The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Child-WorldThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Child-WorldAuthor: James Whitcomb RileyRelease date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9651]Most recently updated: January 2, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Etext produced by David Starner, Maria Cecilia Lim and PGDistributed ProofreadersHTML file produced by David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHILD-WORLD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: A Child-WorldAuthor: James Whitcomb RileyRelease date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9651]Most recently updated: January 2, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Etext produced by David Starner, Maria Cecilia Lim and PGDistributed ProofreadersHTML file produced by David Widger
Title: A Child-World
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9651]Most recently updated: January 2, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Etext produced by David Starner, Maria Cecilia Lim and PGDistributed ProofreadersHTML file produced by David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHILD-WORLD ***
The Child-World—long and long since lost to view—A Fairy Paradise!—How always fair it was and fresh and new—How every affluent hour heaped heart and eyesWith treasures of surprise!Enchantments tangible: The under-brinkOf dawns that launched the sightUp seas of gold: The dewdrop on the pink,With all the green earth in it and blue heightOf heavens infinite:The liquid, dripping songs of orchard-birds—The wee bass of the bees,—With lucent deeps of silence afterwards;The gay, clandestine whisperings of the breezeAnd glad leaves of the trees.
O Child-World: After this world—just as whenI found you first sufficedMy soulmost need—if I found you again,With all my childish dream so realised,I should not be surprised.
CONTENTS
A CHILD-WORLD
THE CHILD-WORLD
THE OLD-HOME FOLKS
ALMON KEEFER
NOEY BIXLER
"A NOTED TRAVELER"
A PROSPECTIVE VISIT
AT NOEY'S HOUSE
"THAT LITTLE DOG"
THE LOEHRS AND THE HAMMONDS
THE HIRED MAN AND FLORETTY
THE EVENING COMPANY
MAYMIE'S STORY OF RED RIDING HOOD
LIMITATIONS OF GENIUS
MR. HAMMOND'S PARABLE
FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION
BUD'S FAIRY-TALE
A DELICIOUS INTERRUPTION
NOEY'S NIGHT-PIECE
COUSIN RUFUS' STORY
BEWILDERING EMOTIONS
THE BEAR-STORY
THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE
TOLD BY "THE NOTED TRAVELER"
HEAT-LIGHTNING
UNCLE MART'S POEM
"LITTLE JACK JANITOR"
A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less,To those who knew its boundless happiness.A simple old frame house—eight rooms in all—Set just one side the center of a smallBut very hopeful Indiana town,—The upper-story looking squarely downUpon the main street, and the main highwayFrom East to West,—historic in its day,Known as The National Road—old-timers, allWho linger yet, will happily recallIt as the scheme and handiwork, as wellAs property, of "Uncle Sam," and tellOf its importance, "long and long aforeRailroads wuz everdreamp' of!"—Furthermore,The reminiscent first InhabitantsWill make that old road blossom with romanceOf snowy caravans, in long paradeOf covered vehicles, of every gradeFrom ox-cart of most primitive design,To Conestoga wagons, with their fineDeep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear,High names and chiming bells—to childish earAnd eye entrancing as the glittering trainOf some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain.And, in like spirit, haply they will tellYou of the roadside forests, and the yellOf "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride,And "screechin' catamounts" on every side.—Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes,And yet unriddled mysteries of the timesCalled "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rareOld chronicler was asked, who brushed the hairOut of his twinkling eyes and said,—"Well John,They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!"The old home site was portioned into threeDistinctive lots. The front one—nativelyFacing to southward, broad and gaudy-fineWith lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine—The dwelling stood in; and behind that, andUpon the alley north and south, left hand,The old wood-house,—half, trimly stacked with wood,And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stoodSteadfastly through all seasons.