I
The air falls chill;The whippoorwillPipes lonesomely behind the hill:The dusk grows dense,The silence tense;And lo, the katydids commence.
II
Through shadowy riftsOf woodland, liftsThe low, slow moon, and upward drifts,While left and rightThe fireflies' lightSwirls eddying in the skirts of Night.
III
O Cloudland, grayAnd level, layThy mists across the face of Day!At foot and head,Above the dead,O Dews, weep on uncomforted!
Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,And the pansies and pinks that the SummertimethrowsIn the green grassy lap of the medder that laysBlinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;But what is the lily and all of the restOf the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brestThat was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dewOf the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?I never set eyes on a clover-field now,Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as planeAs the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleamWith the dew of the dawn of the morning of loveEre it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.And so I love clover—it seems like a partOf the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bowAnd thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloomWhile my soul slips away on a breth of purfume
Old October's purt' nigh gone,And the frosts is comin' onLittle HEAVIER every day—Like our hearts is thataway!Leaves is changin' overheadBack from green to gray and red,Brown and yeller, with their stemsLoosenin' on the oaks and e'ms;And the balance of the treesGittin' balder every breeze—Like the heads we're scratchin' on!Old October's purt' nigh gone.I love Old October so,I can't bear to see her go—Seems to me like losin' someOld-home relative er chum—'Pears like sorto' settin' bySome old friend 'at sigh by sighWas a-passin' out o' sightInto everlastin' night!Hickernuts a feller hearsRattlin' down is more like tearsDrappin' on the leaves below—I love Old October so!Can't tell what it is aboutOld October knocks me out!—I sleep well enough at night—And the blamedest appetiteEver mortal man possessed,—Last thing et, it tastes the best!—Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws,'Iles and limbers up my jawsFer raal service, sich as newPork, spareribs, and sausage, too.—Yit, fer all, they's somepin' 'boutOld October knocks me out!
They ain't no style about 'em,And they're sorto' pale and faded,Yit the doorway here, without 'em,Would be lonesomer, and shadedWith a good 'eal blacker shadderThan the morning-glories makes,And the sunshine would look sadderFer their good old-fashion' sakes,I like 'em 'cause they kindo'—Sorto' MAKE a feller like 'em!And I tell you, when I find aBunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em,It allus sets me thinkin'O' the ones 'at used to growAnd peek in thro' the chinkin'O' the cabin, don't you know!And then I think o' mother,And how she ust to love 'em—When they wuzn't any other,'Less she found 'em up above 'em!And her eyes, afore she shut 'em,Whispered with a smile and saidWe must pick a bunch and putt 'emIn her hand when she wuz dead.But, as I wuz a-sayin',They ain't no style about 'emVery gaudy er displayingBut I wouldn't be without 'em,—'Cause I'm happier in these posies,And the hollyhawks and sich,Than the hummin'-bird 'at nosesIn the roses of the rich.
I come upon it suddenly, alone—A little pathway winding in the weedsThat fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,I wander as it leads.Full wistfully along the slender way,Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine,I take the path that leads me as it may—Its every choice is mine.A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail,Is startled by my step as on I fare—A garter-snake across the dusty trailGlances and—is not there.Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twosAnd twos of sallow-yellow butterflies,Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing looseWhen autumn winds arise.The trail dips—dwindles—broadens then, and liftsItself astride a cross-road dubiously,And, from the fennel marge beyond it, driftsStill onward, beckoning me.And though it needs must lure me mile on mileOut of the public highway, still I go,My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file,Allure me even so.Why, I am as a long-lost boy that wentAt dusk to bring the cattle to the bars,And was not found again, though Heaven lentHis mother all the starsWith which to seek him through that awful night.O years of nights as vain!—Stars never riseBut well might miss their glitter in the lightOf tears in mother-eyes!So—on, with quickened breaths, I follow still—My avant-courier must be obeyed!Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will,Invites me to invadeA meadow's precincts, where my daring guideClambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile,And stumbles down again, the other side,To gambol there awhileIn pranks of hide-and-seek, as on aheadI see it running, while the clover-stalksShake rosy fists at me, as though they said—"You dog our country—walks"And mutilate us with your walking-stick!—We will not suffer tamely what you do,And warn you at your peril,—for we'll sicOur bumblebees on you!"But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,—The more determined on my wayward quest,As some bright memory a moment dawnsA morning in my breast—Sending a thrill that hurries me alongIn faulty similes of childish skips,Enthused with lithe contortions of a songPerforming on my lips.In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth—Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands,Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth,Put berries in my hands:Or the path climbs a bowlder—wades a slough—Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags,Goes gayly dancing o'er a deep bayouOn old tree-trunks and snags:Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid poolUpon a bridge the stream itself has made,With some Spring-freshet for the mighty toolThat its foundation laid.I pause a moment here to bend and muse,With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, whereA boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise,Or wildly oars the air,As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook—The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed—Swings pivoting about, with wary lookOf low and cunning greed.Till, filled with other thought, I turn againTo where the pathway enters in a realmOf lordly woodland, under sovereign reignOf towering oak and elm.A puritanic quiet here revilesThe almost whispered warble from the hedge.And takes a locust's rasping voice and filesThe silence to an edge.In such a solitude my sombre wayStrays like a misanthrope within a gloomOf his own shadows—till the perfect dayBursts into sudden bloom,And crowns a long, declining stretch of space,Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled.And where the valley's dint in Nature's faceDimples a smiling world.And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled,I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams,Where, like a gem in costly setting held,The old log cabin gleams.O darling Pathway! lead me bravely onAdown your alley-way, and run beforeAmong the roses crowding up the lawnAnd thronging at the door,—And carry up the echo there that shallArouse the drowsy dog, that he may bayThe household out to greet the prodigalThat wanders home to-day.
Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin—Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine andthe dewTel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyrbreast;And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; ain'tyou?They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line;And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmerknows;And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best;But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the westYou don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelonvines—'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons,shore;—I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,Which may be a fact you have heerd of beforeBut your melons that's raised right and 'tended to withcare,You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent'spride and joy,And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a airAs ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' soundWhen you split one down the back and jolt the halvesin two,And the friends you love the best is gethered all around—And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's thecore fer you!"And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delightAs one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,And they holler fer some more, with unquenchedappetite.Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat—A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyrhands,And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich musiccan't be beat—'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummickunderstands.Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-coloredmeat,And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshedbetwixtThe up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhoodmixed.Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies awayTo the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day,And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a-comin'on.And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves andtrees,And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silvermice,And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-coredslice.Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin—Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.
Up and down old Brandywine,In the days 'at's past and gone—With a dad-burn hook-and lineAnd a saplin' pole—swawn!I've had more fun, to the squareInch, than ever ANYwhere!Heaven to come can't discount MINEUp and down old Brandywine!Hain't no sense in WISHIN'—yitWisht to goodness I COULD jes"Gee" the blame' world round and gitBack to that old happiness!—Kindo' drive back in the shade"The old Covered Bridge" there laid'Crosst the crick, and sorto' soakMy soul over, hub and spoke!Honest, now!—it hain't no DREAM'At I'm wantin',—but THE FAC'SAs they wuz; the same old stream,And the same old times, i jacks!—Gim me back my bare feet—andStonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!And let hottest dog-days shineUp and down old Brandywine!In and on betwixt the trees'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,Kindo' curdled with the breezeAnd the yallerhammer's tune;And the smokin', chokin' dustO' the turnpike at its wusst—SATURD'YS, say, when it seemsRoad's jes jammed with country teams!—Whilse the old town, fur away'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land,Dozed-like in the heat o' dayPeaceful' as a hired hand.Jolt the gravel th'ough the floorO' the old bridge!—grind and roarWith yer blame percession-line—Up and down old Brandywine!Souse me and my new straw-hatOff the foot-log!—whatIcare?—Fist shoved in the crown o' that—Like the old Clown ust to wear.Wouldn't swop it fer a' oldGin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!—Keep yer KING ef you'll gim meJes the boy I ust to be!Spill my fishin'-worms! er stealMy best "goggle-eye!"—but youCan't lay hands on joys I feelNibblin' like they ust to do!So, in memory, to-daySame old ripple lips awayAt my "cork" and saggin' line,Up and down old Bradywine!There the logs is, round the hill,Where "Old Irvin" ust to liftOut sunfish from daylight tillDewfall—'fore he'd leave "The Drift"And give US a chance—and thenKindo' fish back home again,Ketchin' 'em jes left and rightWhere WE hadn't got "a bite!"Er, 'way windin' out and in,—Old path th'ough the iurnweedsAnd dog-fennel to yer chin—Then come suddent, th'ough the reedsAnd cat-tails, smack into whereThem—air woods—hogs ust to scareUs clean 'crosst the County-line,Up and down old Brandywine!But the dim roar o' the damIt 'ud coax us furder stillTo'rds the old race, slow and ca'm,Slidin' on to Huston's mill—Where, I'spect, "The Freeport crowd"Never WARMED to us er 'lowedWe wuz quite so overlyWelcome as we aimed to be.Still it 'peared like ever'thing—Fur away from home as THERE—Had more RELISH-like, i jing!—Fish in stream, er bird in air!O them rich old bottom-lands,Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!Wortermelons—MASTER-MINE!Up and down old Brandywine!And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o' rawGold and green,—jes oozy th'oughWith ripe yaller—like you've sawCustard-pie with no crust to:And jes GORGES o' wild plums,Till a feller'd suck his thumbsClean up to his elbows! MY!—ME SOME MORE ER LEM ME DIE!Up and down old Brandywine!...Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—Flick me with a pizenvineAnd yell "Yip!" and lem me loose!—Old now as I then wuz young,'F I could sing as I HAVE sung,Song 'ud surely ring DEE-VINEUp and down old Brandywine!
