This was about the tale 'at Ezry told us, as nigh as I can ricollect, and by the time he finished, I never want to see jist sich another crowd o' men as was a-swarmin' there. Ain't it awful when sich a crowd gits together? I tell you it makes my flesh creep to think about it!
As Bills had gone in the direction of the river, we wasn't long in makin' our minds up 'at he'd have to cross it, and ef he donethathe'd have to use the boat 'at was down below the mill, er wade it at the ford, a mild er more down. So we divided in three sections, like—one to go and look after the folks at the house, and another to the boat, and another to the ford. And Steve and me and Ezry was in the crowd 'at struck far the boat, and we made time a-gittin' there! It was awful dark, and the sky was a-cloudin'up like a storm; but we wasn't long a-gittin' to the p'int where the boat was allus tied; but ther' wasn't no boat there! Steve kind o' tuck the lead, and we all talked in whispers. And Steve said to kind o' lay low and maybe we could hear somepin', and some feller said he thought he heerd somepin' strange like, but the wind was kind o' raisin' and kep' up sich a moanin' through the trees along the bank 't we couldn't make out nothin'. "Listen!" says Steve, suddent like, "I hear somepin!" We was all still again—and we all heerd a moanin' 'at was sadder 'n the wind—sounded mournfuller to me 'cause I knowed it in a minute, and I whispered, "Little Annie." And 'way out acrost the river we could hear the little thing a-sobbin', and we all was still 's death; and we heerd a voice we knowd was Bills's say, "Dam ye! Keep still, or I'll drownd ye!" And the wind kind o' moaned agin and we could hear the trees a-screechin' together in the dark, and the leaves a-rustlin'; and when it kind o' lulled agin, we heerd Bills make a kind o' splash with the oars; and jist then Steve whispered far to lay low and be ready—he was a-goin' to riconnitre; and he tuck his coat and shoes off, and slid over the bank and down into the worter as slick as a' eel. Then ever'thing was still agin, 'cept the moanin' o' the child, which kep' a-gittin' louder and louder; and then a voice whispered to us, "He's a-comin' back; the crowd below has sent scouts up, and they're on t' other side. Now watch clos't, and he's our meat." We could hear Bills, by the moanin' o' the baby, a-comin' nearder and nearder, tel suddently he made a sort o' miss-lick with the oar, I reckon, and must a splashed the baby, far she set up a loud cryin; and jist then old Ezry, who was a-leanin' over the bank, kind o' lost his grip some way o' nuther, and fell kersplash in the worter like a' old chunk. "Hello!" says Bills, through the dark, "you're there, too, air ye?" as old Ezry splashed up the bank agin. And "Cuss you!" he says then, to the baby—"ef it hadn't be'n far your infernal squawkin' I'd a-be'n all right; but you've brought the whole neighberhood out, and, dam you, I'll jist let you swim out to 'em!" And we heerd a splash, then a kind o' gurglin', and then Steve's voice a-hollerin', "Close in on him, boys; I've got the baby!" And about a dozend of us bobbed off the bank like so many bull-frogs, and I'll tell you the worter b'iled! We could jist make out the shape o' the boat, and Bills a-standin' with a' oar drawed back to smash the first head 'at come in range. It was a mean place to git at him. We knowed he was despert, and far a minute we kind o' helt back. Fifteen foot o' worter 's a mighty onhandy place to git hit over the head in! And Bills says, "You hain't afeard, I reckon—twenty men agin one!" "You'd better give your se'f up!" hollered Ezry from the shore. "No, Brother Sturgiss," says Bills, "I can't say 'at I'm at all anxious 'bout bein' borned agin, jist yit awhile," he says; "I see you kind o' 'pear to go in far babtism; guess you'd better go home and git some dry clothes on; and, speakin' o' home, you'd ort 'o be there by all means—your house might catch afire and burn up while you're gone!" And jist then the boat give a suddent shove under him—some feller'd div under and tilted it—and far a minute it throwed him off his guard and the boys closed in. Still he had the advantage, bein' in the boat, and as fast as a feller would climb in he'd git a whack o' the oar, tel finally they got to pilin' in a little too fast far him to manage, and he hollered then 'at we'd have to come to the bottom ef we got him, and with that he div out o' the end o' the boat, and we lost sight of him; and I'll be blame ef he didn't give us the slip after all.