—Over it,Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit,And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane—And little jack-plane, too—the children's vainPossession by pretense—in fancy theyManipulating it in endless play,Turning out countless curls and loops of bright,Fine satin shavings—Rapture infinite!Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old boxOf refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock'sOutline in "curly maple"; and a pairOf clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there.Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll,Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole"And careful tackle—all securely outOf reach of children, rummaging about.Beside the wood-house, with broad branches freeYet close above the roof, an apple-treeKnown as "The Prince's Harvest"—Magic phrase!That wasa boy's own tree, in many ways!—Its girth and height meet both for the caressOf his bare legs and his ambitiousness:And then its apples, humoring his whim,Seemed just to fairlyhurryripe for him—Even in June, impetuous as he,They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree.And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell!—And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss themwell"!"The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stoodIn fairly sympathetic neighborhoodOf this wild princeling with his early goldTo toss about so lavishly nor holdIn bounteous hoard to overbrim at onceAll Nature's lap when came the Autumn months.Under the spacious shade of this the eyesOf swinging children saw swift-changing skiesOf blue and green, with sunshine shot between,And "when the old cat died" they saw but green.And, then, there was a cherry-tree.—We allAnd severally will yet recallFrom our lost youth, in gentlest memory,The blessed fact—There was a cherry-tree.There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snowsCool even now the fevered sight that knowsNo more its airy visions of pure joy—As when you were a boy.There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay setHis blue against its white—O blue as jetHe seemed there then!—Butnow—Whoever knewHe was so pale a blue!There was a cherry-tree—Our child-eyes sawThe miracle:—Its pure white snows did thawInto a crimson fruitage, far too sweetBut for a boy to eat.There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!—There was a bloom of snow—There was a boy—There was a Bluejay of the realest blue—And fruit for both of you.Then the old garden, with the apple-treesGrouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees"By the "white-winter-pearmain"; and a rowOf currant-bushes; and a quince or so.The old grape-arbor in the center, byThe pathway to the stable, with the styBehind it, anduponit, cootering flocksOf pigeons, and the cutest "martin-box"!—Made like a sure-enough house—with roof, and doorsAnd windows in it, and veranda-floorsAnd balusters all 'round it—yes, and atEach end a chimney—painted red at thatAnd penciled white, to look like little bricks;And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks,Two tiny little lightning-rods were runStraight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun.Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.—Itmaybe you can guess who, afterwhile.Home in his stall, "Old Sorrel" munched his hayAnd oats and corn, and switched the flies away,In a repose of patience good to see,And earnest of the gentlest pedigree.With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazedUpon the gambols of a colt that grazedAround the edges of the lot outside,And kicked at nothing suddenly, and triedTo act grown-up and graceful and high-bred,But dropped,k'whop!and scraped the buggy-shed,Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hairUnder the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there.Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feetAnd whinneying a whinney like a bleat,He would pursue himself around the lotAnd—do the whole thing over, like as not!...Ah! what a life of constant fear and dreadAnd flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!Above the fences, either side, were seenThe neighbor-houses, set in plots of greenDooryards and greener gardens, tree and wallAlike whitewashed, and order in it all:The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spadeAnd hoe and rake and shovel all, when laidAside, were in their places, ready forThe hand of either the possessor orOf any neighbor, welcome to the loanOf any tool he might not chance to own.
