusHe wrestled with his awful agonyTill almost dark; and then, at last—then, withThe very latest lingering group of hisCompanions, he moved turgidly toward home—Nay, ratheroozedthat way, so slow he went,—With lothful, hesitating, loitering,Reluctant, late-election-returns air,Heightened somewhat by the conscience-made resolveOf chopping a double-armful of woodAs he went in by rear way of the kitchen.And this resolve he executed;—yetThe hired girl made no comment whatsoever,But went on washing up the supper-things,Crooning the unutterably sad song, "Then think,Oh, think how lonely this heart must ever be!"Still, with affected carelessness, the boyRanged through the pantry; but the cupboard-doorWas locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stickAnd went out on the porch.—At least the pump,He prophesied, would meet him kindly andShake hands with him and welcome his return!And long he held the old tin dipper up—And oh, how fresh and pure and sweet the draught!Over the upturned brim, with grateful eyesHe saw the back-yard, in the gathering night,Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good:The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinkedA sort of sallow gladness over hisHome-coming, with this softening of the heart.He did not leave the dipper carelesslyIn the milk-trough.—No: he hung it back uponIts old nail thoughtfully—even tenderly.All slowly then he turned and sauntered towardThe rain-barrel at the corner of the house,And, pausing, peered into it at the fewFaint stars reflected there. Then—moved by someStrange impulse new to him—he washed his feet.He then went in the house—straight on intoThe very room where sat his parents byThe evening lamp.—The father all intentReading his paper, and the mother quiteAs intent with her sewing. Neither lookedUp at his entrance—even reproachfully,—And neither spoke.The wistful runawayDrew a long, quavering breath, and then sat downUpon the extreme edge of a chair. And allWas very still there for a long, long while.—Yet everything, someway, seemedrestful-likeAndhomeyand old-fashioned, good and kind,And sort ofkinto him!—Only toostill!If somebody would say something—justspeak—Or even rise up suddenly and comeAnd lift him by the ear sheer off his chair—Or box his jaws—Lord bless 'em!—anything!—Was he not there to thankfully acceptAny reception from parental sourceSave this incomprehensiblevoicelessness.O but the silence held its very breath!If but the ticking clock would onlystrikeAnd for an instant drown the whispering,Lisping, sifting sound the katydidsMade outside in the grassy nowhere.FarDown some back-street he heard the faint hallooOf boys at their night-game of "Town-fox,"But now with no desire at all to beParticipating in their sport—No; no;—Never again in this world would he wantTo join them there!—he only wanted justTo stay in home of nights—Always—always—Forever and a day!He moved; and coughed—Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yetNo vaguest of parental notice orSolicitude in answer—no response—No word—no look. O it was deathly still!—So still it was that really he could notRemember any prior silence thatAt all approached it in profundityAnd depth and density of utter hush.He felt that he himself must break it: So,Summoning every subtle artificeOf seeming nonchalance and native easeAnd naturalness of utterance to his aid,And gazing raptly at the house-cat whereShe lay curled in her wonted corner ofThe hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airilyAnd said: "I see you've got the same old cat!"
The merriment that followed was subdued—As though the story-teller's attitudeWere dual, in a sense, appealing quiteAs much to sorrow as to mere delight,According, haply, to the listener's bentEither of sad or merry temperament.—"And of your two appeals I much preferThe pathos," said "The Noted Traveler,"—"For should I live to twice my present years,I know I could not quite forget the tearsThat child-eyes bleed, the little palms nailed wide,And quivering soul and body crucified....But, bless 'em! there are no such children hereTo-night, thank God!—Come here to me, my dear!"He said to little Alex, in a toneSo winning that the sound of it aloneHad drawn a child more lothful to his knee:—"And, now-sir,I'llagree ifyou'llagree,—Youtell us all a story, and thenIWill tell one.""But I can't.""Well, can't youtry?""Yes, Mister: hekintellone. Alex, tellThe one, you know, 'at you made up so well,About theBear. He allus tells that one,"Said Bud,—"He gits it mixed some 'bout thegunAn'axthe Little Boy had, an'apples, too."—Then Uncle Mart said—"There, now! that'll do!—LetAlextell his story his own way!"And Alex, prompted thus, without delayBegan.
