Even in such a scene of senseless playThe children were surprised one summer-dayBy a strange man who called across the fence,Inquiring for their father's residence;And, being answered that this was the place,Opened the gate, and with a radiant face,Came in and sat down with them in the shadeAnd waited—till the absent father madeHis noon appearance, with a warmth and zestThat told he had no ordinary guestIn this man whose low-spoken name he knewAt once, demurring as the stranger drewA stuffy notebook out and turned and setA big fat finger on a page and letThe writing thereon testify insteadOf further speech. And as the father readAll silently, the curious children tookExacting inventory both of bookAnd man:—He wore a long-napped white fur-hatPulled firmly on his head, and under thatRather long silvery hair, or iron-gray—For he was not an old man,—anyway,Not beyond sixty. And he wore a pairOf square-framed spectacles—or rather thereWere two more than a pair,—the extra twoFlared at the corners, at the eyes' side-view,In as redundant vision as the eyesOf grasshoppers or bees or dragonflies.Later the children heard the father sayHe was "A Noted Traveler," and would staySome days with them—In which time host and guestDiscussed, alone, in deepest interest,Some vague, mysterious matter that defiedThe wistful children, loitering outsideThe spare-room door. There Bud acquired a quiteNew list of big words—such as "Disunite,"And "Shibboleth," and "Aristocracy,"And "Juggernaut," and "Squatter Sovereignty,"And "Anti-slavery," "Emancipate,""Irrepressible conflict," and "The GreatBattle of Armageddon"—obviouslyA pamphlet brought from Washington, D. C.,And spread among such friends as might occurOf like views with "The Noted Traveler."
Whileanyday was notable and dearThat gave the children Noey, history hereRecords his advent emphasized indeedWith sharp italics, as he came to feedThe stock one special morning, fair and bright,When Johnty and Bud met him, with delightUnusual even as their extra dress—Garbed as for holiday, with much excessOf proud self-consciousness and vain conceitIn their new finery.—Far up the streetThey called to Noey, as he came, that they,As promised, both were going back that dayTohishouse with him!And by time that eachHad one of Noey's hands—ceasing their speechAnd coyly anxious, in their new attire,To wake the comment of their mute desire,—Noey seemed rendered voiceless. Quite a whileThey watched him furtively.—He seemed to smileAs though he would conceal it; and they sawHim look away, and his lips purse and drawIn curious, twitching spasms, as though he mightBe whispering,—while in his eye the whitePredominated strangely.—Then the spellGave way, and his pent speech burst audible:"They wuz two stylish little boys,and they wuz mighty bold ones,Had two new pairs o' britches madeout o' their daddy's old ones!"And at the inspirational outbreak,Both joker and his victims seemed to takeAn equal share of laughter,—and all throughTheir morning visit kept recurring toThe funny words and jingle of the rhymeThat just kept getting funnier all the time.
At Noey's house—when they arrived with him—How snug seemed everything, and neat and trim:The little picket-fence, and little gate—It's little pulley, and its little weight,—All glib as clock-work, as it clicked behindThem, on the little red brick pathway, linedWith little paint-keg-vases and teapotsOf wee moss-blossoms and forgetmenots:And in the windows, either side the door,Were ranged as many little boxes moreOf like old-fashioned larkspurs, pinks and mossAnd fern and phlox; while up and down acrossThem rioted the morning-glory-vinesOn taut-set cotton-strings, whose snowy linesWhipt in and out and under the bright greenLike basting-threads; and, here and there between,A showy, shiny hollyhock would flareIts pink among the white and purple there.—And still behind the vines, the children sawA strange, bleached, wistful face that seemed to drawA vague, indefinite sympathy. A faceIt was of some newcomer to the place.—In explanation, Noey, briefly, saidThat it was "Jason," as he turned and ledThe little fellows 'round the house to showThem his menagerie of pets. And soFor quite a time the face of the strange guestWas partially forgotten, as they pressedAbout the squirrel-cage and rousted bothThe lazy inmates out, though wholly loathTo whirl the wheel for them.