Such was the Child-World of the long-ago—The little world these children used to know:—Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,Of the five happy little Hoosier chapsInhabiting this wee world all their own.—Johnty, the leader, with his native toneOf grave command—a general on paradeWhose each punctilious order was obeyedBy his proud followers.But Johnty yet—After all serious duties—could forgetThe gravity of life to the extent,At times, of kindling much astonishmentAbout him: With a quick, observant eye,And mind and memory, he could supplyThe tamest incident with liveliest mirth;And at the most unlooked-for times on earthWas wont to break into some travestyOn those around him—feats of mimicryOf this one's trick of gesture—that one's walk—Or this one's laugh—or that one's funny talk,—The way "the watermelon-man" would tryHis humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;—How he drove into town at morning—thenAt dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.Though these divertisements of Johnty's wereHailed with a hearty glee and relish, thereAppeared a sense, on his part, of regret—A spirit of remorse that would not letHim rest for days thereafter.—Such times he,As some boy said, "jist got too overlyBlame good fer common boys like us, you know,To 'sociate with—less'n we 'ud goAnd jine his church!"Next after Johnty cameHis little tow-head brother, Bud by name.—And O how white his hair was—and how thickHis face with freckles,—and his ears, how quickAnd curious and intrusive!—And how paleThe blue of his big eyes;—and how a taleOf Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them stillBigger and bigger!—and when "Jack" would killThe old "Four-headed Giant," Bud's big eyesWere swollen truly into giant-size.And Bud was apt in make-believes—would hearHis Grandma talk or read, with such an earAnd memory of both subject and big words,That he would take the book up afterwardsAnd feign to "read aloud," with such successAs caused his truthful elders real distress.But hemusthavebig words—they seemed to giveExtremer range to the superlative—That was his passion. "My Gran'ma," he said,One evening, after listening as she readSome heavy old historical review—With copious explanations thereuntoDrawn out by his inquiring turn of mind,—"My Gran'ma she's readallbooks—ever' kindThey is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' seaAn' Nations of the Earth!—An' she is theHistoricul-est woman ever wuz!"(Forgive the verse's chuckling as it doesIn its erratic current.—OftentimesThe little willowy waterbrook of rhymesMust falter in its music, listening toThe children laughing as they used to do.)Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow,Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending sprayThat dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill aTremulously tender song of greeting to the May.Ah, my lovely Willow!—Let the Waters lilt your graces,—They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above,Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady placesPeering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love.Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair,And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there.Her dignified and "little lady" airsOf never either romping up the stairsOr falling down them; thoughtful everywayOf others first—The kind of child at playThat "gave up," for the rest, the ripest pearOr peach or apple in the garden thereBeneath the trees where swooped the airy swing—She pushing it, too glad for anything!Or, in the character of hostess, sheWould entertain her friends delightfullyIn her play-house,—with strips of carpet laidAlong the garden-fence within the shadeOf the old apple-trees—where from next yardCame the two dearest friends in her regard,The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu—As shy and lovely as the lilies grewIn their idyllic home,—yet sometimes theyAdmitted Bud and Alex to their play,Who did their heavier work and helped them fixTo have a "Festibul"—and brought the bricksAnd built the "stove," with a real fire and all,And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tallAnd wonderfully smoky—even toTheir childish aspirations, as it blewAnd swooped and swirled about them till their sightWas feverish even as their high delight.Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaksOf temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks,And "amber-coloredhair"—his mother said'Twas that, when others laughed and called it "red"And Alex threw things at them—till they'd callA truce, agreeing "'t'uz n't redut-tall!"But Alex was affectionate beyondThe average child, and was extremely fondOf the paternal relatives of hisOf whom he once made estimate like this:—"I'monly gottwobrothers,—but myPaHe's got most brothers'n you ever saw!—He's gotsebenbrothers!—Yes, an' they're all mySeben Uncles!—Uncle John, an' Jim,—an' I'Got Uncle George, an' Uncle Andy, too,An' Uncle Frank, an' Uncle Joe.—An' youKnowUncleMart.—An', all buthim, they're greatBig mens!—An' nen s Aunt Sarah—she makes eight!—I'm goteightuncles!—'cept Aunt Sarahcan'tBe ist myuncle'cause she's ist myaunt!"Then, next to Alex—and the last indeedOf these five little ones of whom you read—Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp,—As though her Elfin lips had caught some wispOf floss between them as they strove with speech,Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach—Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could sayWith looks that made her meaning clear as day.And, knowing now the children, you must knowThe father and the mother they loved so:—The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed,Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, besideThe slender little mother, seemed in truthA very king of men—since, from his youth,To his hale manhoodnow—(worthy as then,—A lawyer and a leading citizenOf the proud little town and county-seat—His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)—He had known outdoor labor—rain and shine—Bleak Winter, and bland Summer—foul and fine.So Nature had ennobled him and setHer symbol on him like a coronet:His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.