When country roads begin to thawIn mottled spots of damp and dust,And fences by the margin drawAlong the frosty crustTheir graphic silhouettes, I say,The Spring is coming round this way.When morning-time is bright with sunAnd keen with wind, and both confuseThe dancing, glancing eyes of oneWith tears that ooze and ooze—And nose-tips weep as well as they,The Spring is coming round this way.When suddenly some shadow-birdGoes wavering beneath the gaze,And through the hedge the moan is heardOf kine that fain would grazeIn grasses new, I smile and say,The Spring is coming round this way.When knotted horse-tails are untied,And teamsters whistle here and there.And clumsy mitts are laid asideAnd choppers' hands are bare,And chips are thick where children play,The Spring is coming round this way.When through the twigs the farmer tramps,And troughs are chunked beneath the trees,And fragrant hints of sugar-campsAstray in every breeze,—When early March seems middle May,The Spring is coming round this way.When coughs are changed to laughs, and whenOur frowns melt into smiles of glee,And all our blood thaws out againIn streams of ecstasy,And poets wreak their roundelay,The Spring is coming round this way.
Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days—Of the times as they ust to be;"Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakespeare's Plays"Is a' most too deep fer me!I want plane facts, and I want plane words,Of the good old-fashioned ways,When speech run free as the songs of birds'Way back in the airly days.Tell me a tale of the timber-lands—Of the old-time pioneers;Somepin' a pore man understandsWith his feelins's well as ears.Tell of the old log house,—aboutThe loft, and the puncheon flore—The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out,And the latch-string thrugh the door.Tell of the things jest as they was—They don't need no excuse!—Don't tech 'em up like the poets does,Tel theyr all too fine fer use!—Say they was 'leven in the fambily—Two beds, and the chist, below,And the trundle-beds that each helt three,And the clock and the old bureau.Then blow the horn at the old back-doorTel the echoes all halloo,And the childern gethers home onc't more,Jest as they ust to do:Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes,With Tomps and Elias, too,A-marchin' home, with the fife and drumsAnd the old Red White and Blue!Blow and blow tel the sound draps lowAs the moan of the whipperwill,And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo,All sleepin' at Bethel Hill:Blow and call tel the faces allShine out in the back-log's blaze,And the shadders dance on the old hewed wallAs they did in the airly days.
I
In the jolly wintersOf the long-ago,It was not so cold as now—O! No! No!Then, as I remember,Snowballs to eatWere as good as apples now.And every bit as sweet!
II
In the jolly wintersOf the dead-and-gone,Bub was warm as summer,With his red mitts on,—Just in his little waist-And-pants all together,Who ever hear him growlAbout cold weather?
III
In the jolly wintersOf the long-ago—Was it HALF so cold as now?O! No! No!Who caught his death o' cold,Making prints of menFlat-backed in snow that now'sTwice as cold again?
IV
In the jolly wintersOf the dead-and-gone,Startin' out rabbit-huntin'—Early as the dawn,—Who ever froze his fingers,Ears, heels, or toes,—Or'd 'a' cared if he had?Nobody knows!
