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Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way—I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,As many another woman that's only half as old.
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Over the hill to the poor-house—I can't quite make it clear!Over the hill to the poor-house—it seems so horrid queer!Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.
What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.
I am willin' and anxious an' ready any dayTo work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,If any body only is willin' to have me round.
Once I was young an' han'some—I was, upon my soul—Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.
'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,But many a house an' home was open then to me;Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.
And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.
And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay,With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.
So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one;Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done;Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them.
Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!—I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.
Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.
Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall—Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.
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She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile—She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.
She had an edication, an' that was good for her;But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too far;An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.
So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done—They was a family of themselves, and I another one;And a very little cottage one family will do,But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.
An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye,An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.
I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three,'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.
An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,For Thomas's buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot;But all the child'rn was on me—I couldn't stand their sauce—And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.
An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles at best;And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old,And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.
So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about—So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house—my child'rn dear, good-by!Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;And God 'll judge between us; but I will al'ays prayThat you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.
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I, who was always counted, they say,Rather a bad stick any way,Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;"I, the truant, saucy and bold,The one black sheep in my father's fold,"Once on a time," as the stories say,Went over the hill on a winter's day—Over the hill to the poor-house.
Tom could save what twenty could earn;But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn;Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak—Committed a hundred verses a week;Never forgot, an' never slipped;But "Honor thy father and mother" he skipped;Soover the hill to the poor-house.
As for Susan, her heart was kindAn' good—what there was of it, mind;Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,Nothin' she wouldn't sacrificeFor one she loved; an' that 'ere oneWas herself, when all was said an' done.An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,But any one could pull 'em about;
An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,Save one poor fellow, and that was me;An' when, one dark an' rainy night,A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,They hitched on me, as the guilty chapThat carried one end o' the halter-strap.An' I think, myself, that view of the caseWasn't altogether out o' place;My mother denied it, as mothers do,But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.Though for me one thing might be said—That I, as well as the horse, was led;And the worst of whisky spurred me on,Or else the deed would have never been done.But the keenest grief I ever feltWas when my mother beside me knelt,An' cried an' prayed, till I melted down,As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.I kissed her fondly, then an' there,An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.
I served my sentence—a bitter pillSome fellows should take who never will;And then I decided to go "out West,"Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,But Fortune seemed to like we [me] well,An' somehow every vein I struckWas always bubblin' over with luck.An', better than that, I was steady an' true,An' put my good resolutions through.But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,Than if I had lived the same as before."
But when this neighbor he wrote to me,"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he,I had a resurrection straightway,An' started for her that very day.And when I arrived where I was grown,I took good care that I shouldn't be known;But I bought the old cottage, through and through,Of some one Charley had sold it to;And held back neither work nor gold,To fix it up as it was of old.The same big fire-place wide an' high,Flung up its cinders toward the sky;The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf—I wound it an' set it agoin' myself;An' if every thing wasn't just the same,Neither I nor money was to blame;Then—over the hill to the poor-house!
One blowin', blusterin' winter's day,With a team an' cutter I started away;My fiery nags was as black as coal;(They some'at resembled the horse I stole);I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door—A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;She rose to her feet in great surprise,And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;I saw the whole of her trouble's traceIn the lines that marred her dear old face;"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son,Comeover the hill from the poor-house!"
She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,An' frequently stoppin' and kissin' me;An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,Who often said, as I have heard,That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,For all of 'em owe me more or less);
But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a manIn always a-doin' the best he can;That whether, on the big book, a blotGets over a fellow's name or not,Whenever he does a deed that's white,It's credited to him fair and right.An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,An' the Lord divides his sheep an' goats;However they may settle my case,Wherever they may fix my place,My good old Christian mother, you'll see,Will be sure to stand right up for me,Withover the hill from the poor-house.
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Some men were born for great things,Some were born for small;Some—it is not recordedWhy they were born at all;But Uncle Sammy was certain he had a legitimate call.
Some were born with a talent,Some with scrip and land;Some with a spoon of silver,And some with a different brand;But Uncle Sammy came holding an argument in each hand.
Arguments sprouted within him,And twinked in his little eye;He lay and calmly debatedWhen average babies cry,And seemed to be pondering gravely whether to live or to die.
But prejudiced on that questionHe grew from day to day,And finally he concluded'Twas better for him to stay;And so into life's discussion he reasoned and reasoned his way.