—Superior of stature as of grace,Even the children by the spell were wroughtUp to heroics of their simple thought,And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straightAnd tall, almost, as at the pasture-gateThe towering ironweed the scythe had sparedFor their sakes, when The Hired Man declaredIt would grow on till it became atree,With cocoanuts and monkeys in—maybe!Yet, though the children, in their pride and aweAnd admiration of the father, sawA being so exalted—even moreLike adoration was the love they boreThe gentle mother.—Her mild, plaintive faceWas purely fair, and haloed with a graceAnd sweetness luminous when joy made gladHer features with a smile; or saintly sadAs twilight, fell the sympathetic gloomOf any childish grief, or as a roomWere darkened suddenly, the curtain drawnAcross the window and the sunshine gone.Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands,Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing handsOr holiest touches of soft finger-tipsAnd little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips.Though heavy household tasks were pitiless,No little waist or coat or checkered dressBut knew her needle's deftness; and no skillMatched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill;Or fashioning, in complicate design,All rich embroideries of leaf and vine,With tiniest twining tendril,—bud and bloomAnd fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfumeAnd dainty touch and taste of them, to seeTheir semblance wrought in such rare verity.Shrined in her sanctity of home and love,And love's fond service and reward thereof,Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!—Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her kneeHer sewing—her workbasket on the floorBeside her,—Springtime through the open doorBalmily stealing in and all aboutThe room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shoutAnd laughter of the children at their play,And neighbor-children from across the wayCalling in gleeful challenge—save aloneOne boy whose voice sends back no answering tone—The boy, prone on the floor, above a bookOf pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look—Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell,Is lifted, with a light ineffable—As though her senses caught no mortal cry,But heard, instead, some poem going by.The Child-heart is so strange a little thing—So mild—so timorously shy and small.—Whengrown-uphearts throb, it goes scamperingBehind the wall, nor dares peer out at all!—It is the veriest mouseThat hides in any house—So wild a little thing is any Child-heart!Child-heart!—mild heart!—Ho, my little wild heart!—Come up here to me out o' the dark,Or let me come to you!So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be.With never one maturer heart for friendAnd comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathyAnd love might lend it comfort to the end,—Whose yearnings, aches and stings.Over poor little thingsWere pitiful as ever any Child-heart.Child-heart!—mild heart!—Ho, my little wild heart!—Come up here to me out o' the dark,Or let me come to you!Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad—Being so young, nor knowing, asweknow.The fact from fantasy, the good from bad,The joy from woe, the—allthat hurts us so!What wonder then that thusIt hides away from us?—So weak a little thing is any Child-heart!Child-heart!—mild heart!—Ho, my little wild heart!—Come up here to me out o' the dark,Or let me come to you!Nay, little Child-heart, you have never needTo fearus,—we are weaker far than you—Tiswewho should be fearful—we indeedShould hide us, too, as darkly as you do,—Safe, as yourself, withdrawn,Hearing the World roar onToo willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart!Child-heart!—mild heart!—Ho, my little wild heart!—Come up here to me out o' the dark,Or let me come to you!The clock chats on confidingly; a roseTaps at the window, as the sunlight throwsA brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shineAnd shadow, like a Persian-loom design,Across the homemade carpet—fades,—and thenThe dear old colors are themselves again.Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere—The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,Their sweet liquidity diluted someBy dewy orchard spaces they have come:Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway—The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neighOf overtraveled horses, and the bleatOf sheep and low of cattle through the street—A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears,First blazed by the heroic pioneersWho gave up old-home idols and set faceToward the unbroken West, to found a raceAnd tame a wilderness now mightier thanAll peoples and all tracts American.Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:—In mild remoteness falls the household dinOf porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thumpOf churning; and the "glung-glung" of the pump,With sudden pad and skurry of bare feetOf little outlaws, in from field or street:The clang of kettle,—rasp of damper-ringAnd bang of cookstove-door—and everythingThat jingles in a busy kitchen liftsIts individual wrangling voice and driftsIn sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery toneOf music hungry ear has ever knownIn wildest famished yearning and conceitOf youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!