There was a curious quiet for a spaceDirectly following: and in the faceOf one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glowOf the heat-lightning that pent passions throwLong ere the crash of speech.—He broke the spell—The host:—The Traveler's story, told so well,He said, had wakened there within his breastA yearning, as it were, to knowthe rest—That all unwritten sequence that the LordOf Righteousness must write with flame and sword,Some awful session of His patient thought—Just then it was, his good old mother caughtHis blazing eye—so that its fire becameBut as an ember—though it burned the same.It seemed to her, she said, that she had heardIt was theHeavenlyParent never erred,And not theearthlyone that had such grace:"Therefore, my son," she said, with lifted faceAnd eyes, "let no one dare anticipateThe Lord's intent. WhileHewaits,wewill wait"And with a gust of reverence genuineThen Uncle Mart was aptly ringing in—"'If the darkened heavens lower,Wrap thy cloak around thy form;Though the tempest rise in power,God is mightier than the storm!'"Which utterance reached the restive children allAs something humorous. And then a callForhimto tell a story, or to "sayA funny piece." His face fell right away:He knew no story worthy. Then he mustDeclaimfor them: In that, he could not trustHis memory. And then a happy thoughtStruck some one, who reached in his vest and broughtSome scrappy clippings into light and saidThere was a poem of Uncle Mart's he readLast April in "The Sentinel." He hadIt there in print, and knew all would be gladTo hear it rendered by the author.And,All reasons for declining at commandExhausted, the now helpless poet roseAnd said: "I am discovered, I suppose.Though I have taken all precautions notTo sign my name to any verses wroughtBy my transcendent genius, yet, you see,Fame wrests my secret from me bodily;So I must needs confess I did this deedOf poetry red-handed, nor can pleadOne whit of unintention in my crime—My guilt of rhythm and my glut of rhyme.—"Mænides rehearsed a tale of arms,And Naso told of curious metatmurphoses;Unnumbered pens have pictured woman's charms,While crazyI've made poetryon purposes!"In other words, I stand convicted—needI say—by my own doing, as I read.
THE OLD SNOW-MANHo! the old Snow-ManThat Noey Bixler made!He looked as fierce and sassyAs a soldier on parade!—'Cause Noey, when he made him,While we all wuz gone, you see,He made him, jist a-purpose,Jist as fierce as he could be!—But when we all gotustto him,Nobody wuz afraidOf the old Snow-ManThat Noey Bixler made!'Cause Noey told us 'bout himAnd what he made him fer:—He'd come to feed, that morningHe found we wuzn't here;And so the notion struck him,When we all come taggin' home'Tuds'priseus ef a' old Snow-Man'Ud meet us when we come!So, when he'd fed the stock, and milked,And ben back home, and choppedHis wood, and et his breakfast, heJist grabbed his mitts and hoppedRight in on that-air old Snow-ManThat he laid out he'd makeEr bust a tracea-tryin'—jistFer old-acquaintance sake!—But work like that wuz lots more fun.He said, than when he played!Ho! the old Snow-ManThat Noey Bixler made!He started with a big snow-ball,And rolled it all around;And as he rolled, more snow 'ud stickAnd pull up off the ground.—He rolled and rolled all round the yard—'Cause we could see thetrack,All wher' the snow come off, you know,And left it wet and black.He got the Snow-Man'slegs-partrolled—In front the kitchen-door,—And then he hat to turn in thenAnd roll and roll some more!—He rolled the yard all round agin,And round the house, at that—Clean round the house and back to wher'The blame legs-half wuz at!He said he missed his dinner, too—Jist clean fergot and stayedThere workin'. Ho! the old Snow-ManThat Noey Bixler made!And Noey said he hat tohumpTo git thetop-halfonThelegs-half!—When hedid, he said,His wind wuz purt'-nigh gone.—He said, I jucks! he jist drapped downThere on the old porch-floorAnd panted like a dog!—And thenHe up! and rolled some more!