—And then with aweThey walked 'round Noey's big pet owl, and sawHim film his great, clear, liquid eyes and stareAnd turn and turn and turn his head 'round thereThe same way they kept circling—as though heCould turn it one way thus eternally.Behind the kitchen, then, with special prideNoey stirred up a terrapin insideThe rain-barrel where he lived, with three or fourLittle mud-turtles of a size not moreIn neat circumference than the tiny toyDumb-watches worn by every little boy.Then, back of the old shop, beneath the treeOf "rusty-coats," as Noey called them, heNext took the boys, to show his favorite newPet 'coon—pulled rather coyly into viewUp through a square hole in the bottom ofAn old inverted tub he bent above,Yanking a little chain, with "Hey! you, sir!Here'scomp'nycome to see you, Bolivur!"Explanatory, he went on to say,"I named him 'Bolivur' jes thisaway,—He looks soroundandovalishandfat,'Peared like no other name 'ud fit but that."Here Noey's father called and sent him onSome errand. "Wait," he said—"I won't be goneA half a' hour.—Take Bud, and go on inWhere Jason is, tel I git back agin."WhoeverJasonwas, they found him thereStill at the front-room window.—By his chairLeaned a new pair of crutches; and from oneKnee down, a leg was bandaged.—"Jason doneThat-air with one o' these-'ere toolswecallA 'shin-hoe'—but afoot-adzmostly allHardware-store-keepers calls 'em."—(NoeymadeThis explanation later.)Jason paidBut little notice to the boys as theyCame in the room:—An idle volume layUpon his lap—the only book in sight—And Johnty read the title,—"Light, More Light,There's Danger in the Dark,"—thoughfirstand best—In fact, thewholeof Jason's interestSeemed centered on a littledog—one petOf Noey's all uncelebrated yet—ThoughJason, certainly, avowed his worth,And niched him over all the pets on earth—As the observant Johnty would relateTheJason-episode, and imitateThe all-enthusiastic speech and airOf Noey's kinsman and his tribute there:—
"That little dog 'ud scratch at that doorAnd go on a-whinin' two hours beforeHe'd ever let up!There!—Jane: Let him in.—(Hah, there, you little rat!) Look at him grin!Come down off o' that!—W'y, look at him! (DratYou! you-rascal-you!)—bring me that hat!Lookout!—He'll snapyou!—Hewouldn't letYoutake it away from him, now you kin bet!That little rascal's jist natchurly mean.—I tell you, Inever(Git out!!) never seenAspunkierlittle rip! (Scratch to git in,Andnowyer a-scratchin' to gitoutagin!Jane: Let him out!) Now, watch him from hereOut through the winder!—You notice one earKindo'inside-out, like he holds it?—Well,He'sgot atickin it—Ikin tell!Yes, and he's cunnin'—Jist watch him a-runnin',Sidelin'—see!—like he ain't 'plum'd true'And legs don't 'track' as they'd ort to do:—Plowin' his nose through the weeds—I jing!Ain't he jist cuter'n anything!"W'y, that little dog's gotgrown-people's sense!—See how he gits out under the fence?—And watch him a-whettin' his hind-legs 'foreHis dead square run of a miled er more—'CauseNoey's a-comin', and Trip allus knowsWhenNoey's a-comin'—and off he goes!—Putts out to meet him and—There they come now!Well-sir! it's raially singalar howThat dog kintell,—But he knows as wellWhen Noey's a-comin' home!—Reckon hissmell'Ud carry two miled?—You needn't tosmile—He runs to meethim, ever'-once-n-a-while,Two miled and over—when he's slipped awayAnd left him at home here, as he's done to-day—'Thout ever knowin' where Noey wuz goin'—But that little dog allus hits the right way!Hear him a-whinin' and scratchin' agin?—(Little tormentin' fice!) Jane: Let him in."—You say he ain'tthere?—Well now, I declare!—Lemmelimp out and look! ... I wunder where—Heuh, Trip!—Heuh, Trip!—Heuh, Trip!...There—Therehe is!—Little sneak!—What-a'-you-'bout?—Therehe is—quiled up as meek as a mouse,His tail turnt up like a teakittle-spout,A-sunnin' hisse'f at the side o' the house!Nexttime you scratch, sir, you'll haf to git in,My fine little feller, the best way you kin!—Noeyhelearns him sich capers!—And they—Bothof 'em's ornrier every day!—Bothtantalizin' and meaner'n sin—Allus a—(Listen there!)—Jane: Let him in."—O! yer soinnocent!hangin' yer head!—(Drat ye! you'dbettergit under the bed!)—Listen at that!—He's tackled the cat!—Hah, there! you little rip! come out o' that!—Git yer blame little eyes scratched out'Fore you know what yer talkin' about!—Here!come away from there!—(Let him alone—He'll snapyou, I tell ye, as quick as a bone!)Hi, Trip!—Hey, here!—What-a'-you-'bout!—Oo! ouch!'Ll I'll be blamed!—Blast ye!GIT OUT!... O, it ain't nothin'—jistscratchedme, you see.—Hadn't no idy he'd try to biteme!Plague take him!—Bet he'll not trythatagin!—Hear him yelp.—(Pore feller!) Jane: Let him in."