—The zest of hunger still incited onTo childish desperation by long-drawnBreaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stewAnd blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too,Filling the sense with zestful rumors ofThe dear old-fashioned dinners children love:Redolent savorings of home-cured meats,Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beetsAnd parsnips—rarest composite entireThat ever pushed a mortal child's desireTo madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharpHorseradish—tang that sets the lips awarpAnd watery, anticipating allThe cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.—Still add the cinnamony, spicy scentsOf clove, nutmeg, and myriad condimentsIn like-alluring whiffs that prophesyOf sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie—The swooning-sweet aroma haunting allThe house—upstairs and down—porch, parlor, hallAnd sitting-room—invading even whereThe Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air,And pauses in his pruning of the treesTo note the sun minutely and to—sneeze.Then Cousin Rufus comes—the children hearHis hale voice in the old hall, ringing clearAs any bell. Always he came with songUpon his lips and all the happy throngOf echoes following him, even as the crowdOf his admiring little kinsmen—proudTo have a cousingrown—and yet as youngOf soul and cheery as the songs he sung.He was a student of the law—intentSoundly to win success, with all it meant;And so he studied—even as he played,—With all his heart: And so it was he madeHis gallant fight for fortune—through all stressOf battle bearing him with cheerinessAnd wholesome valor.And the children hadAnother relative who kept them gladAnd joyous by his very merry ways—As blithe and sunny as the summer days,—Their father's youngest brother—Uncle Mart.The old "Arabian Nights" he knew by heart—"Baron Munchausen," too; and likewise "TheSwiss Family Robinson."—And when these threeGave out, as he rehearsed them, he could goStraight on in the same line—a steady flowOf arabesque invention that his goodOld mother never clearly understood.Hewasto be aprinter—wanted, though,To be anactor.—But the world was "show"Enough forhim,—theatric, airy, gay,—Each day to him was jolly as a play.And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth,Were certain.—And, from his apprentice youth,He joyed in verse-quotations—which he tookOut of the old "Type Foundry Specimen Book."He craved and courted most the favor ofThe children.—They were foremost in his love;And pleasingthem, he pleased his own boy-heartAnd kept it young and fresh in every part.So was it he devised for them and wroughtTo life his quaintest, most romantic thought:—Like some lone castaway in alien seas,He built a house up in the apple-trees,Out in the corner of the garden, whereNo man-devouring native, prowling there,Might pounce upon them in the dead o' night—For lo, their little ladder, slim and light,They drew up after them. And it was knownThat Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes aloneAnd drew the ladder in, to lie and moonOver some novel all the afternoon.And one time Johnty, from the crowd below,—Outraged to find themselves deserted so—Threw bodily their old black cat up inThe airy fastness, with much yowl and din.Resulting, while a wild peripheryOf cat went circling to another tree,And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle MartLoomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart:"'Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger!What led thee hither 'mongst the types and cases?Didst thou not know that running midnight racesO'er standing types was fraught with imminent danger?Did hunger lead thee—didst thou think to findSome rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw?Vain hope! for none but literary jawCan masticate our cookery for the mind!'"So likewise when, with lordly air and grace,He strode to dinner, with a tragic faceWith ink-spots on it from the office, heWould aptly quote more "Specimen-poetry—"Perchance like "'Labor's bread is sweet to eat,(Ahem!) And toothsome is the toiler's meat.'"Ah, could you see themall, at lull of noon!—A sort ofboisterouslull, with clink of spoonAnd clatter of deflecting knife, and plateDropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight,And dragged in place voraciously; and thenPent exclamations, and the lull again.—The garland of glad faces 'round the board—Each member of the family restoredTo his or her place, with an extra chairOr two for the chance guests so often there.—The father's farmer-client, brought home fromThe courtroom, though he "didn'twantto comeTel he jist saw hehatto!" he'd explain,Invariably, time and time again,To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressedAnother cup of coffee on the guest.—Or there was Johnty's special chum, perchance,Or Bud's, or both—each childish countenanceLit with a higher glow of youthful glee,To be together thus unbrokenly,—Jim Offutt, or Eck Skinner, or George Carr—The very nearest chums of Bud's these are,—So, very probably,oneof the three,At least, is there with Bud, oroughtto be.Like interchange the town-boys each had known—His playmate's dinner better than his own—Yetblest that he was ever made to stayAtAlmon Keefer's, anyblessed day,Foranymeal!... Visions of biscuits, hotAnd flaky-perfect, with the golden blotOf molten butter for the center, clear,Through pools of clover-honey—dear-o-dear!—With creamy milk for its divine "farewell":And then, if any one delectableMight yet exceed in sweetness, O restoreThe cherry-cobbler of the days of yoreMade only by Al Keefer's mother!—Why,The very thought of it ignites the eyeOf memory with rapture—cloys the lipOf longing, till it seems to ooze and dripWith veriest juice and stain and overwasteOf that most sweet delirium of tasteThat ever visited the childish tongue,Or proved, as now, the sweetest thing unsung.