Through childhood, through youth, into manhoodArgued and argued he;And he married a simple maiden,Though scarcely in love was she;But he reasoned the matter so clearly she hardly could help but agree.
And though at first she was blooming,And the new firm started strong,And though Uncle Sammy loved her,And tried to help her along,She faded away in silence, and 'twas evident something was wrong.
Now Uncle Sammy was faithful,And various remedies tried;He gave her the doctor's prescriptions,And plenty of logic beside;But logic and medicine failed him, and so one day she died.
He laid her away in the church-yard,So haggard and crushed and wan;And reared her a costly tombstoneWith all of her virtues on;And ought to have added, "A victim to arguments pro and con."
For many a year Uncle SammyFired away at his logical forte:Discussion was his occupation,And altercation his sport;He argued himself out of churches, he argued himself into court.
But alas for his peace and quiet,One day, when he went it blind,And followed his singular fancy,And slighted his logical mind,And married a ponderous widow that wasn't of the arguing kind!
Her sentiments all were settled,Her habits were planted and grown,Her heart was a starved little creatureThat followed a will of her own;And she raised a high hand with Sammy, and proceeded to play it alone.
Then Sammy he charged down upon herWith all of his strength and his wit,And many a dextrous encounter,And many a fair shoulder-hit;But vain were his blows and his blowing: he never could budge her a bit.
He laid down his premises round her,He scraped at her with his saws;He rained great facts upon her,And read her the marriage laws;But the harder he tried to convince her, the harder and harder she was.
She brought home all her preachers,As many as ever she could—With sentiments terribly settled,And appetites horribly good—Who sat with him long at his table, and explained to him where he stood.
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And Sammy was not long in learningTo follow the swing of her gown,And came to be faithful in watchingThe phase of her smile and her frown;And she, with the heel of assertion, soon tramped all his arguments down.
And so, with his life-aspirationsThus suddenly brought to a check—And so, with the foot of his victorUnceasingly pressing his neck—He wrote on his face, "I'm a victim," and drifted—a logical wreck.
And farmers, whom he had arguedTo corners tight and fast,Would wink at each other and chuckle,And grin at him as he passed,As to say, "My ambitious old fellow, your whiffletree's straightened atlast."
Old Uncle Sammy one morningLay down on his comfortless bed,And Death and he had a discussion,And Death came out ahead;And the fact that SHE failed to start him was only because he was dead.
The neighbors laid out their old neighbor,With homely but tenderest art;And some of the oldest ones faltered,And tearfully stood apart;For the crusty old man had often unguardedly shown them his heart.
But on his face an expressionOf quizzical study lay,As if he were sounding the angelWho traveled with him that day,And laying the pipes down slyly for an argument on the way.
And one new-fashioned old ladyFelt called upon to suggestThat the angel might take Uncle Sammy,And give him a good night's rest,And then introduce him to Solomon, and tell him to do his best.
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The Farmer Discourses of his Son.
Tom was goin' for a poet, an' said he'd a poet be;One of these long-haired fellers a feller hates to see;One of these chaps forever fixin' things cute and clever;Makin' the world in gen'ral step 'long to tune an' time,An' cuttin' the earth into slices an' saltin' it down into rhyme.
Poets are good for somethin', so long as they stand at the head:But poetry's worth whatever it fetches in butter an' bread.An' many a time I've said it: it don't do a fellow credit,To starve with a hole in his elbow, an' be considered a fool,So after he's dead, the young ones 'll speak his pieces in school.
An' Tom, he had an opinion that Shakspeare an' all the rest,With all their winter clothin', couldn't make him a decent vest;But that didn't ease my labors, or help him among the neighbors,Who watched him from a distance, an' held his mind in doubt,An' wondered if Tom wasn't shaky, or knew what he was about.
Tom he went a-sowin', to sow a field of grain;But half of that 'ere sowin' was altogether in vain.For he was al'ays a-stoppin', and gems of poetry droppin';And metaphors, they be pleasant, but much too thin to eat;And germs of thought be handy, but never grow up to wheat.
Tom he went a-mowin', one broilin' summer's day,An' spoke quite sweet concernin' the smell of the new-mowed hay.But all o' his useless chatter didn't go to help the matter,Or make the grief less searchin' or the pain less hard to feel,When he made a clip too suddent, an' sliced his brother's heel.