"Hey, Bud! O Bud!" rang out a gleeful call,—"The Loehrs is come to your house!" And a smallBut very much elated little chap,In snowy linen-suit and tasseled cap,Leaped from the back-fence just across the streetFrom Bixlers', and came galloping to meetHis equally delighted little pairOf playmates, hurrying out to join him there—"The Loehrs is come!—The Loehrs is come!" his gleeAugmented to a pitch of ecstasyCommunicated wildly, till the cry"The Loehrs is come!" in chorus quavered highAnd thrilling as some paean of challenge orSoul-stirring chant of armied conqueror.And who thisavant courierof "the Loehrs"?—This happiest of all boys out-o'-doors—Who but Will Pierson, with his heart's excessOf summer-warmth and light and breeziness!"From our front winder I 'uz first to see'Em all a-drivin' into town!" bragged he—"An' seen 'em turnin' up the alley whereYourfolks lives at. An' John an' Jake wuz thereBoth in the wagon;—yes, an' Willy, too;An' Mary—Yes, an' Edith—with bran-newAn' purtiest-trimmed hats 'at ever wuz!—An' Susan, an' Janey.—An' theHammonds-uzIn their fine buggy 'at they're ridin' roun'So much, all over an' aroun' the townAn'ever'wheres,—themcity-people who'sA-visutin' at Loehrs-uz!"Glorious news!—Even more glorious when verifiedIn the boys' welcoming eyes of love and pride,As one by one they greeted their old friendsAnd neighbors.—Nor until their earth-life endsWill that bright memory become less brightOr dimmed indeed.... Again, at candle-light,The faces all are gathered. And how gladThe Mother's features, knowing that she hadHer dear, sweet Mary Loehr back again.—She always was so proud of her; and thenThe dear girl, in return, was happy, too,And with a heart as loving, kind and trueAs that maturer one which seemed to blendAs one the love of mother and of friend.From time to time, as hand-in-hand they sat,The fair girl whispered something low, whereatA tender, wistful look would gather inThe mother-eyes; and then there would beginA sudden cheerier talk, directed toThe stranger guests—the man and woman who,It was explained, were coming now to makeTheir temporary home in town for sakeOf the wife's somewhat failing health. Yes, theyWere city-people, seeking rest this way,The man said, answering a query madeBy some well meaning neighbor—with a shadeOf apprehension in the answer.... No,—They had nochildren. As he answered so,The man's arm went about his wife, and sheLeant toward him, with her eyes lit prayerfully:Then she arose—he following—and bentAbove the little sleeping innocentWithin the cradle at the mother's side—He patting her, all silent, as she cried.—Though, haply, in the silence that ensued,His musings made melodious interlude.In the warm, health-giving weatherMy poor pale wife and IDrive up and down the little townAnd the pleasant roads thereby:Out in the wholesome countryWe wind, from the main highway,In through the wood's green solitudes—Fair as the Lord's own Day.We have lived so long together.And joyed and mourned as one,That each with each, with a look for speech,Or a touch, may talk as noneBut Love's elect may comprehend—Why, the touch of her hand on mineSpeaks volume-wise, and the smile of her eyes,To me, is a song divine.There are many places that lure us:—"The Old Wood Bridge" just westOf town we know—and the creek below,And the banks the boys love best:And "Beech Grove," too, on the hill-top;And "The Haunted House" beyond,With its roof half off, and its old pump-troughAdrift in the roadside pond.We find our way to "The Marshes"—At least where they used to be;And "The Old Camp Grounds"; and "The Indian Mounds,"And the trunk of "The Council Tree:"We have crunched and splashed through "Flint-bed Ford";And at "Old Big Bee-gum Spring"We have stayed the cup, half lifted up.Hearing the redbird sing.And then, there is "Wesley Chapel,"With its little graveyard, loneAt the crossroads there, though the sun sets fairOn wild-rose, mound and stone ...A wee bed under the willows—My wife's hand on my own—And our horse stops, too ... And we hear the cooOf a dove in undertone.The dusk, the dew, and the silence."Old Charley" turns his headHomeward then by the pike again,Though never a word is said—One more stop, and a lingering one—After the fields and farms,—At the old Toll Gate, with the woman awaitWith a little girl in her arms.
The silence sank—Floretty came to callThe children in the kitchen, where they allWent helter-skeltering with shout and dinEnough to drown most sanguine silence in,—For well indeed they knew that summons meantTaffy and popcorn—so with cheers they went.