Wellsir, we watched far him, and some o' the boys swum on down stream, expectin' he'd raise, but couldn't find hide ner hair of him; so we left the boat a-driftin' off down stream and swum ashore, a-thinkin' he'd jist drownded hisse'f a-purpose. But ther' was more su'prise waitin' far us yit,—for lo-and-behold-you, when we got ashore ther' wasn't no trace o' Steve er the baby to be found. Ezry said he seed Steve when he fetched little Annie ashore, and she was all right on'y she was purt nigh past cryin'; and he said Steve had lapped his coat around her and give her to him to take charge of, and he got so excited over the fight he laid her down betwixt a couple o' logs and kind o' forget about her tel the thing was over, and he went to look far her, and she was gone. Couldn't a-be'n 'at she'd a-wundered off her-own-se'f; and it couldn't a-be'n 'at Steve'd take her, 'thout a-lettin us know it. It was a mighty aggervatin' conclusion to come to, but we had to do it, and that was, Bills must a got ashore unbeknownst to us and packed her off. Sich a thing wasn't hardly probable, yit it was a thing 'at might be; and after a-talkin' it over we had to admit 'at it must a-be'n the way of it. But where was Steve? W'y, we argied, he'd discivvered she was gone, and had put out on track of her 'thout losin' time to stop and explain the thing. The next question was, what did Bills want with her agin? He'd tried to drownd her onc't. We could ast questions enough, but c'rect answers was mighty skearce, and we jist concluded 'at the best thing to do was to put out far the ford, far that was the nighdest place Bills could cross 'thout a boat, and ef it was him tuck the child he was still on our side o' the river, o' course. So we struck out far the ford, a-leav-in' a couple o' men to search up the river. A drizzlin' sort o' rain had set in by this time, and with that and the darkness and the moanin' of the wind, it made 'bout as lonesome a prospect as a feller ever wants to go through agin.
It was jist a-gittin' a little gray-like in the mornin' by the time we reached the ford, but you couldn't hardly see two rods afore you far the mist and the fog 'at had settled along the river. We looked far tracks, but couldn't make out nuthin'. Thereckly old Ezry punched me and p'inted out acrost the river. "What's that?" he whispers. Jist 'bout half way acrost was somepin' white-like in the worter—couldn't make out what—perfeckly still it was. And I whispered back and told him I guess it wasn't nothin' but a sycamore snag. "Listen!" says he; "Sycamore snags don't make no noise like that!" And, shore enough, it was the same moanin' noise we'd heerd the baby makin' when we first got on the track. Sobbin' she was, as though nigh about dead. "Well, ef that's Bills," says I—"and I reckon ther' hain't no doubt but it is—what in the name o' all that's good and bad's the feller a-standin' there far?" And a-creep-in' clos'ter, we could make him out plainer and plainer. It was him; and there he stood breast-high in the worter, a-holdin' the baby on his shoulder like, and a lookin' up stream, and a-waitin'.
"What do you make out of it?" says Ezry. "What's he waitin' far?"
And a strainin' my eyes in the direction he was a-lookin' I seed somepin' a-movin' down the river, and a minute later I'd made out the old boat a-driftin' down stream; and then of course ever'thing was plain enough: He was waitin' far the boat, and ef he gotthathe'd have the same advantage on us he had afore.
"Boys," says I, "he mustn't git that boat agin! Foller me, and don't let him git to the shore alive." And in we plunged. He seed us, but he never budged, on'y to grab the baby by its little legs, and swing it out at arms-len'th. "Stop, there," he hollered. "Stop jist where you air! Move another inch and I'll drownd this dam young-un afore your eyes!" he says.—And he 'd a done it. "Boys," says I, "he's got us. Don't move! This thing'll have to rest with a higher power 'n our 'n! Ef any of you kin pray," says I, "now's a good time to do it!"
Jist then the boat swung up, and Bills grabbed it and rech 'round and set the baby in it, never a-takin' his eye off o' us, though, far a minute. "Now," says he, with a sort o' snarlin' laugh, "I've on'y got a little while to stay with you, and I want to say a few words afore I go. I want to tell you fellers, in the first place, 'at you've be'nfooledin me: Ihain'ta good feller, now, honest! And ef you're a little the worse far findin' it out so late in the day, you hain't none the worse far losin' me so soon—far I'm a-goin' away now, and any interference with my arrangements 'll on'y give you more trouble; so it's better all around to let me go peaceable and jist while I'm in the notion. I expect it'll be a disapp'intment to some o' you that my name hain't 'Williams,' but it hain't. And maybe you won't think nigh as much o' me when I tell you furder 'at I was obleeged to 'dopt the name o' 'Williams' onc't to keep from bein' strung up to a lamp-post, but sich is the facts. I was so extremely unfortunit onc't as to kill a p'ticular friend o' mine, and he forgive me with his dyin' breath, and told me to run while I could, and be a better man. But he'd spotted me with a' ugly mark 'at made it kind o' onhandy to git away, but I did at last; and jist as I was a-gittin' reformed-like, you fellers had to kick in the traces, and I've made up my mind to hunt out a more moraler community, where they don't make sich a fuss about trifles. And havin' nothin' more to say, on'y to send Annie word 'at I'll still be a father to her youngun here, I'll bid you all good-bye." And with that he turned and clum in the boat—or ruther fell in,—far somepin' black-like had riz up in it, with a' awful lick—my—God!—and, a minute later, boat and baggage was a-gratin' on the shore, and a crowd come thrashin' 'crost from tother side to jine us, and 'peared like wasn't asecondlonger tel a feller was a-swingin' by his neck to the limb of a scrub-oak, his feet clean off the ground, and his legs a-jerkin' up and down like a limber-jack's.