Tom he went a-drivin' the hills an' dales across;But, scannin' the lines of his poetry, he dropped the lines of his hoss.The nag ran fleet and fleeter, in quite irregular metre;An' when we got Tom's leg set, an' had fixed him so he could speak,He muttered that that adventur' would keep him a-writin' a week.
Tom he went a-ploughin', and couldn't have done it worse;He sat down on the handles, an' went to spinnin' verse.He wrote it nice and pretty—an agricultural ditty;But all o' his pesky measures didn't measure an acre more,Nor his p'ints didn't turn a furrow that wasn't turned before.
Tom he went a-courtin';—she liked him, I suppose;But certain parts of courtin' a feller must do in prose.He rhymed her each day a letter, but that didn't serve to get her;He waited so long, she married another man from spite,An' sent him word she'd done it, an' not to forget to write.
Tom at last got married; his wife was smart and stout,An' she shoved up the window and slung his poetry out.An' at each new poem's creation she gave it circulation;An' fast as he would write 'em, she seen to their puttin' forth,An' sent 'em east an westward, an' also south an' north.
Till Tom he struck the opinion that poetry didn't pay,An' turned the guns of his genius, an' fired 'em another way.He settled himself down steady, an' is quite well off already;An' all of his life is verses, with his wife the first an' best,An' ten or a dozen childr'n to constitute the rest.
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My business on the jury's done—the quibblin' all is through—I've watched the lawyers right and left, and give my verdict true;I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in;And if I do not know myself, they'll get me there ag'in;But now the court's adjourned for good, and I have got my pay;I'm loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm going home to-day.
I've somehow felt uneasy like, since first day I come down;It is an awkward game to play the gentleman in town;And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine on Sunday rightly sets;But when I wear the stuff a week, it somehow galls and frets.I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper-salt and gray—I'll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home to-day.
I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well as any one—As well as any woman could—to see that things was done:For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't set her foot outdoors,She's very careful, when I'm gone, to tend to all the chores.But nothing prospers half so well when I go off to stay,And I will put things into shape, when I get home to-day.
The mornin' that I come away, we had a little bout;I coolly took my hat and left, before the show was out.For what I said was naught whereat she ought to take offense;And she was always quick at words and ready to commence.But then she's first one to give up when she has had her say;And she will meet me with a kiss, when I go home to-day.
My little boy—I'll give 'em leave to match him, if they can;It's fun to see him strut about, and try to be a man!The gamest, cheeriest little chap, you'd ever want to see!And then they laugh, because I think the child resembles me.The little rogue! he goes for me, like robbers for their prey;He'll turn my pockets inside out, when I get home to-day.
My little girl—I can't contrive how it should happen thus—That God could pick that sweet bouquet, and fling it down to us!My wife, she says that han'some face will some day make a stir;And then I laugh, because she thinks the child resembles her.She'll meet me half-way down the hill, and kiss me, any way;And light my heart up with her smiles, when I go home to-day!
If there's a heaven upon the earth, a fellow knows it whenHe's been away from home a week, and then gets back again.If there's a heaven above the earth, there often, I'll be bound,Some homesick fellow meets his folks, and hugs 'em all around.But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it as it may,My heaven is just ahead of me—I'm going home to-day.
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[As Told in 1880.]
Year of '71, children, middle of the fall,On one fearful night, children, we well-nigh lost our all.True, it wa'n't no great sum we had to lose that night,But when a little's all you've got, it comes to a blessed sight.
I was a mighty worker, in them 'ere difficult days,For work is a good investment, and almost always pays;But when ten years' hard labor went smokin' into the air.I doubted all o' the maxims, an' felt that it wasn't fair.
Up from the East we had traveled, with all of our household wares,Where we had long been workin' a piece of land on shares;But how a fellow's to prosper without the rise of the land,For just two-thirds of nothin', I never could understand.
Up from the East we had traveled, me and my folks alone,And quick we went to workin' a piece of land of our own;Small was our backwoods quarters, and things looked mighty cheap;But every thing we put in there, we put in there to keep.
So, with workin' and savin', we managed to get along;Managed to make a livin', and feel consid'able strong;And things went smooth and happy, an' fair as the average run,Till every thing went back on me, in the fall of '71.