The Hired Man's supper, which he sat before,In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-doorAnd one leaf of the kitchen-table, wasSomewhat belated, and in lifted pauseHis dextrous knife was balancing a bitOf fried mush near the port awaiting it.At the glad children's advent—gladder stillTo findhimthere—"Jest tickled fit to killTo see ye all!" he said, with unctious cheer.—"I'm tryin'-like to he'p Floretty hereTo git things cleared away and give ye roomAccordin' to yer stren'th. But I p'sumeIt's a pore boarder, as the poet says,That quarrels with his victuals, so I guessI'll take another wedge o' that-air cake,Florett', that you're a-learnin' how to bake."He winked and feigned to swallow painfully.—"Jest 'fore ye all come in, Floretty sheWas boastin' 'bout herbiscuits—and theyairAs good—sometimes—as you'll find anywhere.—But, women gits to braggin' on theirbread,I'm s'picious 'bout theirpie—as Danty said."This raillery Floretty strangely seemedTo take as compliment, and fairly beamedWith pleasure at it all.—"Speakin' o'bread—When she come here to live," The Hired Man said,—"Never ben out o'Freeport'fore she comeUp here,—of course she needed 'speriencesome.—So, one day, when yer Ma was goin' to setThe risin' fer some bread, she sent FlorettTo borryleaven, 'crost at Ryans'—So,She went and asked fertwelve.—She didn'tknow,But thought,whatever'twuz, that she could keepOneferherse'f, she said. O she wuz deep!"Some little evidence of favor hailedThe Hired Man's humor; but it wholly failedTo touch the serious Susan Loehr, whose airAnd thought rebuked them all to listening thereTo her brief history of thecity-manAnd his pale wife—"A sweeter woman thanSheever saw!"—So Susan testified,—And so attested all the Loehrs beside.—So entertaining was the history, thatThe Hired Man, in the corner where he satIn quiet sequestration, shelling corn,Ceased wholly, listening, with a face forlornAs Sorrow's own, while Susan, John and JakeTold of these strangers who had come to makeSome weeks' stay in the town, in hopes to gainOnce more the health the wife had sought in vain:Their doctor, in the city, used to knowThe Loehrs—Dan and Rachel—years ago,—And so had sent a letter and requestFor them to take a kindly interestIn favoring the couple all they could—To find some home-place for them, if they would,Among their friends in town. He ended byA dozen further lines, explaining whyHis patient must have change of scene and air—New faces, and the simple friendships thereWiththem, which might, in time, make her forgetA grief that kept her ever brooding yetAnd wholly melancholy and depressed,—Nor yet could she find sleep by night nor restBy day, for thinking—thinking—thinking still \Upon a grief beyond the doctor's skill,—The death of her one little girl."Pore thing!"Floretty sighed, and with the turkey-wingBrushed off the stove-hearth softly, and peered inThe kettle of molasses, with her thinVoice wandering into song unconsciously—In purest, if most witless, sympathy.—"'Then sleep no more:Around thy heartSome ten-der dream may i-dlee play.But mid-night song,With mad-jick art,Will chase that dree muh-way!'""That-air besetment of Floretty's," saidThe Hired Man,—"singin—sheinhairited,—Herfatherwuz addicted—same as her—To singin'—yes, and played the dulcimer!But—gittin' back,—I s'pose yer talkin' 'boutThemHammondses. Well, Hammond he gits outPattentson things—inventions-like, I'm told—And's got more money'n a house could hold!And yit he can't git up no pattent-rightTo do away withdyin'.—And he mightBe worth amillion, but he couldn't findNobody sellin'healthof any kind!...But they's no thing onhandier fermeTo use than other people's misery.—Floretty, hand me that-air skillet thereAnd lem me git 'er het up, so's them-airChildern kin have their popcorn."It was goodTo hear him now, and so the children stoodCloser about him, waiting."Things toeat,"The Hired Man went on, "'s mighty hard to beat!Now, whenIwuz a boy, we was so pore,My parunts couldn't 'ford popcorn no moreTo pampermewith;—so, I hat to goWithoutpopcorn—sometimes ayearer so!—Andsuffer'n' saints!how hungry I would gitFer jest one other chance—like this—at it!Many and many a time I'vedreamp', at night,About popcorn,—all busted open white,And hot, you know—and jest enough o' saltAnd butter on it fer to find no fault—Oomh!—Well! as I was goin' on to say,—After a-dreamin' of it thataway,Thenhavin' to wake up and find it's allAdream, and hain't got no popcorn at-tall,Ner hainthadnone—I'd think, 'Well, where's the use!'And jest lay back and sob the plaster'n' loose!And I haveprayed, whateverhappened, it'Ud eether be popcorn er death!.... And yitI've noticed—more'n likely so have you—That things don't happen when youwant'em to."And thus he ran on artlessly, with speechAnd work in equal exercise, till eachTureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greasedThe saucers ready for the wax, and seizedThe fragrant-steaming kettle, at a signMade by Floretty; and, each child in line,He led out to the pump—where, in the dimNew coolness of the night, quite near to himHe felt Floretty's presence, fresh and sweetAs ... dewy night-air after kitchen-heat.There, still, with loud delight of laugh and jest,They plied their subtle alchemy with zest—Till, sudden, high above their tumult, welledOut of the sitting-room a song which heldThem stilled in some strange rapture, listeningTo the sweet blur of voices chorusing:—"'When twilight approaches the seasonThat ever is sacred to song,Does some one repeat my name over,And sigh that I tarry so long?And is there a chord in the musicThat's missed when my voice is away?