THAT ALEX "IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F"W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went outIn the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out'Way in the grea'-big woods—he did.—An' heWuz goin'along—an'goin'along, you know,An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "Wooh!"—Ist thataway—"Woo-ooh!" An' he wuzskeered,He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree—A grea'-big tree, he did,—a sicka-moretree.An' nen he heerd it agin: an' he looked round,An''t'uz a Bear!—a grea'-big, shore-nuff Bear!—No: 't'uztwoBears, it wuz—two grea'-big Bears—Oneof 'em wuz—istone's a grea'-bigBear.—But they istboffwent "Wooh!"—An' heretheycomeTo climb the tree an' git the Little BoyAn'eat him up!An' nen the Little BoyHe 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here comeThe grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to gitThe Little Boy an' eat him up—Oh,no!—It 'uzn't theBigBear 'at clumb the tree—It 'uz theLittleBear. So herehecomeClimbin' the tree—an' climbin' the tree! Nen whenHe git witeclos'tto the Little Boy, w'y nenThe Little Boy he ist pulled up his gunAn'shotthe Bear, he did, an' killed him dead!An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down outThe tree—away clean to the ground, he didSpling-splung!he falledplumdown, an' killed him, too!An' lit wite side o' where the'BigBear's at.An' nen the Big Bear's awful mad, you bet!—'Cause—'cause the Little Boy he shot his gunAn' killed theLittleBear.—'Cause theBigBearHe—he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa.—An' so hereHecome to climb the big old tree an' gitThe Little Boy an' eat him up! An' whenThe Little Boy he saw thegrea'-big BearA-comin', he 'uz badder skeered, he wuz,Thananytime! An' so he think he'll climbUphigher—'way up higher in the treeThan the oldBearkin climb, you know.—But he—Hecan'tclimb higher 'an oldBearskin climb,—'Cause Bears kin climb up higher in the treesThan any little Boys In all the Wo-r-r-ld!An' so here come the grea'-big Bear, he did,—A-climbin' up—an' up the tree, to gitThe Little Boy an' eat him up! An' soThe Little Boy he clumbed on higher, an' higher.An' higher up the tree—an' higher—an' higher—An' higher'n iss-herehouseis!—An' here comeTh' old Bear—clos'ter to him all the time!—An' nen—first thing you know,—when th' old Big BearWuz wite clos't to him—nen the Little BoyIst jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's moufAn' shot an' killed him dead!—No; Ifergot,—He didn't shoot the grea'-big Bear at all—'Causethey 'uz no load in the gun, you know—'Cause when he shot theLittleBear, w'y, nenNo load 'uz anymore neninthe gun!But th' Little Boy clumbedhigherup, he did—He clumbedlotshigher—an' on uphigher—an' higherAn'higher—tel he istcan'tclimb no higher,'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'wayUp in the teeny-weeny tip-top ofThe tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don'tBe keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nenHe look around—An' here come th' old Bear!An' so the Little Boy make up his mindHe's got to ist git out o' theresomeway!—'Cause here come the old Bear!—so clos't, his bref'sPurt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it isAginst his bare feet—ist like old "Ring's" brefWhen he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired.So when th' old Bear's so clos't—the Little BoyIst gives a grea'-big jump fer 'nothertree—No!—no he don't do that!—I tell you whatThe Little Boy does:—W'y, nen—w'y, he—Oh,yes—The Little Boyhe finds a hole up there'At's in the tree—an' climbs in there an'hides—An'nenthe old Bear can't find the Little BoyUt-tall!—But, purty soon th' old Bear findsThe Little Boy'sgun'at's up there—'cause thegunIt's tootallto tooked wiv him in the hole.So, when the old Bear find' thegun, he knowsThe Little Boy isthid'roundsomersthere,—An' th' old Bear 'gins to snuff an' sniff around,An' sniff an' snuff around—so's he kin findOut where the Little Boy's hid at.—An' nen—nen—Oh,yes!—W'y, purty soon the old Bear climbs'Way out on a big limb—a grea'-long limb,—An' nen the Little Boy climbs out the holeAn' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!... NenThe old Bear fallsk-splunge!clean to the groundAn' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did!An' nen the Little Boy he git his gunAn' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree agin—No!—no, hedidn'tgit hisgun—'cause whenTheBearfalled, nen thegunfalled, too—An' brokedIt all to pieces, too!—An'nicestgun!—His Pa ist buyed it!—An' the Little BoyIst cried, he did; an' went on climbin' downThe tree—an' climbin' down—an' climbin' down!—An'-sir!when he 'uz purt'-nigh down,—w'y, nenThe old Bear he jumped up agin!—an heAin't dead ut-tall—ist'tendin' thataway,So he kin git the Little Boy an' eatHim up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smartTo climb cleandownthe tree.—An' the old BearHe can't climbupthe tree no more—'cause whenHe fell, he broke one of his—He brokeallHis legs!