Waitin' Fer The Cat To Die

Lawzy! don't I rickollect
That-'air old swing in the lane!
Right and proper, I expect,
Old times _can't_ come back again;
But I want to state, ef they
_Could_ come back, and I could say
What _my_ pick 'ud be, i jing!
I'd say, Gimme the old swing
'Nunder the old locus'-trees
On the old place, ef you please!--
Danglin' there with half-shet eye,
Waitin' fer the cat to die!


I'd say, Gimme the old gang
Of barefooted, hungry, lean,
Ornry boys you want to hang
When you're growed up twic't as mean!
The old gyarden-patch, the old
Truants, and the stuff we stol'd!
The old stompin'-groun', where we
Wore the grass off, wild and free
As the swoop of the old swing,
Where we ust to climb and cling,
And twist roun', and fight, and lie--
Waitin' fer the cat to die!


'Pears like I 'most allus could
Swing the highest of the crowd--
Jes sail up there tel I stood
Downside-up, and screech out loud,--
Ketch my breath, and jes drap back
Fer to let the old swing slack,
Yit my tow-head dippin' still
In the green boughs, and the chill
Up my backbone taperin' down,
With my shadder on the ground'
Slow and slower trailin' by--
Waitin' fer the cat to die!


Now my daughter's little Jane's
Got a kind o' baby-swing
On the porch, so's when it rains
She kin play there--little thing!
And I'd limped out t'other day
With my old cheer this-a-way,
Swingin' _her_ and rockin' too,
Thinkin' how _I_ ust to do
At _her_ age, when suddently,
'Hey, Gran'pap!' she says to me,
'Why you rock so slow?' ... Says I,
'Waitin' fer the cat to die!'

Up And Down Old Brandywine

Up and down old Brandywine,
In the days 'at's past and gone--
With a dad-burn hook-and line
And a saplin' pole--swawn!
I've had more fun, to the square
Inch, than ever ANYwhere!
Heaven to come can't discount MINE
Up and down old Brandywine!


Hain't no sense in WISHIN'--yit
Wisht to goodness I COULD jes
'Gee' the blame' world round and git
Back to that old happiness!--
Kindo' drive back in the shade
'The old Covered Bridge' there laid
'Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak
My soul over, hub and spoke!


Honest, now!--it hain't no DREAM
'At I'm wantin',--but THE FAC'S
As they wuz; the same old stream,
And the same old times, i jacks!--
Gim me back my bare feet--and
Stonebruise too!--And scratched and tanned!
And let hottest dog-days shine
Up and down old Brandywine!


In and on betwixt the trees
'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
Kindo' curdled with the breeze
And the yallerhammer's tune;
And the smokin', chokin' dust
O' the turnpike at its wusst--
SATURD'YS, say, when it seems
Road's jes jammed with country teams!--


Whilse the old town, fur away
'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land,
Dozed-like in the heat o' day
Peaceful' as a hired hand.
Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor
O' the old bridge!--grind and roar
With yer blame percession-line--
Up and down old Brandywine!


Souse me and my new straw-hat
Off the foot-log!--what _I_ care?--
Fist shoved in the crown o' that--
Like the old Clown ust to wear.
Wouldn't swop it fer a' old
Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!--
Keep yer KING ef you'll gim me



Jes the boy I ust to be!


Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal
My best 'goggle-eye!'--but you
Can't lay hands on joys I feel
Nibblin' like they ust to do!
So, in memory, to-day
Same old ripple lips away
At my 'cork' and saggin' line,
Up and down old Bradywine!


There the logs is, round the hill,
Where 'Old Irvin' ust to lift
Out sunfish from daylight till
Dewfall--'fore he'd leave 'The Drift'
And give US a chance--and then
Kindo' fish back home again,
Ketchin' 'em jes left and right
Where WE hadn't got 'a bite!'


Er, 'way windin' out and in,--
Old path th'ough the iurnweeds
And dog-fennel to yer chin--
Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds
And cat-tails, smack into where
Them--air woods--hogs ust to scare
Us clean 'crosst the County-line,
Up and down old Brandywine!


But the dim roar o' the dam
It 'ud coax us furder still
To'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 'lowed
We wuz quite so overly
Welcome 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' raw
Gold and green,--jes oozy th'ough
With ripe yaller--like you've saw
Custard-pie with no crust to:
And jes GORGES o' wild plums,



Till a feller'd suck his thumbs
Clean 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 pizenvine
And 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-VINE
Up and down old Brandywine!

Uncle Mart's Poem

THE OLD SNOW-MAN

Ho! the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!
He looked as fierce and sassy
As a soldier on parade!-'
Cause Noey, when he made him,
While we all wuz gone, you see,
He made him, jist a-purpose,
Jist as fierce as he could be!--
But when we all got _ust_ to him,
Nobody wuz afraid
Of the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!