—And a chord in each heart that awakensRegret at my wearisome stay-ay—Regret at my wearisome stay.'"All to himself, The Hired Man thought—"Of courseThey'llsingFlorettyhomesick!"... O strange sourceOf ecstasy! O mystery of Song!—To hear the dear old utterance flow along:—"'Do they set me a chair near the tableWhen evening's home-pleasures are nigh?—When the candles are lit in the parlor.And the stars in the calm azure sky.'"...Just then the moonlight sliced the porch slantwise,And flashed in misty spangles in the eyesFloretty clenched—while through the dark—"I jing!"A voice asked, "Where's that song 'you'dlearn to singEf I sent you theballat?'—which I doneLast I was home at Freeport.—S'pose you runAnd git it—and we'll all go in to whereThey'll know the notes and sing it fer ye there."And up the darkness of the old stairwayFloretty fled, without a word to say—Save to herself some whisper muffled byHer apron, as she wiped her lashes dry.Returning, with a letter, which she laidUpon the kitchen-table while she madeA hasty crock of "float,"—poured thence intoA deep glass dish of iridescent hueAnd glint and sparkle, with an overflowOf froth to crown it, foaming white as snow.—And then—poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare,For its delicious complement,—with airOf Hebe mortalized, she led her vanOf votaries, rounded by The Hired Man.
Within the sitting-room, the companyHad been increased in number. Two or threeYoung couples had been added: Emma King,Ella and Mary Mathers—all could singLike veritable angels—Lydia Martin, too,And Nelly Millikan.—What songs they knew!—"'Ever of Thee—wherever I may be,Fondly I'm drea-m-ing ever of thee!'"And with their gracious voices blend the graceOf Warsaw Barnett's tenor; and the bassUnfathomed of Wick Chapman—Fancy stillCanfeel, as well ashearit, thrill on thrill,Vibrating plainly down the backs of chairsAnd through the wall and up the old hall-stairs.—Indeed young Chapman's voice especiallyAttractedMr. Hammond—For, said he,Waiving the most Elysian sweetness ofTheladies' voices—altitudes aboveTheman'sfor sweetness;—but—ascontrast, wouldNot Mr. Chapman be so very goodAs, just now, to obligeallwith—in fact,Some sort ofjollysong,—to counteractIn part, at least, the sad, pathetic trendOf musicgenerally. Which wish our friend"The Noted Traveler" made second toWith heartiness—and so each, in review,Joined in—until the radiantbassoclearedHis wholly unobstructed throat and peeredIntently at the ceiling—voice and eyeAs opposite indeed as earth and sky.—Thus he uplifted his vast bass and letIt roam at large the memories booming yet:"'Old Simon the Cellarer keeps a rare storeOf Malmsey and Malvoi-sie,Of Cyprus, and who can say how many more?—But a chary old so-u-l is he-e-ee—A chary old so-u-l is he!Of hock and Canary he never doth fail;And all the year 'round, there is brewing of ale;—Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day.'"... And then the chorus—the men's voices allWarredin it—like a German Carnival.—EvenMrs. Hammond smiled, as in her youth,Hearing her husband—And in veriest truth"The Noted Traveler's" ever-present hatSeemed just relaxed a little, after that,As at conclusion of the Bacchic songHe stirred his "float" vehemently and long.Then Cousin Rufus with his flute, and artBlown blithely through it from both soul and heart—Inspired to heights of mastery by the glad,Enthusiastic audience he hadIn the young ladies of a town that knewNo other flutist,—nay, norwantedto,Since they had heardhis"Polly Hopkin's Waltz,"Or "Rickett's Hornpipe," with its faultless faults,As rendered solely, he explained, "by ear,"Having but heard it once, Commencement Year,At "Old Ann Arbor."Little Maymie nowSeemed "friends" withMr. Hammond—anyhow,Was lifted to his lap—where settled, she—Enthroned thus, in her dainty majesty,Gaineduniversalaudience—althoughAddressing him alone:—"I'm come to showYou my new Red-blue pencil; andshesays"—(Pointing toMrs.Hammond)—"that she guess'You'll make apicturefer me.""And whatkindOf picture?" Mr. Hammond asked, inclinedTo serve the child as bidden, folding squareThe piece of paper she had brought him there.—"I don't know," Maymie said—"only ist makeAlittle dirl, like me!"He paused to takeA sharp view of the child, and then he drew—Awhile with red, and then awhile with blue—The outline of a little girl that stoodIn converse with a wolf in a great wood;And she had on a hood and cloak of red—As Maymie watched—"Red Riding Hood!" she said."And who's 'Red Riding Hood'?""W'y, don'tyouknow?"Asked little Maymie—But the man looked soAll uninformed, that little Maymie couldBut tell himall aboutRed Riding Hood.