—an' nen hecouldn'tclimb! But heIst won't go 'way an' let the Little BoyCome down out of the tree. An' the old BearIst growls 'round there, he does—ist growls an' goes"Wooh! woo-ooh!" all the time! An' Little BoyHe haf to stay up in the tree—all night—An' 'thout nosupperneever!—Only theyWuzappleson the tree!—An' Little BoyEt apples—ist all night—an' cried—an' cried!Nen when 'tuz morning th' old Bear went "Wooh!"Agin, an' try to climb up in the treeAn' git the Little Boy.—But hecan'tClimb t'save hissoul, he can't!—An'oh!he'smad!—He ist tear up the ground! an' go "Woo-ooh!"An'—Oh,yes!—purty soon, when morning's comeAlllight—so's you kinsee, you know,—w'y, nenThe old Bear finds the Little Boy'sgun, you know,'At's on the ground.—(An' it ain't broke ut-tall—I istsaidthat!) An' so the old Bear thinkHe'll take the gun an'shootthe Little Boy:—ButBears theydon't know much 'bout shootin' guns:So when he go to shoot the Little Boy,The old Bear got theotherend the gunAgin his shoulder, 'stid o'th'otherend—So when he try to shoot the Little Boy,It shotthe Bear, it did—an' killed him dead!An' nen the Little Boy dumb down the treeAn' chopped his old wooly head off:—Yes, an' killedTheotherBear agin, he did—an' killedAllboffthe bears, he did—an' tuk 'em homeAn'cooked'em, too, an'et'em!—An' that's
The greeting of the company throughoutWas like a jubilee,—the children's shoutAnd fusillading hand-claps, with great gunsAnd detonations of the older ones,Raged to such tumult of tempestuous joy,It even more alarmed than pleased the boy;Till, with a sudden twitching lip, he slidDown to the floor and dodged across and hidHis face against his mother as she raisedHim to the shelter of her heart, and praisedHis story in low whisperings, and smoothedThe "amber-colored hair," and kissed, and soothedAnd lulled him back to sweet tranquillity—"And 'ats a sign 'at you're the Ma fer me!"He lisped, with gurgling ecstasy, and drewHer closer, with shut eyes; and feeling, too,If he could onlypurrnow like a cat,He would undoubtedly be doing that!"And now"—the serious host said, lifting thereA hand entreating silence;—"now, awareOf the good promise of our Traveler guestTo add some story with and for the rest,I think I favor you, and him as well,Asking a story I have heard him tell,And know its truth,in each minute detail:"Then leaning on his guest's chair, with a haleHand-pat by way of full indorsement, heSaid, "Yes—the Free-Slave story—certainly."The old man, with his waddy notebook out,And glittering spectacles, glanced round aboutThe expectant circle, and still firmer drewHis hat on, with a nervous cough or two:And, save at times the big hard words, and toneOf gathering passion—all the speaker's own,—The tale that set each childish heart astirWas thus told by "The Noted Traveler."
Coming, clean from the Maryland-endOf this great National Road of ours,Through your vast West; with the time to spend,Stopping for days in the main towns, whereEvery citizen seemed a friend,And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers,—I found no thing that I might narrateMore singularly strange or queerThan a thing I found in your sister-stateOhio,—at a river-town—down hereIn my notebook:Zanesville—situateOn the stream Muskingum—broad and clear,And navigable, through half the year,North, to Coshocton; south, as farAs Marietta.—But these facts areNot of thestory, but thesceneOf the simple little tale I meanTo telldirectly—from this, straight throughTo theendthat is best worth listening to:Eastward of Zanesville, two or threeMiles from the town, as our stage drove in,I on the driver's seat, and hePointing out this and that to me,—On beyond us—among the rest—A grovey slope, and a fluttering throngOf little children, which he "guessed"Was a picnic, as we caught their thinHigh laughter, as we drove along,Clearer and clearer. Then suddenlyHe turned and asked, with a curious grin,What were my views onSlavery? "Why?"I asked, in return, with a wary eye."Because," he answered, pointing his whipAt a little, whitewashed house and shedOn the edge of the road by the grove ahead,—"Because there are two slavesthere," he said—"Two Black slaves that I've passed each tripFor eighteen years.—Though they've been set free,They have been slaves ever since!" said he.And, as our horses slowly drewNearer the little house in view,All briefly I heard the historyOf this little old Negro woman andHer husband, house and scrap of land;How they were slaves and had been made freeBy their dying master, years agoIn old Virginia; and then had comeNorth here into afreestate—so,Safe forever, to found a home—For themselves alone?—for they left South thereFive strong sons, who had, alas!All been sold ere it came to passThis first old master with his last breathHad freed theparents.—(He went to deathAgonized and in dire despairThat the poor slavechildrenmight not shareTheir parents' freedom. And wildly thenHe moaned for pardon and died. Amen!)Thus, with their freedom, and little sumOf money left them, these two had comeNorth, full twenty long years ago;And, settling there, they had hopefullyGone to work, in their simple way,Hauling—gardening—raising sweetCorn, and popcorn.