Ah, Almon Keefer! what a boy you were,With your back-tilted hat and careless hair,And open, honest, fresh, fair face and eyesWith their all-varying looks of pleased surpriseAnd joyous interest in flower and tree,And poising humming-bird, and maundering bee.The fields and woods he knew; the tireless trampWith gun and dog; and the night-fisher's camp—No other boy, save Bee Lineback, had wonSuch brilliant mastery of rod and gun.Even in his earliest childhood had he shownThese traits that marked him as his father's own.Dogs all paid Almon honor and bow-wowedAllegiance, let him come in any crowdOf rabbit-hunting town-boys, even thoughHis own dog "Sleuth" rebuked their acting soWith jealous snarls and growlings.But the bestOf Almon's virtues—leading all the rest—Was his great love of books, and skill as wellIn reading them aloud, and by the spellThereof enthralling his mute listeners, asThey grouped about him in the orchard grass,Hinging their bare shins in the mottled shineAnd shade, as they lay prone, or stretched supineBeneath their favorite tree, with dreamy eyesAnd Argo-fandes voyaging the skies."Tales of the Ocean" was the name of oneOld dog's-eared book that was surpassed by noneOf all the glorious list.—Its back was gone,But its vitality went bravely onIn such delicious tales of land and seaAs may not ever perish utterly.Of still more dubious caste, "Jack Sheppard" drewFull admiration; and "Dick Turpin," too.And, painful as the fact is to convey,In certain lurid tales of their own day,These boys found thieving heroes and outlawsThey hailed with equal fervor of applause:"The League of the Miami"—why, the nameAlone was fascinating—is the same,In memory, this venerable hourOf moral wisdom shorn of all its power,As it unblushingly reverts to whenThe old barn was "the Cave," and hears againThe signal blown, outside the buggy-shed—The drowsy guard within uplifts his head,And "'Who goes there?'" is called, in bated breath—The challenge answered in a hush of death,—"Sh!—'Barney Gray!'" And then "'What do you seek?'""'Stables of The League!'" the voice comes spent and weak,For, ha! theLawis on the "Chieftain's" trail—Tracked to his very lair!—Well, what avail?The "secret entrance" opens—closes.—SoThe "Robber-Captain" thus outwits his foe;And, safe once more within his "cavern-halls,"He shakes his clenched fist at the warped plank-wallsAnd mutters his defiance through the cracksAt the balked Enemy's retreating backsAs the loud horde flees pell-mell down the lane,And—Almon Keeferis himself again!Excepting few, they were not books indeedOf deep import that Almon chose to read;—Less fact than fiction.—Much he favored those—If not in poetry, in hectic prose—That made our native Indian a wild,Feathered and fine-preened hero that a childCould recommend as just about the thingTo make a god of, or at least a king.Aside from Almon's own books—two or three—His store of lore The Township LibrarySupplied him weekly: All the books with "or"s—Sub-titled—lured him—after "Indian Wars,"And "Life of Daniel Boone,"—not to includeSome few books spiced with humor,—"Robin Hood"And rare "Don Quixote."—And one time he took"Dadd's Cattle Doctor."... How he hugged the bookAnd hurried homeward, with internal gleeAnd humorous spasms of expectancy!—All this confession—as he promptly madeIt, the day later, writhing in the shadeOf the old apple-tree with Johnty andBud, Noey Bixler, and The Hired Hand—Was quite as funny as the book was not....O Wonderland of wayward Childhood! whatAn easy, breezy realm of summer calmAnd dreamy gleam and gloom and bloom and balmThou art!—The Lotus-Land the poet sung,It is the Child-World while the heart beats young....While the heart beats young!