W'y, one time wuz a little-weenty dirl,An' she wuz named Red Riding Hood, 'cause her—HerMashe maked a little red cloak fer her'At turnt up over her head—An' it 'uz allIst one piece o' red cardinal 'at 's likeThe drate-long stockin's the store-keepers has.—O! it 'uz purtiest cloak in all the worldAn'allthis town er anywheres they is!An' so, one day, her Ma she put it onRed Riding Hood, she did—one day, she did—An' it 'uzSund'y—'cause the little cloakIt 'uz too nice to wear istever'dayAn'allthe time!—An' so her Ma, she putIt on Red Riding Hood—an' telled her notTo dit no dirt on it ner dit it mussedNer nothin'! An'—an'—nen her Ma she dotHer little basket out, 'at Old Kriss bringedHer wunst—one time, he did. And nen she fill'It full o' whole lots an' 'bundance o' good things t' eat(Allus my Dran'mashesays ''bundance,' too.)An' so her Ma fill' little Red Riding Hood'sNice basket all ist full o' dood things t' eat,An' tell her take 'em to her old Dran'ma—An' not tospill'em, neever—'cause ef she'Ud stump her toe an' spill 'em, her Dran'maShe'll haf topunishher!An' nen—An' soLittle Red Riding Hood she p'omised she'Ud be all careful nen an' cross' her heart'At she wont run an' spill 'em all fer six—Five—ten—two-hundred-bushel-dollars-gold!An' nen she kiss her Ma doo'-bye an' wentA-skippin' off—away fur off frough theBig woods, where her Dran'ma she live at.—No!—She didn't doa-skippin', like I said:—She ist wentwalkin'—careful-like an' slow—Ist like a little lady—walkin' 'longAs all polite an' nice—an' slow—an' straight—An' turn her toes—ist like she's marchin' inThe Sund'y-School k-session!An'—an'—soShe 'uz a-doin' along—an' doin' along—On frough the drate big woods—'cause her Dran'maShe live 'way, 'way fur off frough the big woodsFromherMa's house. So when Red Riding HoodShe dit to do there, allus have most fun—When she do frough the drate big woods, you know.—'Cause she ain't feared a bit o' anything!An' so she sees the little hoppty-birds'At's in the trees, an' flyin' all around,An' singin' dlad as ef their parunts saidThey'll take 'em to the magic-lantern show!An' she 'ud pull the purty flowers an' thingsA-growin' round the stumps—An' she 'ud ketchThe purty butterflies, an' drasshoppers,An' stick pins frough 'em—No!—I istsaidthat!—'Cause she's too dood an' kind an' 'bedientTohurtthings thataway.—She'dketch'em, though,An' istplaywiv 'em ist a little while,An' nen she'd let 'em fly away, she would,An' ist skip on adin to her Dran'ma's.An' so, while she uz doin' 'long an' 'long,First thing you know they 'uz a drate big oldMean wicked Wolf jumped out 'at wanted t' eatHer up, butdassentto—'cause wite clos't thereThey wuz a Man a-choppin' wood, an' youCouldhearhim.—So the old Wolf he 'uz'fearedOnly to ist bekindto her.—So heIst 'tended like he wuz dood friends to herAn' says "Dood-morning, little Red Riding Hood!"—All ist as kind!An' nen Riding HoodShe say "Dood-morning," too—all kind an' nice—Ist like her Ma she learn'—No!—mustn't say"Learn," cause "Learn" it's unproper.—So she sayIt like herMashe "teached" her.