—Thelastbatch—that wuz fer his head,—And—time he'd got it rightAnd clumb and fixed it on, he said—He hat to quit fer night!—Andthen, he said, he'd kep' right onEf they'd ben anymoonTo work by! So he crawled in bed—Andcoulda-slep' telnoon,He wuz so plum wore out! he said,—But it wuz washin'-day,And hat to cut a cord o' wood'Fore he could git away!But, last, he got to work agin,—With spade, and gouge, and hoe,And trowel, too—(All tools 'ud doWhatNoeysaid, you know!)He cut his eyebrows out like cliffs—And his cheekbones and chinStuckfurderout—and his oldnoseStuck out as fur-agin!He made his eyes o' walnuts,And his whiskers out o' thisHere buggy-cushion stuffin'—moss,The teacher says it is.And then he made a' old wood'-gun,Set keerless-like, you know,Acrost one shoulder—kindo' likeBig Foot, er Adam Poe—Er, mayby, Simon Girty,The dinged old Renegade!Wooh!the old Snow-ManThat Noey Bixler made!And there he stood, all fierce and grim,A stern, heroic form:What was the winter blast to him,And what the driving storm?—What wonder that the children pressedTheir faces at the paneAnd scratched away the frost, in prideTo look on him again?—What wonder that, with yearning bold,Their all of love and careWent warmest through the keenest coldTo that Snow-Man out there!But the old Snow-Man—What a dubious delightHe grew at last when Spring came onAnd days waxed warm and bright.—Alone he stood—all kith and kinOf snow and ice were gone;—Alone, with constant teardrops inHis eyes and glittering onHis thin, pathetic beard of black—Grief in a hopeless cause!—Hope—hope is for the man thatdies—What for the man thatthaws!O Hero of a hero's make!—Letmarblemelt and fade,But neveryou—you old Snow-ManThat Noey Bixler made!
And there, in that ripe Summer-night, once moreA wintry coolness through the open doorAnd window seemed to touch each glowing faceRefreshingly; and, for a fleeting space,The quickened fancy, through the fragrant air,Saw snowflakes whirling where the roseleaves were,And sounds of veriest jingling bells againWere heard in tinkling spoons and glasses then.Thus Uncle Mart's old poem sounded youngAnd crisp and fresh and clear as when first sung,Away back in the wakening of SpringWhen his rhyme and the robin, chorusing,Rumored, in duo-fanfare, of the soonInvading johnny-jump-ups, with platoonOn platoon of sweet-williams, marshaled fineTo blooméd blarings of the trumpet-vine.The poet turned to whisperingly conferA moment with "The Noted Traveler."Then left the room, tripped up the stairs, and thenAn instant later reappeared again,Bearing a little, lacquered box, or chest,Which, as all marked with curious interest,He gave to the old Traveler, who inOne hand upheld it, pulling back his thinBlack lustre coat-sleeves, saying he had sentUp for his "Magic Box," and that he meantTo test it there—especially to showThe Children. "It isempty now, you know."—He humped it with his knuckles, so they heardThe hollow sound—"But lest it be inferredIt is notreallyempty, I will askLittle Jack Janitor, whose pleasant taskIt is to keep it ship-shape."Then he triedAnd rapped the little drawer in the side,And called out sharply "Are you in there, Jack?"And then a little, squeaky voice came back,—"Of course I'm in here—ain't you got the keyTurned on me!"Then the Traveler leisurelyFelt through his pockets, and at last took outThe smallest key they ever heard about!—It,wasn't any longer than a pin:And this at last he managed to fit inThe little keyhole, turned it, and then cried,"Is everything swept out clean there inside?""Open the drawer and see!—Don't talk to much;Or else," the little voice squeaked, "talk in Dutch—You age me, asking questions!"Then the manLooked hurt, so that the little folks beganTo feel so sorry for him, he put downHis face against the box and had to frown.—"Come, sir!" he called,—"no impudence tome!—You've swept out clean?""Open the drawer and see!"And so he drew the drawer out: Nothing there,But just the empty drawer, stark and bare.He shoved it back again, with a shark click.—"Ouch!" yelled the little voice—"un-snap it—quick!