And Steve it was a-layin' in the boat, and he'd rid a mild or more 'thout knowin' of it. Bills had struck and stunt him as he clum in while the rumpus was a-goin' on, and he'd on'y come to in time to hear Bills's farewell address to us there at the ford.
Steve tuck charge o' little Annie agin, and ef she'd a-be'n his own child he wouldn't a-went on more over her than he did; and said nobody but her mother would git her out o' his hands agin. And he was as good as his word; and ef you could a-seed him a half hour after that, when hedidgive her to her mother—all lapped up in his coat and as drippin'-wet as a little drownded angel—it would a-made you wish't you was him to see that little woman a caperin' round him, and a-thankin' him, and a-cryin' and a-laughin', and almost a-huggin' him, she was so tickled,—Well, I thought in my soul she'd die! And Steve blushed like a girl to see her a-taking' on, and a-thankin' him, and a-cryin', and a-kissin' little Annie, and a-goin' on. And when she inquired 'bout Bills, which she did all suddent like, with a burst o' tears, we jist didn't have the heart to tell her—on'y we said he'd crossed the river and got away. And he had!
And now comes a part o' this thing 'at 'll more 'n like tax you to believe it: Williams and her wasn't man and wife—and you needn't look su'prised, nuther, and I'll tell you far why—They was own brother and sister; and that brings me toherpart of the story, which you'll have to admit beats anything 'at you ever read about in books.
Her and Williams—thatwasn'this name, like he acknowledged, hisse'f, you ricollect—ner she didn't want to tell his right name; and we forgive her far that. Her and 'Williams' was own brother and sister, and the'r parents lived in Ohio some'ers. The'r mother had be'n dead five year' and better—grieved to death over her onnachurl brother's recklessness, which Annie hinted had broke her father up in some way, in tryin' to shield him from the law. And the secret of her bein' with him was this: She had married a man o' the name of Curtis or Custer, I don't mind which, adzackly—but no matter; she'd married a well-to-do young feller 'at her brother helt a' old grudge agin, she never knowed what; and sence her marriage her brother had went on from bad to worse tel finally her father jist give him up and told him to go it his own way—he'd killed his mother and ruined him, and he'd jist give up all hopes. But Annie—you know how a sister is—she still clung to him and done ever'thing far him, tel finally, one night about three years after she was married she got word some way that he was in trouble agin, and sent her husband to he'p him; and a half hour after he'd gone, her brother come in, all excited and bloody, and told her to git the baby and come with him, 'at her husband had got in a quarrel with a friend o' his and was bad hurt. And she went with him, of course, and he tuck her in a buggy, and lit out with her as tight as he could go all night; and then told her 'athewas the feller 'at had quarreled with her husband, and the officers was after him and he was obleeged to leave the country, and far fear he hadn't made shore work o' him, he was a-takin' her along to make shore of his gittin' his revenge; and he swore he'd kill her and the baby too ef she dared to whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd hardships he'd made his way at last to our section o' the country, givin' out 'at they was man and wife, and keepin' her from denyin' of it by threats, and promises of the time a-comin' when he'd send her home to her man agin in case he hadn't killed him. And so it run on tel you'd a-cried to hear her tell it, and still see her sister's love far the feller a-breakin' out by a-declarin' how kind he was to herat times, and how he wasn't railly bad at heart, on'y far his ungov'nable temper. But I couldn't he'p but notice, when she was a tellin' of her hist'ry, what a quiet sort o' look o' satisfaction settled on the face o' Steve and the rest of 'em, don't you understand.
And now ther' was on'y one thing she wanted to ast, she said; and that was, could she still make her home with us tel she could git word to her friends?—and there she broke down agin, not knowin', of course, whethertheywas dead er alive; far time and time agin she said somepin' told her she'd never see her husband agin on this airth; and then the women-folks would cry with her and console her, and the boys would speak hopeful—all but Steve; some way o' nuther Steve was never like hisse'f from that time on.