—An'—so sheIst says "Dood-morning" to the Wolf—'cause sheDon't know ut-tall 'at he's awickedWolfAn' want to eat her up!Nen old Wolf smileAn' say, so kind: "Where air you doin' at?"Nen little Red Riding Hood she says: "I'm doin'To my Dran'ma's, 'cause my Ma say I might."Nen, when she tell him that, the old Wolf heIst turn an' light out frough the big thick woods,Where she can't see him any more. An soShe think he's went tohishouse—but he haint,—He's went to her Dran'ma's, to be there first—An'ketchher, ef she don't watch mighty sharpWhat she's about!An' nen when the old WolfDit to her Dran'ma's house, he's purty smart,—An' so he 'tend-likehe'sRed Riding Hood,An' knock at th' door. An' Riding Hood's Dran'maShe's sick in bed an' can't come to the doorAn' open it. So th' old Wolf knocktwotimes.An' nen Red Riding Hood's Dran'ma she says"Who's there?" she says. An' old Wolf 'tends-like he'sLittle Red Riding Hood, you know, an' make'His voice soun' ist like hers, an' says: "It's me,Dran'ma—an' I'm Red Riding Hood an' I'mIst come to see you."Nen her old Dran'maShe think itislittle Red Riding Hood,An' so she say: "Well, come in nen an' makeYou'se'f at home," she says, "'cause I'm down sickIn bed, and got the 'ralgia, so's I can'tDit up an' let ye in."An' so th' old WolfIst march' in nen an' shet the door adin,An'drowl, he did, an'splungeup on the bedAn' et up old Miz Riding Hood 'fore sheCould put her specs on an' see who it wuz.—An' so she never knowedwhoet her up!An' nen the wicked Wolf he ist put onHer nightcap, an' all covered up in bed—Like he wuzher, you know.Nen, purty soonHere come along little Red Riding Hood,An'sheknock' at the door. An' old Wolf 'tendLikehe'sher Dran'ma; an' he say, "Who's there?"Ist like her Dran'ma say, you know. An' soLittle Red Riding Hood she say "It'sme,Dran'ma—an' I'm Red Riding Hood and I'mIst come toseeyou."An' nen old Wolf nenHe cough an' say: "Well, come in nen an' makeYou'se'f at home," he says, "'cause I'm down sickIn bed, an' got the 'ralgia, so's I can'tDit up an' let ye in."An' so she thinkIt's her Dran'ma a-talkin'.—So she istOpen' the door an' come in, an' set downHer basket, an' taked off her things, an' bringedA chair an' clumbed up on the bed, wite byThe old big Wolf she thinks is her Dran'ma.—Only she thinks the old Wolf's dot whole lotsMore bigger ears, an' lots more whiskers, too,Than her Dran'ma; an' so Red Riding HoodShe's kindo' skeered a little. So she says"Oh, Dran'ma, whatbig eyesyou dot!" An' nenThe old Wolf says: "They're ist big thataway'Cause I'm so dlad to see you!"Nen she says,—"Oh, Dran'ma, what a drate big nose you dot!"Nen th' old Wolf says: "It's ist big thatawayIst 'cause I smell the dood things 'at you bringedMe in the basket!"An' nen Riding HoodShe say "Oh-me-oh-my! Dran'ma! what bigWhite long sharp teeth you dot!"Nen old Wolf says:"Yes—an' they're thataway," he says—an' drowled—"They're thataway," he says, "toeatyou wiv!"An' nen he istjump' at her.—But shescream'—An'scream', she did—So's 'at the Man'At wuz a-choppin' wood, you know,—hehear,An' come a-runnin' in there wiv his ax;An', 'fore the old Wolf know' what he's about,He split his old brains out an' killed him s'quickIt make' his head swim!—An' Red Riding HoodShe wuzn't hurt at all!An' the big ManHe tooked her all safe home, he did, an' tellHer Ma she's all right an' ain't hurt at allAn' old Wolf's dead an' killed—an' ever'thing!—So her Ma wuz so tickled an' so proud,She divvedhimall the dood things t' eat they wuz'At's in the basket, an' she tell him 'atShe's much oblige', an' say to "call adin."An' story's honesttruth—an' allso, too!