—You've got my nose pinched in the crack!"And thenThe frightened man drew out the drawer again,The little voice exclaiming, "Jeemi-nee!—Say what you want, but please don't murder me!""Well, then," the man said, as he closed the drawerWith care, "I want some cotton-batting forMy supper! Have you got it?"And inside,All muffled like, the little voice replied,"Open the drawer and see!"And, sure enough,He drew it out, filled with the cotton stuff.He then asked for a candle to be broughtAnd held for him: and tuft by tuft he caughtAnd lit the cotton, and, while blazing, tookIt in his mouth and ate it, with a lookOf purest satisfaction."Now," said he,"I've eaten the drawer empty, let me seeWhat this is in my mouth:" And with both handsHe began drawing from his lips long strandsOf narrow silken ribbons, every hueAnd tint;—and crisp they were and bright and newAs if just purchased at some Fancy-Store."And now, Bub, bring your cap," he said, "beforeSomething might happen!" And he stuffed the capFull of the ribbons. "There, my little chap,Holdtightto them," he said, "and take them toThe ladies there, for they know what to doWith all such rainbow finery!"He smiledHalf sadly, as it seemed, to see the childOpen his cap first to his mother..... ThereWas not a ribbon in it anywhere!"Jack Janitor!" the man said sternly throughThe Magic Box—"Jack Janitor, didyouConceal those ribbons anywhere?""Well, yes,"The little voice piped—"but you'd never guessThe place I hid 'em if you'd guess a year!""Well, won't youtellme?""Not until you clearYour mean old conscience" said the voice, "and makeMe first do something for the Children's sake.""Well, then, fill up the drawer," the Traveler said,"With whitest white on earth and reddest red!—Your terms accepted—Are you satisfied?""Open the drawer and see!" the voice replied."Why, bless my soul!"—the man said, as he drewThe contents of the drawer into view—"It's level-full ofcandy!—Pass it 'round—Jack Janitor shan't stealthat, I'll be bound!"—He raised and crunched a stick of it and smackedHis lips.—"Yes, thatiscandy, for a fact!—And it's allyours!"And how the children thereLit into it!—O never anywhereWas such a feast of sweetness!"And now, then,"The man said, as the empty drawer againSlid to its place, he bending over it,—"Now, then, Jack Janitor, before we quitOur entertainment for the evening, tellUs where you hid the ribbons—can't you?""Well,"The squeaky little voice drawled sleepily—"Under your old hat, maybe.—Look and see!"All carefully the man took off his hat:But there was not a ribbon under that.—He shook his heavy hair, and all in vainThe old white hat—then put it on again:"Now, tell me,honest, Jack, wheredidyou hideThe ribbons?""Under your hat" the voice replied.—"Mind! I said 'under' and not 'in' it.—Won'tYou ever take the hint on earth?—or don'tYou want to show folks where the ribbons at?—Law! but I'm sleepy!—Under—unner your hat!"Again the old man carefully took offThe empty hat, with an embarrassed cough,Saying, all gravely to the children: "YouMust promise not tolaugh—you'll allwantto—When you see where Jack Janitor has daredTo hide those ribbons—when he might have sparedMy feelings.—But no matter!—Know the worst—Here are the ribbons, as I feared at first."—And, quick as snap of thumb and finger, thereThe old man's head had not a sign of hair,And in his lap a wig of iron-grayLay, stuffed with all that glittering arrayOf ribbons ... "Take 'em to the ladies—Yes.Good-night to everybody, and God blessThe Children."In a whisper no one missedThe Hired Man yawned: "He's a vantrilloquist"
So gloried all the night Each trundle-bedAnd pallet was enchanted—each child-headWas packed with happy dreams. And long beforeThe dawn's first far-off rooster crowed, the snoreOf Uncle Mart was stilled, as round him pressedThe bare arms of the wakeful little guestThat he had carried home with him...."I think,"An awed voice said—"(No: I don't want adwink.—Lay still.)—I think 'The Noted Traveler' he'S the inscrutibul-est man I ever see!"
[Footnote 1:Gilead—evidently.—[Editor.]