And so things went far a month and better. Ever'thing had quieted down, and Ezry and a lot o' hands, and me and Steve amongst 'em, was a-workin' on the frame-work of another mill. It was purty weather, and we was all in good sperits, and it 'peared like the whole neighberhood was interested—and they-was, too—women-folks and ever'body. And that day Ezry's woman and amongst 'em was a-gittin' up a big dinner to fetch down to us from the house; and along about noon a spruce-lookin' young feller, with a pale face and a black beard, like, come a-ridin' by and hitched his hoss, and comin' into the crowd, said "Howdy," pleasant like, and we all stopped work as he went on to say 'at he was on the track of a feller o' the name o' 'Williams,' and wanted to know ef we could give him any infermation 'bout sich a man. Told him maybe,—'at a feller bearin' that name desappeared kind o' myster'ous from our neighberhood 'bout five weeks afore that. "My God!" says he, a-turnin' paler'n ever, "am I too late? Where did he go, and was his sister and her baby with him?" Jist then I ketched sight o' the women-folks a-comin' with the baskets, and Annie with 'em, with a jug o' worter in her hand; so I spoke up quick to the stranger, and says I, "I guess 'his sister and baby' wasn't along," says I, "but hiswifeandbaby'ssome'eres here in the neighberhood yit." And then a-watchin' him clos't, I says, suddent, a-pin'tin' over his shoulder, "There his woman is now—that one with the jug, there." Well, Annie had jist stooped to lift up one o' the little girls, when the feller turned, and the'r eyes met, "Annie! My wife!" he says; and Annie she kind o' give a little yelp like and come a-flutterin' down in his arms; and the jug o' worter rolled clean acrost the road, and turned a somerset and knocked the cob out of its mouth and jist laid back and hollered "Good—good—good—good—good!" like as ef it knowed what was up and was jist as glad and tickled as the rest of us.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yokeIts fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.'Tis a fragrant retrospection—for the loving thoughts that startInto being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart;And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine—When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweeheart of mine.Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings,The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings,I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any themeWhen care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dreamIn fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charmTo spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm—For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wineThat makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace,Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase;And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyesAs glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dressShe wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caressWith the written declaration that, "as surely as the vineGrew 'round the stump," she loved me—that old sweetheart of mine.And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand,As we used to talk together of the future we had planned—When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to doBut write the tender verses that she set the music to:When we should live together in a cozy little cotHid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot,Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine,And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine:When I should be her lover forever and a day,And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray;And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumbThey would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come.
But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair,And the door is softly opened, and—my wife is standing there;Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resignTo greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.
They's nothin' in the name to strikeA feller more'n common like!'Taint liable to git no praiseNer nothin' like it nowadays;An' yit that name o' her'n is jestAs purty as the purtiest—And more 'n that, I'm here to sayI'll live a-thinkin' thatawayAnd die far Marthy Ellen!It may be I was prejudustIn favor of it from the fust—'Cause I kin ricollect jest howWe met, and hear her mother nowA-callin' of her down the road—And, aggervatin' little toad!—I see her now, jes' sort o' half-Way disapp'inted, turn and laughAnd mock her—"Marthy Ellen!"Our people never had no fuss,And yit they never tuck to us;We neighbered back and foreds some;Until they see she liked to comeTo our house—and me and herWere jest together ever'whurAnd all the time—and when they'd seeThat I liked her and she liked me,They'd holler "Marthy Ellen!"When we growed up, and they shet downOn me and her a-runnin' roun'Together, and her father saidHe'd never leave her nary red,So he'p him, ef she married me,And so on—and her mother sheJest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowedShe'd ruther see her in her shroud,Iwritto Marthy Ellen—That is, I kindo' tuck my penIn hand, and stated whur and whenThe undersigned would be that night,With two good hosses saddled rightFar lively travelin' in caseHer folks 'ud like to jine the race.She sent the same note back, and writ"The rose is red!" right under it—"Your 'n allus, Marthy Ellen."That's all, I reckon—Nothin' moreTo tell but what you've heerd afore—The same old story, sweeter thoughFar all the trouble, don't you know.Old-fashioned name! and yit it's jestAs purty as the purtiest;And more 'n that, I'm here to sayI'll live a-thinking thataway,And die far Marthy Ellen!
'Twas the height of the fete when we quitted the riot,And quietly stole to the terrace alone,Where, pale as the lovers that ever swear by it,The moon it gazed down as a god from his throne.We stood there enchanted.—And O the delight ofThe sight of the stars and the moon and the sea,And the infinite skies of that opulent night ofPurple and gold and ivory!The lisp of the lip of the ripple just under—The half-awake nightingale's dream in the yews—Came up from the water, and down from the wonderOf shadowy foliage, drowsed with the dews,—Unsteady the firefly's taper—unsteadyThe poise of the stars, and their light in the tide,As it struggled and writhed in caress of the eddy,As love in the billowy breast of a bride.The far-away lilt of the waltz rippled to us,And through us the exquisite thrill of the air:Like the scent of bruised bloom was her breath, and its dew wasNot honier-sweet than her warm kisses were.We stood there enchanted.—And O the delight ofThe sight of the stars and the moon and the sea,And the infinite skies of that opulent night ofPurple and gold and ivory!