First thing bothered and worried me, was 'long o' my daughter Kate;Rather a han'some cre'tur', and folks all liked her gait.Not so nice as them sham ones in yeller-covered books;But still there wa'n't much discount on Katherine's ways an' looks.
And Katherine's smile was pleasant, and Katherine's temper good,And how she come to like Tom Smith, I never understood;For she was a mornin'-glory, as fair as you ever see,And Tom was a shag-bark hickory, as green as green could be.
"Like takes to like," is a proverb that's nothin' more than trash;And many a time I've seen it all pulverized to smash.For folks in no way sim'lar, I've noticed ag'in and ag'in,Will often take to each other, and stick together like sin.
Next thing bothered and worried me, was 'long of a terrible drouth;And me an' all o' my neighbors was some'at down in the mouth.And week after week the rain held off, and things all pined an' dried,And we drove the cattle miles to drink, and many of 'em died.
And day after day went by us, so han'some and so bright,And never a drop of water came near us, day or night;And what with the neighbors' grumblin', and what with my daily loss,I must own that somehow or other I was gettin' mighty cross.
And on one Sunday evenin' I was comin' down the laneFrom meetin', where our preacher had stuck and hung for rain,And various slants on heaven kept workin' in my mind,And the smoke from Sanders' fallow was makin' me almost blind;
I opened the door kind o' sudden, an' there my Katherine sat,As cozy as any kitten along with a friendly cat;An' Tom was dreadful near her—his arm on the back of her chair—And lookin' as happy and cheerful as if there was rain to spare.
"Get out of this house in a minute!" I cried, with all my might:"Get out, while I'm a-talkin'!"—Tom's eyes showed a bit of fight;But he rose up, stiff and surly, and made me a civil bow,And mogged along to the door-way, with never a word of row.
And I snapped up my wife quite surly when she asked me what I'd said,And I scolded Kate for cryin', and sent her up stairs to bed;And then I laid down, for the purpose of gettin' a little sleep,An' the wind outside was a-howlin', and puttin' it in to keep.
'Twas half-past three next mornin', or maybe 'twas nearer four—The neighbors they came a-yellin' and poundin' at my door;"Get up! get up!" they shouted: "get up! there's danger near!The woods are all a-burnin'! the wind is blowin' it here!"
If ever it happens, children, that you get catched, some time,With fire a-blowin' toward you, as fast as fire can climb,You'll get up and get in a hurry, as fast as you can budge;It's a lively season of the year, or else I ain't no judge!
Out o' the dear old cabin we tumbled fast as we could—Smashed two-thirds of our dishes, and saved some four-foot wood;With smoke a-settlin' round us and gettin' into our eyes,And fire a-roarin' an' roarin' an' drowndin' all of our cries.
And just as the roof was smokin', and we hadn't long to wait,I says to my wife, "Now get out, and hustle, you and Kate!"And just as the roof was fallin', my wife she come to me,With a face as white as a corpse's face, and "Where is Kate?" says she.
And the neighbors come runnin' to me, with faces black as the ground,And shouted, "Where is Katherine? She's nowhere to be found!"
An' this is all I remember, till I found myself next day,A-lyin' in Sanders' cabin, a mile an' a half away.
If ever you wake up, children, with somethin' into your head,Concernin' a han'some daughter, that's lyin' still an' dead,All scorched into coal-black cinders—perhapsyou may not weep,But I rather think it'll happen you'll wish you'd a-kept asleep.
And all I could say, was "Kath'rine, oh Kath'rine, come to me!"And all I could think, was "Kath'rine!" and all that I could see,Was Sanders a-standin' near to me, his finger into his eye,And my wife a-bendin' over me, and tellin' me not to cry;
When, lo! Tom Smith he entered—his face lit up with grinsAnd Kate a-hangin' on his arm, as neat as a row of pins!And Tom looked glad, but sheepish; and said, "Excuse me, Squire,But I 'loped with Kate, and married her an hour before the fire."
Well, children, I was shattered; 'twas more than I could bear—And I up and went for Kate an' Tom, and hugged 'em then and there!And since that time, the times have changed, an' now they ain't so bad;And—Katherine, she's your mother now, and—Thomas Smith's your dad.