The audience entire seemed pleased—indeedExtremelypleased. And little Maymie, freedFrom her task of instructing, ran to showHer wondrous colored picture to and froAmong the company."And how comes it," saidSome one to Mr. Hammond, "that, insteadOf the inventor's life you did not chooseTheartist's?—since the world can better loseA cutting-box or reaper than it canA noble picture painted by a manEndowed with gifts this drawing would suggest"—Holding the picture up to show the rest."There now!" chimed in the wife, her pale face litLike winter snow with sunrise over it,—"That's whatI'malways asking him.—Buthe—Well, as he's answeringyou, he answersme,—With that same silent, suffocating smileHe's wearing now!"For quite a little whileNo further speech from anyone, althoughAll looked at Mr. Hammond and that slow,Immutable, mild smile of his. And thenThe encouraged querist asked him yet againWhy was it, and etcetera—with allThe rest, expectant, waiting 'round the wall,—Until the gentle Mr. Hammond saidHe'd answer with a "parable," instead—About "a dreamer" that he used to know—"An artist"—"master"—all—inembryo.
THE DREAMERIHe was a Dreamer of the Days:Indolent as a lazy breezeOf midsummer, in idlest waysLolling about in the shade of trees.The farmer turned—as he passed him byUnder the hillside where he kneeledPlucking a flower—with scornful eyeAnd rode ahead in the harvest fieldMuttering—"Lawz! ef that-air shirkOf a boy was mine fer a week er so,He'd quitdreamin'and git to workAndairnhis livin'—er—Well!Iknow!"And even kindlier rumor said,Tapping with finger a shaking head,—"Got such a curious kind o' way—Wouldn't surprise me much, I say!"Lying limp, with upturned gazeIdly dreaming away his days.No companions? Yes, a bookSometimes under his arm he tookTo read aloud to a lonesome brook.And school-boys, truant, once had heardA strange voice chanting, faint and dim—Followed the echoes, and found it him,Perched in a tree-top like a bird,Singing, clean from the highest limb;And, fearful and awed, they all slipped byTo wonder in whispers if he could fly."Let him alone!" his father saidWhen the old schoolmaster came to say,"He took no part in his books to-day—Only the lesson the readers read.—His mind seems sadly going astray!""Let him alone!" came the mournful tone,And the father's grief in his sad eyes shone—Hiding his face in his trembling hand,Moaning, "Would I could understand!But as heaven wills it I acceptUncomplainingly!" So he wept.Then went "The Dreamer" as he willed,As uncontrolled as a light sail filledFlutters about with an empty boatLoosed from its moorings and afloat:Drifted out from the busy quayOf dull school-moorings listlessly;Drifted off on the talking breeze,All alone with his reveries;Drifted on, as his fancies wrought—Out on the mighty gulfs of thought.
IIThe farmer came in the evening grayAnd took the bars of the pasture down;Called to the cows in a coaxing way,"Bess" and "Lady" and "Spot" and "Brown,"While each gazed with a wide-eyed stare,As though surprised at his coming there—Till another tone, in a higher key,Brought their obeyance lothfully.Then, as he slowly turned and swungThe topmost bar to its proper rest,Something fluttered along and clungAn instant, shivering at his breast—A wind-scared fragment of legal cap,Which darted again, as he struck his handOn his sounding chest with a sudden slap,And hurried sailing across the land.But as it clung he had caught the glanceOf a little penciled countenance,And a glamour of written words; and hence,A minute later, over the fence,"Here and there and gone astrayOver the hills and far away,"He chased it into a thicket of treesAnd took it away from the captious breeze.A scrap of paper with a rhymeScrawled upon it of summertime:A pencil-sketch of a dairy-maid,Under a farmhouse porch's shade,Working merrily; and was blentWith her glad features such sweet content,That a song she sung in the lines belowSeemed delightfullyapropos:—SONG"Why do I sing—Tra-la-la-la-la!Glad as a King?—Tra-la-la-la-la!Well, since you ask,—I have such a pleasant task,I can not help but sing!"Why do I smile—Tra-la-la-la-la!Working the while?—Tra-la-la-la-la!Work like this is play,—So I'm playing all the day—I can not help but smile!"So, If you please—Tra-la-la-la-la!Live at your ease!—Tra-la-la-la-la!You've only got to turn,And, you see, its bound to churn—I can not help but please!"The farmer pondered and scratched his head,Reading over each mystic word.—"Some o' the Dreamer's work!" he said—"Ah, here's more—and name and dateIn his hand-write'!"—And the good man read,—"'Patent applied for, July third,Eighteen hundred and forty-eight'!"The fragment fell from his nerveless grasp—His awed lips thrilled with the joyous gasp:"I see the p'int to the whole concern,—He's studied out a patent churn!"