Jes' a little bit o' feller—I remember still,—Ust to almostcryfar Christmas, like a youngster will.Fourth o' July's nothin' to it!—New-Year's ain't a smell:Easter-Sunday—Circus-day—jes' all dead in the shell!Lordy, though! at night, you know, to set around and hearThe old folks work the story off about the sledge and deer,And "Santy" skootin' round the roof, all wrapped in fur and fuzz—Long aforeI knowed who"Santy-Claus" wuz!Ust to wait, and set up late, a week er two ahead:Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed:Kittle stewin' on the fire, and Mother settin' hereDarnin' socks, and rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer;Pap gap', and wunder where it wuz the money went,And quar'l with his frosted heels, and spill his liniment:And me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir and buzz,Long aforeI knowed who"Santy-Claus" wuz!Size the fire-place up, and figger how "Old Santy" couldManage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would:Wisht that I could hide and see him—wundered what he 'd sayEf he ketched a feller layin' far him thataway!But Ibeton him, andlikedhim, same as ef he hadTurned to pat me on the back andsay, "Look here, my lad,Here's my pack,—jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!"Long aforeI knowed who"Santy-Claus" wuz!Wisht that yarn wastrueabout him, as it 'peared to be—Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough far me!—Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wildOver hangin' up my stockin's, like the little childClimbin' in my lap to-night, and beggin' me to tell'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so wellI'm half sorry far this little-girl-sweetheart of his—Long aforeShe knows who"Santy-Claus" is!
The touches of her hands are like the fallOf velvet snowflakes; like the touch of downThe peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall;The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wispCaught in the crinkle of a leaf of brownThe blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,The touches of her hands, and the delight—The touches of her hands!The touches of her hands are like the dewThat falls so softly down no one e'er knewThe touch thereof save lovers like to oneAstray in lights where ranged Endymion.O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs,Or—in between the midnight and the dawn,When long unrest and tears and fears are gone—Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.
This man Jones was what you'd callA feller 'at had no sand at all;Kind o' consumpted, and undersize,And sailor-complected, with big sad eyes,And a kind-of-a sort-of-a hang-dog style,And a sneakin' sort-of-a half-way smile'At kind o' give him away to usAs a preacher, maybe, er somepin' wuss.Didn't take with the gang—well, no—But still we managed to use him, though,—Coddin' the gilly along the rout',And drivin' the stakes 'at he pulled out—Far I was one of the bosses then,And of course stood in with the canvasmen;And the way we put up jobs, you know,On this man Jones jes' beat the show!Ust to rattle him scandalous,And keep the feller a-dodgin' us,And a-shyin' round half skeered to death,And afeerd to whimper above his breath;Give him a cussin', and then a kick,And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick—Jes' far the fun of seem' him climbAround with a head on most the time.But what was the curioust thing to me,Was along o' the party—let me see,—Who was our "Lion Queen" last year?—Mamzelle Zanty, or De La Pierre?—Well, no matter—a stunnin' mash,With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash,And a figger sich as the angels owns—And one too many far this man Jones.He'd allus wake in the afternoon,As the band waltzed in on the lion-tune,And there, from the time 'at she'd go inTill she'd back out of the cage agin,He'd stand, shaky and limber-kneed—'Specially when she come to "feedThe beasts raw meat with her naked hand"—And all that business, you understand.And itwasresky in that den—Far I think she juggled three cubs then,And a big "green" lion 'at used to smashCollar-bones far old Frank Nash;And I reckon now she hain't fergotThe afternoon old "Nero" sotHis paws onher!—but as far me,It's a sort-of-a mixed-up mystery:—Kind o' remember an awful roar,And see her back far the bolted door—See the cage rock—heerd her call"God have mercy!" and that was all—Far they ain't no livin' man can tellWhatit's like when a thousand yellIn female tones, and a thousand moreHowl in bass till their throats is sore!But the keeper said 'at dragged her out,They heerd some feller laugh and shout—"Save her! Quick! I've got the cuss!"And yit she waked and smiled onus!And we daren't flinch, far the doctor said,Seein' as this man Jones was dead,Better to jes' not let her knowNothin' o' that far a week er so.