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They 've got a brand-new organ, Sue,For all their fuss and search;They've done just as they said they'd do,And fetched it into church.They're bound the critter shall be seen,And on the preacher's rightThey've hoisted up their new machine,In every body's sight.They've got a chorister and choir,Ag'in' my voice and vote;For it was never my desire,To praise the Lord by note!
I've been a sister good an' trueFor five-an'-thirty year;I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear;I've sung the hymns both slow and quick,Just as the preacher read,And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,I took the fork an' led!And now, their bold, new-fangled waysIs comin' all about;And I, right in my latter days,Am fairly crowded out!
To-day the preacher, good old dear,With tears all in his eyes,Read, "I can read my title clearTo mansions in the skies."I al'ays liked that blessed hymn—I s'pose I al'ays will;It somehow gratifies my whim,In good old Ortonville;But when that choir got up to sing,I couldn't catch a word;They sung the most dog-gondest thingA body ever heard!
Some worldly chaps was standin' near;An' when I see them grin,I bid farewell to every fear,And boldly waded in.I thought I'd chase their tune along,An' tried with all my might;But though my voice is good an' strong,I couldn't steer it right;When they was high, then I was low,An' also contrawise;An' I too fast, or they too slow,To "mansions in the skies."
An' after every verse, you know,They play a little tune;I didn't understand, an' soI started in too soon.I pitched it pretty middlin' high,I fetched a lusty tone,But oh, alas! I found that IWas singin' there alone!They laughed a little, I am told;But I had done my best;And not a wave of trouble rolledAcross my peaceful breast.
And Sister Brown—I could but look—She sits right front of me;She never was no singin'-book,An' never went to be;But then she al'ays tried to doThe best she could, she said;She understood the time right through,An' kep' it with her head;But when she tried this mornin', oh,I had to laugh, or cough!It kep' her head a-bobbin' so,It e'en a'most came off!
An' Deacon Tubbs—he all broke down,As one might well suppose;He took one look at Sister Brown,And meekly scratched his nose.He looked his hymn-book through and through,And laid it on the seat,And then a pensive sigh he drew,And looked completely beat.An' when they took another bout,He didn't even rise;But drawed his red bandanner out,An' wiped his weepin' eyes.
I've been a sister, good an' true,For five-an'-thirty year;I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear;But Death will stop my voice, I know,For he is on my track;And some day I to church will go,And never more come back;And when the folks gets up to sing—Whene'er that time shall be—I do not want nopatentthingA-squealin' over me!
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The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care,His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair,His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head,His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread:There were thirty long pages from Howler, with underlined capitalstopped,And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped;There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets andzephyrs,And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers;There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two,And his best leader hitched to a letter, which inquired if he wrote it,or who?There were raptures of praises from writers of the weakly mellifluousschool,And one of his rival's last papers, informing him he was a fool;There were several long resolutions, with names telling whom they were by,Canonizing some harmless old brother who had done nothing worse than todie;There were traps on that table to catch him, and serpents to sting and tosmite him;There were gift enterprises to sell him, and bitters attempting to bitehim;There were long staring "ads" from the city, and money with never a one,Which added, "Please give this insertion, and send in your bill whenyou'redone;"There were letters from organizations—their meetings, their wants, andtheir laws—Which said, "Can you print this announcement for the good of our gloriouscause?"There were tickets inviting his presence to festivals, parties, and shows,Wrapped in notes with "Please give us a notice" demurely slipped in at theclose;In short, as his eye took the table, and ran o'er its ink-spattered trash,There was nothing it did not encounter, excepting perhaps it was cash.
The Editor dreamily pondered on several ponderous things.On different lines of action, and the pulling of different strings;Upon some equivocal doings, and some unequivocal duns;On how few of his numerous patrons were quietly prompt-paying ones;On friends who subscribed "just to help him," and wordy encouragementlent,And had given him plenty of counsel, but never had paid him a cent;On vinegar, kind-hearted people were feeding him every hour,Who saw not the work they were doing, but wondered that "printers aresour:"On several intelligent townsmen, whose kindness was so without stintThat they kept an eye out on his business, and told him just what heshould print;On men who had rendered him favors, and never pushed forward their claims,So long as the paper was crowded with "locals" containing their names;On various other small matters, sufficient his temper to roil,And finely contrived to be making the blood of an editor boil;And so one may see that his feelings could hardly be said to be smooth,And he needed some pleasant occurrence his ruffled emotions to soothe:He had it; for lo! on the threshold, a slow and reliable tread,And a farmer invaded the sanctum, and these are the words that he said:
"Good-mornin', sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body to-day?I'm glad you're to home; for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away.Your paper last week wa'n't so spicy nor sharp as the one week before:But I s'pose when the campaign is opened, you'll be whoopin' it up to'em more.That feller that's printin'The Smasheris goin' for you perty smart;And our folks said this mornin' at breakfast, they thought he was gettin'the start.But I hushed 'em right up in a minute, and said a good word for you;I told 'em I b'lieved you was tryin' to do just as well as you knew;And I told 'em that some one was sayin', and whoever 'twas it is so,That you can't expect much of no one man, nor blame him for what he don'tknow.But, layin' asidepleasurefor business, I've brought you my little boyJim;And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen of him.