—O the splendor of the Spring,With all her dewy jewels on, is not so fair a thing!The fairest, rarest morning of the blossom-time of MayIs not so sweet a season as the season of to-dayWhile Youth's diviner climate folds and holds us, close caressed,As we feel our mothers with us by the touch of face and breast;—Our bare feet in the meadows, and our fancies up amongThe airy clouds of morning—while the heart beats young.While the heart beats young and our pulses leap and dance.With every day a holiday and life a glad romance,—We hear the birds with wonder, and with wonder watch their flight—Standing still the more enchanted, both of hearing and of sight,When they have vanished wholly,—for, in fancy, wing-to-wingWe fly to Heaven with them; and, returning, still we singThe praises of this lower Heaven with tireless voice and tongue,Even as the Master sanctions—while the heart beats young.While the heart beats young!—While the heart beats young!O green and gold old Earth of ours, with azure overhungAnd looped with rainbows!—grant us yet this grassy lap of thine—We would be still thy children, through the shower and the shine!So pray we, lisping, whispering, in childish love and trustWith our beseeching hands and faces lifted from the dustBy fervor of the poem, all unwritten and unsung,Thou givest us in answer, while the heart beats young.
Another hero of those youthful yearsReturns, as Noey Bixler's name appears.And Noey—if in any special way—Was notably good-natured.—Work or playHe entered into with selfsame delight—A wholesome interest that made him quiteAs many friends among the old as young,—So everywhere were Noey's praises sung.And he was awkward, fat and overgrown,With a round full-moon face, that fairly shoneAs though to meet the simile's demand.And, cumbrous though he seemed, both eye and handWere dowered with the discernment and deft skillOf the true artisan: He shaped at will,In his old father's shop, on rainy days,Little toy-wagons, and curved-runner sleighs;The trimmest bows and arrows—fashioned, too.Of "seasoned timber," such as Noey knewHow to select, prepare, and then complete,And call his little friends in from the street."The verybestbow," Noey used to say,"Haint made o' ash ner hick'ry thataway!—But you gitmulberry—thebearin'-tree,Now mind ye! and you fetch the piece to me,And lem me git itseasoned; then, i gum!I'll make a bow 'at you kin brag on some!Er—ef you can't gitmulberry,—you bringMe a' oldlocus' hitch-post, and i jing!I'll make a bow o'that'atcommonbowsWon't dast to pick on ner turn up their nose!"And Noey knew the woods, and all the trees,And thickets, plants and myriad mysteriesOf swamp and bottom-land. And he knew whereThe ground-hog hid, and why located there.—He knew all animals that burrowed, swam,Or lived in tree-tops: And, by race and dam,He knew the choicest, safest deeps whereinFish-traps might flourish nor provoke the sinOf theft in some chance peeking, prying sneak,Or town-boy, prowling up and down the creek.All four-pawed creatures tamable—he knewTheir outer and their inner natures too;While they, in turn, were drawn to him as bySome subtle recognition of a tieOf love, as true as truth from end to end,Between themselves and this strange human friend.The same with birds—he knew them every one,And he could "name them, too, without a gun."No wonderJohntyloved him, even toThe verge of worship.—Noey led him throughThe art of trapping redbirds—yes, and taughtHim how to keep them when he had them caught—What food they needed, and just where to swingThe cage, if he expected them tosing.AndBudloved Noey, for the little pairOf stilts he made him; or the stout old hairTrunk Noey put on wheels, and laid a trackOf scantling-railroad for it in the backPart of the barn-lot; or the cross-bow, madeJust like a gun, which deadly weapon laidAgainst his shoulder as he aimed, and—"Sping!"He'd hear the rusty old nail zoon and sing—Andzip!your Mr. Bluejay's wing would dropA farewell-feather from the old tree-top!AndMaymieloved him, for the very smallBut perfect carriage for her favorite doll—Alady'scarriage—not ababy-cab,—But oilcloth top, and two seats, lined