In fancy, always, at thy desk, thrown wide,Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly—The rarest rhymes of every land and seaAnd curious tongue—thine old face glorified,—Thou haltest thy glib quill, and, laughing-eyed,Givest hale welcome even unto me,Profaning thus thine attic's sanctity,To briefly visit, yet to still abideEnthralled there of thy sorcery of wit,And thy songs' most exceeding dear conceits.O lips, cleft to the ripe core of all sweets,With poems, like nectar, issuing therefrom,Thy gentle utterances do overcomeMy listening heart and all the love of it!
In spring, when the green gits back in the trees,And the sun comes out and stays,And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,And you think of yer barefoot days;When you ort to work and you want to not,And you and yer wife agreesIt's time to spade up the garden lot,When the green gits back in the trees—Well! work is the least o'myideesWhen the green, you know, gits back in the trees!When the green gits back in the trees, and beesIs a-buzzin' aroun' agin,In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-pleaseOld gait they bum roun' in;When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood,And the crick 's riz, and the breezeCoaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,And the green gits back in the trees,—I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,The time when the green gits back in the trees!When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertimeIs all pulled out and gone!And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,And the sweat it starts out onA feller's forred, a-gittin' downAt the old spring on his knees—I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun'When the green gits back in the trees—Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I—durn—please—When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
Ah, Luxury! Beyond the heatAnd dust of town, with dangling feet,Astride the rock below the dam,In the cool shadows where the calmRests on the stream again, and allIs silent save the waterfall,—bait my hook and cast my line,And feel the best of life is mine.No high ambition may I claim—angle not for lordly gameOf trout, or bass, or wary bream—black perch reaches the extremeOf my desires; and "goggle-eyes"Are not a thing that I despise;A sunfish, or a "chub," or "cat"—A "silver-side"—yea, even that!In eloquent tranquilityThe waters lisp and talk to me.Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks,As some proud bass an instant shakesHis glittering armor in the sun,And romping ripples, one by one,Come dallying across the spaceWhere undulates my smiling face.The river's story flowing by,Forever sweet to ear and eye,Forever tenderly begun—Forever new and never done.Thus lulled and sheltered in a shadeWhere never feverish cares invade,I bait my hook and cast my line,And feel the best of life is mine.
When old Jack died, we staid from school (they said,At home, we needn't go that day), and noneOf us ate any breakfast—only one,And that was Papa—and his eyes were redWhen he came round where we were, by the shedWhere Jack was lying, half way in the sunAnd half way in the shade. When we begunTo cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his headAnd went away; and Mamma, she went backInto the kitchen. Then, for a long while,All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried.We thought so many good things of Old Jack,And funny things—although we didn't smile—Wecouldn't only cry when Old Jack died.
When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friendHad suddenly gone from us; that some faceThat we had loved to fondle and embraceFrom babyhood, no more would condescendTo smile on us forever. We might bendWith tearful eyes above him, interlaceOur chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race,Plead with him, call and coax—aye, we might sendThe old halloo up for him, whistle, hist,(If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain,Snapped thumbs, called "speak," and he had not replied;We might have gone down on our knees and kissedThe tousled ears, and yet they must remainDeaf, motionless, we knew—when Old Jack died.
When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way,That all the other dogs in town were painedWith our bereavement, and some that were chained,Even, unslipped their collars on that dayTo visit Jack in state, as though to payA last, sad tribute there, while neighbors cranedTheir heads above the high board fence, and deignedTo sigh "Poor dog!" remembering how theyHad cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because,For love of them he leaped to lick their hands—Now, that he could not, were they satisfied?We children thought that, as we crossed his paws,And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands,Wrote "Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack died.