"My family stock is increasin', while other folks' seems to run short.I've got a right smart of a family—it's one of the old-fashioned sort:There's Ichabod, Isaac, and Israel, a-workin' away on the farm—They do 'bout as much as one good boy, and make things go off like acharm.There's Moses and Aaron are sly ones, and slip like a couple of eels;But they're tol'able steady in one thing—they al'ays git round to theirmeals.There's Peter is busy inventin' (thoughwhathe invents I can't see),And Joseph is studyin' medicine—and both of 'em boardin' with me.There's Abram and Albert is married, each workin' my farm for myself,And Sam smashed his nose at a shootin', and so he is laid on the shelf.The rest of the boys are all growin', 'cept this little runt, which isJim,And I thought that perhaps I'd be makin' an editor outen o' him.
"He ain't no great shakes for to labor, though I've labored with him agood deal,And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help butto feel;But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is bigExceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig.I keep him a-carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs,And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs;And then there is things to be doin' a-helpin' the women indoors;There's churnin' and washin' of dishes, and other descriptions of chores;But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much,I'm afraid,So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade.His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim,But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him!
"It ain't much to get up a paper—it wouldn't take him long for to learn;He could feed the machine, I'm thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow toturn.And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do;Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements rightthrough.I used for to wonder at readin' and where it was got up, and how;But 'tis most of it made by machinery—I can see it all plain enough now.And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs,Each one with a gauge and a chopper to see to the length of the lines;And I hear a New York clairvoyant is runnin' one sleeker than grease,Anda-rentin'her heaven-born productions at a couple of dollars apiece;An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I'vea whim,If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen of Jim!"
The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye,Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made his reply:"Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both?Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath?Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in hischeek?Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week?Can he courteously talk to an equal, and browbeat an impudent dunce?Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half a dozen at once?Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch,And be sure that he knows how muchtoknow, and knows how to notknow too much?Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride?Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros' hide?Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage,and vim?If so, we perhaps can be makin an editor 'outen of him.'"
The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread;And he said, "Jim, I guess we'll be goin'; he's probably out of his head."
But lo! on the rickety stair-case, another reliable tread,And entered another old farmer, and these are the words that he said:
"Good-morning, sir, Mr. Editor, how is the folks to-day?I owe you for next year's paper; I thought I'd come in and pay.And Jones is agoin' to take it, and this is his money here;I shut down on lendin' it to him, and coaxed him to try it a year.And here is a few little items that happened last week in our town:I thought they'd look good for the paper, and so I just jotted 'em down.And here is a basket of cherries my wife picked expressly for you;And a small bunch of flowers from Jennie—she thought she must sendsomethin' too.You're doin' the politics bully, as all of our family agree;Just keep your old goose-quill a-floppin', and give 'em a good one for me.And now you are chuck full of business, and I won't be takin' your time;I've things of my own I must 'tend to—good-day, sir, I b'lieve I willclimb."
The Editor sat in his sanctum and brought down his fist with a thump:"God bless that old farmer," he muttered, "he's a regular Editor's trump."
And 'tis thus with our noble profession, and thus it will ever be, still;There are some who appreciate its labors, and some who perhaps never will.But in the great time that is coming, when loudly the trumpet shall sound,And they who have labored and rested shall come from the quivering ground;When they who have striven and suffered to teach and ennoble the race,Shall march at the front of the column, each one in his God-given place,As they pass through the gates of The City with proud and victorioustread,The editor, printer, and "devil," will travel not far from the head.