—Bird and beeIn the garden-blooms and the apple-treeSinging with them throughout the slowSummer's day, with its dust and heat—The crops that thirst and the rains that fail;Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low,And hand-made hominy might find saleIn the near town-market; or baking piesAnd cakes, to range in alluring showAt the little window, where the eyesOf the Movers' children, driving past,Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drewInto a halt that would sometimes lastEven the space of an hour or two—As the dusty, thirsty travelers madeTheir noonings there in the beeches' shadeBy the old black Aunty's spring-house, where,Along with its cooling draughts, were foundJugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer,Served with her gingerbread-horses there,While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'roundTill the children's rapture knew no bound,As she sang and danced for them, quavering clearAnd high the chant of her old slave-days—"Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so',Dancin' on yo' sandy flo'!"Even so had they wrought all waysTo earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,—And with what ultimate end in view?—They were saving up money enough to beAble, in time, to buy their ownFive children back.Ah! the toil gone through!And the long delays and the heartaches, too,And self-denials that they had known!But the pride and glory that was theirsWhen they first hitched up their shackly cartFor the long, long journey South.—The startIn the first drear light of the chilly dawn,With no friends gathered in grieving throng,—With no farewells and favoring prayers;But, as they creaked and jolted on,Their chiming voices broke in song—"'Hail, all hail! don't you see the stars a-fallin'?Hail, all hail! I'm on my way.Gideon [1] amA healin' ba'm—I belong to the blood-washed army.Gideon amA healin' ba'm—On my way!'"And theirreturn!—with their oldest boyAlong with them! Why, their happinessSpread abroad till it grew a joyUniversal—It even reachedAnd thrilled the town till theChurchwas stirredInto suspecting that wrong was wrong!—And it stayed awake as the preacher preachedAReal"Love"-text that he had not longTo ransack for in the Holy Word.And the son, restored, and welcomed so,Found service readily in the town;And, with the parents, sure and slow,Hewent "saltin' de cole cash down."So with thenextboy—and each oneIn turn, tillfourof the five at lastHad been bought back; and, in each case,With steady work and good homes notFar from the parents,theychipped inTo the family fund, with an equal grace.Thus they managed and planned and wrought,And the old folks throve—Till the night beforeThey were to start for the lone last sonIn the rainy dawn—their money fastHid away in the house,—two mean,Murderous robbers burst the door....Then, in the dark, was a scuffle—a fall—An old man's gasping cry—and thenA woman's fife-like shriek....Three menSplashing by on horseback heardThe summons: And in an instant allSprung to their duty, with scarce a word.And they werein time—not only to saveThe lives of the old folks, but to bagBoth the robbers, and buck-and-gagAnd land them safe in the county-jail—Or, as Aunty said, with a blended aweAnd subtlety,—"Safe in de calaboose whahDe dawgs caint bite 'em!"—So prevailThe faithful!—So had the Lord upheldHis servants of both deed and prayer,—HIS the glory unparalleled—Theirsthe reward,—their every sonFree, at last, as the parents were!And, as the driver ended thereIn front of the little house, I said,All fervently, "Well done! well done!"At which he smiled, and turned his headAnd pulled on the leaders' lines and—"See!"He said,—"'you can read old Aunty's sign?"And, peering down through these specs of mineOn a little, square board-sign, I read:"Stop, traveler, if you think it fit,And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit.The rocky spring is very clear,And soon converted into beer."And, though I read aloud, I couldScarce hear myself for laugh and shoutOf children—a glad multitudeOf little people, swarming outOf the picnic-grounds I spoke about.—And in their rapturous midst, I seeAgain—through mists of memory—A black old Negress laughing upAt the driver, with her broad lips rolledBack from her teeth, chalk-white, and gumsRedder than reddest red-ripe plums.He took from her hand the lifted cupOf clear spring-water, pure and cold,And passed it to me: And I raised my hatAnd drank to her with a reverence thatMy conscience knew was justly dueThe old black face, and the old eyes, too—The old black head, with its mossy matOf hair, set under its cap and frillsWhite as the snows on Alpine hills;Drank to the oldblacksmile, but yetBright as the sun on the violet,—Drank to the gnarled and knuckled oldBlack hands whose palms had ached and bledAnd pitilessly been worn paleAnd white almost as the palms that holdSlavery's lash while the victim's wailFails as a crippled prayer might fail.—Aye, with a reverence infinite,I drank to the old black face and head—The old black breast with its life of light—The old black hide with its heart of gold.