Of all the doctors I could cite you to in this-'ere townDoc Sifers is my favorite, jes' take him up and down!Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big Bear,And Sifers' standin's jes' as good as ary doctor's there!There's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh,But I'll buck Sifers 'ginst 'em all and down 'em any day!Most old Wick ever knowed, I s'pose, waswhisky!Wurgler—well,He et morphine—ef actions shows, and facts' reliable!But Sifers—though he ain't no sot, he's got his faults; and yitWhen yougitSifers one't, you've gota doctor, don't fergit!He ain't much at his office, er his house, er anywhereYou'd natchurly think certain far to ketch the feller there.—But don't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous notions—asThe feller says; his odd-come-shorts, like smart men mostly has.He'll more'n like be potter'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; er inSome back lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin.Er at the workbench, planin' things; er buildin' little trapsTo ketch birds; galvenizin' rings; er graftin' plums, perhaps.Make anything! good as the best!—a gunstock—er a flute;He whittled out a set o' chesstmen one't o' laurel root,Durin' the Army—got his trade o' surgeon there—I ownTo-day a finger-ring Doc made out of a Sesesh bone!An' glued a fiddle one't far me—jes' all so busted you'D a throwed the thing away, but he fixed her as good as new!And take Doc, now, inager, say, erbiles, errheumatiz,And all afflictions thataway, and he's the best they is!Er janders—milksick—I don't keer—k-yore anything he tries—A abscess; getherin' in yer yeer; er granilated eyes!There was the Widder Daubenspeck they all give up far dead;A blame cowbuncle on her neck, and clean out of her head!First had this doctor, what's-his-name, from "Puddlesburg," and thenThis little red-head, "Burnin' Shame" they call him—Dr. Glenn.And they "consulted" on the case, and claimed she'd haf to die,—I jes' was joggin' by the place, and heerd her dorter cry,And stops and calls her to the fence; and I-says-I, "Let meSend Sifers—bet you fifteen cents he'll k-yore her!" "Well," saysshe,"Light out!" she says: And, lipp-tee-cut! I loped in town, and rid'Bout two hours more to find him, but I kussed him when I did!He was down at the Gunsmith Shop a-stuffin' birds! Says he,"My sulky's broke." Says I, "You hop right on and ride with me!"I got him there.—"Well, Aunty, ten days k-yores you," Sifers said,"But what's yer idy livin' when yer jes' as good as dead?"And there's Dave Banks—jes' back from war without a scratch—onedayGot ketched up in a sickle-bar, a reaper runaway.—His shoulders, arms, and hands and legs jes' sawed in strips! AndJakeDunn starts far Sifers—feller begs to shoot him far God-sake.Doc, 'course, was gone, but he had penned the notice, "At Big Bear—Be back to-morry; Gone to 'tend the Bee Convention there."But Jake, he tracked him—rid and rode the whole endurin' night!And 'bout the time the roosters crowed they both hove into sight.Doc had to ampitate, but 'greed to save Dave's arms, and sworeHe could a-saved his legs ef he'd ben there the day before.Like when his wife's own mother died 'fore Sifers could be found,And all the neighbors far and wide a' all jes' chasin' round;Tel finally—I had to laugh—it's jes' like Doc, you know,—Was learnin' far to telegraph, down at the old deepo.But all they're faultin' Sifers far, there's none of 'em kin sayHe's biggoty, er keerless, er not posted anyway;He ain't built on the common plan of doctors now-a-days,He's jes' a great, big, brainy man—that's where the trouble lays!
Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his ownThe wife's sweet face in slumber pressed—yet he awake—alone!alone!In vain he courted sleep;—one thought would ever in his heartarise,—The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.Slowly on lifted arm he raised and listened. All was still as death;He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened yet, with batedbreath:Still silently, as though he prayed, his lips moved lightly as sheslept—For God was with him, and he laid his face with hers and wept.
Not very many years ago the writer was for some months stationed at South Bend, a thriving little city of northern Indiana, its main population on the one side of the St. Joseph river, but quite a respectable fraction thereof taking its industrial way to the opposite shore, and there gaining an audience and a hearing in the rather imposing growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories, and the consequent rapid appearance of multitudinous neat cottages, tenement houses and business blocks. A stranger, entering South Bend proper on any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for its prosperous appearance—its flagged and bowldered streets—its handsome mercantile blocks, banks, and business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people on the streets throughout the day, and these seeming, for the most part, merely idlers, and in no wise accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of their surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled at the situation. But when evening comes, and the outlying foundries, sewing-machine, wagon, plow, and other "works," together with the paper-mills and all the nameless industries—when the operations of all these are suspended for the day, and the workmen and workwomen loosed from labor—then, as this vast army suddenly invades and overflows bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stranger will fully comprehend the why and wherefore of the city's high prosperity. And, once acquainted with the people there, the fortunate sojourner will find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as certainly, he will meet with a social spirit and a wholesouled heartiness that will make the place a lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of many world-known notables, and a host of local celebrities, the chief of which latter class I found, during my stay there, in the person of Tommy Stafford, or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called him.
"Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters," said Major Blowney, my employer, one afternoon, "you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before you say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, cleverest chap in all your travels. What d'ye say, Stockford?" And the Major paused in his work of charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun and turned to await his partner's response.
Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the shield-sign he was lettering, slowly smiling as he dipped and trailed his pencil through the ivory black upon a bit of broken glass and said, in his deliberate, half-absent-minded way,—"Is it Tommy you're telling him about?" and then, with a gradual broadening of the smile, he went on, "Well, I should say so. Tommy! What's come of the fellow, anyway? I haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor, on his trial for shakin' up that fast-horse man."
"The fast-horse man got just exactly what he needed, too," said the genial Major, laughing, and mopping his perspiring brow. "The fellow was barkin' up the wrong stump when he tackled Tommy! Got beat in the trade, at his own game, you know, and wound up by an insult that no Irishman would take; and Tommy just naturally wore out the hall carpet of the old hotel with him!"
"And then collared and led him to the mayor's office himself, they say!"