V
Nights by the kitchen-stove,Shellin' white and redCorn in the skillet, andSleepin' four abed!Ah! the jolly wintersOf the long-ago!We were not as old as now—O! No! No!
O queenly month of indolent repose!I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume,As in thy downy lap of clover-bloomI nestle like a drowsy child and dozeThe lazy hours away. The zephyr throwsThe shifting shuttle of the Summer's loomAnd weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloomBefore thy listless feet. The lily blowsA bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade;And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear,Thy harvest-armies gather on parade;While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear,A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:—All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!
"'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad,"I've twittered fer rain all day;And I got up soon,And hollered tel noon—But the sun, hit blazed away,Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,Weary at hart, and sick at soul!"Dozed away fer an hour,And I tackled the thing agin:And I sung, and sung,Tel I knowed my lungWas jest about give in;And THEN, thinks I, ef hit don't rain NOW,They's nothin' in singin', anyhow!"Onc't in a while some farmerWould come a-drivin' past;And he'd hear my cry,And stop and sigh—Tel I jest laid back, at last,And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oatWould bust wide open at ever' note!"But I FETCHED her!—OIFETCHED her!—'Cause a little while ago,As I kindo' set,With one eye shet,And a-singin' soft and low,A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,A-sayin',—'EF YOU'LL JEST HUSH I'LL RAIN!'"
A song of Long Ago:Sing it lightly—sing it low—Sing it softly—like the lisping of the lips weused to knowWhen our baby-laughter spilledFrom the glad hearts ever filledWith music blithe as robin ever trilled!Let the fragrant summer breeze,And the leaves of locust-trees,And the apple-buds and blossoms, and thewings of honey-bees,All palpitate with glee,Till the happy harmonyBrings back each childish joy to you and me.Let the eyes of fancy turnWhere the tumbled pippins burnLike embers in the orchard's lap of tangledgrass and fern,—There let the old path windIn and out and on behindThe cider-press that chuckles as we grind.Blend in the song the moanOf the dove that grieves alone,And the wild whir of the locust, and thebumble's drowsy drone;And the low of cows that callThrough the pasture-bars when allThe landscape fades away at evenfall.Then, far away and clear,Through the dusky atmosphere,Let the wailing of the killdee be the onlysound we hear:O sad and sweet and lowAs the memory may knowIs the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago!
I have jest about decidedIt 'ud keep a town-boy hoppin'Fer to work all winter, choppin'Fer a' old fireplace, like I did!Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!—Blame' backbone o' winter, 'peared-likeWOULDN'T break!—and I wuz skeered-likeClean on into FEB'UARY!Nothin' ever made me madderThan fer Pap to stomp in, layin'In a' extra forestick, say'in',"Groun'-hog's out and seed his shadder!"
I' b'en a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'mAbout o' the conclusion that they hain't no bettertime,When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust toknowWhen we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto' solum-likeand low!You git my idy, do you?—LITTLE tads, you understand—Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz aMAN.—Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day,And fergittin' all that's in it, wishm' jest the other way!I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrateWhare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,—But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what Ido!—I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree,Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders overme;And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, andsetJest a-thinkin' here, i gravy' tel my eyes is wringin'-wet!Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the PRESUNT, I kin see—Kindo' like my sight wuz double-all the things thatUST to be;And the flutter o' the robin and the teeter o' the wrenSets the willer-branches bobbin' "howdy-do" thum Nowto Then!The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June,From the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer'stune;And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on thesnag,Seems ef they can't-od-rot 'em!-jest do nothin' elsebut brag!They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay,And that sassy little critter jest a-peckin' all the day;They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in thethrush,And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in thebrush!They's music all around me!—And I go back, in a dreamSweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep,—and in thestreamThat list to split the medder whare the dandylionsgrowed,I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down theroad.Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!—And they's other fellers,too,With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; anda fewLittle "shiners" on our stringers, with theyr tails tip—toein' bloom,As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy jurneyhome.I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out,With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout"!—I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam,And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the dam.I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill,And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growl-in' still;And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe,And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do.W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul planeI kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane;And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n"Money-musk"'Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the dusk.And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, tel I'mFirm-fixed in the conclusion that they haint no bettertime,When you come to cipher on it, than the old times,—Ide-clareI kin wake and say "dog-gone-it'" jest as soft as anyprayer!