with drabAnd trimmed with white lace-paper from a caseOf shaving-soap his uncle bought some placeAt auction once.AndAlexloved him yetThe best, when Noey brought him, for a pet,A little flying-squirrel, with great eyes—Big as a child's: And, childlike otherwise,It was at first a timid, tremulous, coy,Retiring little thing that dodged the boyAnd tried to keep in Noey's pocket;—till,In time, responsive to his patient will,It became wholly docile, and contentWith its new master, as he came and went,—The squirrel clinging flatly to his breast,Or sometimes scampering its craziestAround his body spirally, and thenDown to his very heels and up again.AndLittle Lizzieloved him, as a beeLoves a great ripe red apple—utterly.For Noey's ruddy morning-face she drewThe window-blind, and tapped the window, too;Afar she hailed his coming, as she heardHis tuneless whistling—sweet as any birdIt seemed to her, the one lame bar or soOf old "Wait for the Wagon"—hoarse and lowThe sound was,—so that, all about the place,Folks joked and said that Noey "whistled bass"—The light remark originally madeBy Cousin Rufus, who knew notes, and playedThe flute with nimble skill, and taste as wall,And, critical as he was musical,Regarded Noey's constant whistling thus"Phenominally unmelodious."Likewise when Uncle Mart, who shared the loveOf jest with Cousin Rufus hand-in-glove,Said "Noey couldn't whistle 'Bonny Doon'Even! and,he'dbet, couldn't carry a tuneIf it had handles to it!"—But forgiveThe deviations here so fugitive,And turn again to Little Lizzie, whoseHigh estimate of Noey we shall chooseAbove all others.—And to her he wasParticularly lovable becauseHe laid the woodland's harvest at her feet.—He brought her wild strawberries, honey-sweetAnd dewy-cool, in mats of greenest mossAnd leaves, all woven over and acrossWith tender, biting "tongue-grass," and "sheep-sour,"And twin-leaved beach-mast, prankt with bud and flowerOf every gypsy-blossom of the wild,Dark, tangled forest, dear to any child.—All these in season. Nor could barren, drear,White and stark-featured Winter interfereWith Noey's rare resources: Still the sameHe blithely whistled through the snow and cameBeneath the window with a Fairy sled;And Little Lizzie, bundled heels-and-head,He took on such excursions of delightAs even "Old Santy" with his reindeer mightHave envied her! And, later, when the snowWas softening toward Springtime and the glowOf steady sunshine smote upon it,—thenCame the magician Noey yet again—While all the children were away a dayOr two at Grandma's!—and behold when theyGot home once more;—there, towering taller thanThe doorway—stood a mighty, old Snow-Man!A thing of peerless art—a masterpieceDoubtless unmatched by even classic GreeceIn heyday of Praxiteles.—AloneIt loomed in lordly grandeur all its own.And steadfast, too, for weeks and weeks it stood,The admiration of the neighborhoodAs well as of the children Noey soughtOnly to honor in the work he wrought.The traveler paid it tribute, as he passedAlong the highway—paused and, turning, castA lingering, last look—as though to takeA vivid print of it, for memory's sake,To lighten all the empty, aching milesBeyond with brighter fancies, hopes and smiles.The cynic put aside his biting witAnd tacitly declared in praise of it;And even the apprentice-poet of the townRose to impassioned heights, and then sat downAnd penned a panegyric scroll of rhymeThat made the Snow-Man famous for all time.And though, as now, the ever warmer sunOf summer had so melted and undoneThe perishable figure that—alas!—Not even in dwindled white against the grass—Was left its latest and minutest ghost,The children yet—materially, almost—Beheld it—circled 'round it hand-in-hand—(Or rather 'round the place it used to stand)—With "Ring-a-round-a-rosy! Bottle fullO' posey!" and, with shriek and laugh, would pullFrom seeming contact with it—just as whenIt was thereal-estof old Snow-Men.