"Oh, he did!" said the Major, with a dash of pride in the confirmation; "that's Tommy all over!"
"Funny trial, wasn't it?" continued the ruminating Stockford.
"Wasn't it though?" laughed the Major.
"The porter's testimony: You see, he was for Tommy, of course, and on examination testified that the horse-man struck Tommy first. And there Tommy broke in with: 'He's a-meanin' well, yer Honor, but he's lyin' to ye—he's lyin' to ye. No livin' man iver struck me first—nor last, nayther, for the matter o' that!' And I thought—the—court—would—die!" concluded the Major, in a like imminent state of merriment.
"Yes, and he said if he struck him first," supplemented Stockford, "he'd like to know why the horseman was 'wearin' all the black eyes, and the blood, and the boomps on the head of um!' And it's that talk of his that got him off with so light a fine!"
"As it always does," said the Major, coming to himself abruptly and looking at his watch. "Stock', you say you're not going along with our duck-shooting party this time? The old Kankakee is just lousy with 'em this season!"
"Can't go possibly," said Stockford, "not on account of the work at all, but the folks at home ain't just as well as I'd like to see them, and I'll stay here till they're better. Next time I'll try and be ready for you. Going to take Tommy, of course?"
"Of course! Got to have 'The Wild Irishman' with us! I'm going around to find him now." Then turning to me the Major continued, "Suppose you get on your coat and hat and come along? It's the best chance you'll ever have to meet Tommy. It's late anyhow, and Stockford'll get along without you. Come on."
"Certainly," said Stockford; "go ahead. And you can take him ducking, too, if he wants to go."
"But he doesn't want to go—and won't go," replied the Major with a commiserative glance at me. "Says he doesn't know a duck from a poll-parrot—nor how to load a shotgun—and couldn't hit a house if he were inside of it and the door shut. Admits that he nearly killed his uncle once, on the other side of a tree, with a squirrel runnin' down it. Don't want him along!"
Reaching the street with the genial Major, he gave me this advice: "Now, when you meet Tommy, you mustn't take all he says for dead earnest, and you mustn't believe, because he talks loud, and in italics every other word, that he wants to do all the talking and won't be interfered with. That's the way he's apt to strike folks at first—but it's their mistake, not his. Talk back to him—controvert him whenever he's aggressive in the utterance of his opinions, and if you're only honest in the announcement of your own ideas and beliefs, he'll like you all the better for standing by them. He's quick-tempered, and perhaps a trifle sensitive, so share your greater patience with him, and he'll pay you back by fighting for you at the drop of the hat. In short, he's as nearly typical of his gallant country's brave, impetuous, fun-loving individuality as such a likeness can exist."
"But is he quarrelsome?" I asked.
"Not at all. There's the trouble. If he'd only quarrel there'd be no harm done. Quarreling's cheap, and Tommy's extravagant. A big blacksmith here, the other day, kicked some boy out of his shop, and Tommy, on his cart, happened to be passing at the time; and he just jumped off without a word, and went in and worked on that fellow for about three minutes, with such disastrous results that they couldn't tell his shop from a slaughter-house; paid an assault and battery fine, and gave the boy a dollar beside, and the whole thing was a positive luxury to him. But I guess we'd better drop the subject, for here's his cart, and here's Tommy. Hi! there, you Far-down 'Irish Mick!" called the Major, in affected antipathy, "been out raiding the honest farmers' hen-roosts again, have you?"
We had halted at a corner grocery and produce store, as I took it, and the smooth-faced, shave-headed man in woolen shirt, short vest, and suspenderless trousers so boisterously addressed by the Major, was just lifting from the back of his cart a coop of cackling chickens.
"Arrah! ye blasted Kerryonian!" replied the handsome fellow, depositing the coop on the curb and straightening his tall, slender figure; "I were jist thinking of yez and the ducks, and here ye come quackin' into the prisence of r'yalty, wid yer canvas-back suit upon ye and the shwim-skins bechuxt yer toes! How air yez, anyhow—and air we startin' for the Kankakee by the nixt post?"
"We're to start just as soon as we get the boys together," said the Major, shaking hands. "The crowd's to be at Andrews' by 4, and it's fully that now; so come on at once. We'll go 'round by Munson's and have Hi send a boy to look after your horse. Come; and I want to introduce my friend here to you, and we'll all want to smoke and jabber a little in appropriate seclusion. Come on." And the impatient Major had linked arms with his hesitating ally and myself, and was turning the corner of the street.
"It's an hour's work I have yet wid the squawkers," mildly protested Tommy, still hanging back and stepping a trifle high; "but, as one Irishman would say til another, 'Ye're wrong, but I'm wid ye!'"
And five minutes later the three of us had joined a very jolly party in a snug back room, with