'Cause Noey told us 'bout him
And what he made him fer:-He'd
come to feed, that morning
He found we wuzn't here;
And so the notion struck him,
When we all come taggin' home
'Tud _s'prise_ us ef a' old Snow-Man
'Ud meet us when we come!
So, when he'd fed the stock, and milked,
And ben back home, and chopped
His wood, and et his breakfast, he
Jist grabbed his mitts and hopped
Right in on that-air old Snow-Man
That he laid out he'd make
Er bust a trace _a-tryin_'--jist
Fer old-acquaintance sake!--
But work like that wuz lots more fun.
He said, than when he played!
Ho! the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!


He started with a big snow-ball,
And rolled it all around;
And as he rolled, more snow 'ud stick
And pull up off the ground.--
He rolled and rolled all round the yard-'
Cause we could see the _track_,
All wher' the snow come off, you know,
And left it wet and black.
He got the Snow-Man's _legs-part_ rolled--
In front the kitchen-door,--
And then he hat to turn in then
And roll and roll some more!--
He rolled the yard all round agin,
And round the house, at that--
Clean round the house and back to wher'
The blame legs-half wuz at!



He said he missed his dinner, too--
Jist clean fergot and stayed
There workin'. Ho! the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!


And Noey said he hat to _hump_
To git the _top-half_ on
The _legs-half!_--When he _did_, he said,
His wind wuz purt'-nigh gone.--
He said, I jucks! he jist drapped down
There on the old porch-floor
And panted like a dog!--And then
He up! and rolled some more!--
The _last_ batch--that wuz fer his head,-And--
time he'd got it right
And clumb and fixed it on, he said--
He hat to quit fer night!--
And _then_, he said, he'd kep' right on
Ef they'd ben any _moon_
To work by! So he crawled in bed--
And _could_ a-slep' tel _noon_,
He wuz so plum wore out! he said,--
But it wuz washin'-day,
And hat to cut a cord o' wood
'Fore he could git away!


But, last, he got to work agin,--
With spade, and gouge, and hoe,
And trowel, too--(All tools 'ud do
What _Noey_ said, you know!)
He cut his eyebrows out like cliffs--
And his cheekbones and chin
Stuck _furder_ out--and his old _nose_
Stuck out as fur-agin!
He made his eyes o' walnuts,
And his whiskers out o' this
Here buggy-cushion stuffin'--_moss_,
The teacher says it is.
And then he made a' old wood'-gun,
Set keerless-like, you know,
Acrost one shoulder--kindo' like
Big Foot, er Adam Poe--
Er, mayby, Simon Girty,
The dinged old Renegade!
_Wooh!_ the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!


And there he stood, all fierce and grim,
A stern, heroic form:
What was the winter blast to him,
And what the driving storm?--
What wonder that the children pressed



Their faces at the pane
And scratched away the frost, in pride
To look on him again?--
What wonder that, with yearning bold,
Their all of love and care
Went warmest through the keenest cold
To that Snow-Man out there!

But the old Snow-Man--
What a dubious delight
He grew at last when Spring came on
And days waxed warm and bright.--
Alone he stood--all kith and kin
Of snow and ice were gone;--
Alone, with constant teardrops in
His eyes and glittering on
His thin, pathetic beard of black--
Grief in a hopeless cause!-Hope--
hope is for the man that _dies_--
What for the man that _thaws!_
O Hero of a hero's make!--
Let _marble_ melt and fade,
But never _you_--you old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!

Tom Van Arden

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Our warm fellowship is one
Far too old to comprehend
Where its bond was first begun:
Mirage-like before my gaze
Gleams a land of other days,
Where two truant boys, astray,
Dream their lazy lives away.


There's a vision, in the guise
Of Midsummer, where the Past
Like a weary beggar lies
In the shadow Time has cast;
And as blends the bloom of trees
With the drowsy hum of bees,
Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.


Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
All the pleasures we have known
Thrill me now as I extend
This old hand and grasp your own--
Feeling, in the rude caress,
All affection's tenderness;
Feeling, though the touch be rough,
Our old souls are soft enough.


So we'll make a mellow hour:
Fill your pipe, and taste the wine--
Warp your face, if it be sour,
I can spare a smile from mine;
If it sharpen up your wit,
Let me feel the edge of it--
I have eager ears to lend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.


Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Are we 'lucky dogs,' indeed?
Are we all that we pretend
In the jolly life we lead?--
Bachelors, we must confess,
Boast of 'single blessedness'
To the world, but not alone-Man's
best sorrow is his own!


And the saddest truth is this,--
Life to us has never proved
What we tasted in the kiss
Of the women we have loved:
Vainly we congratulate
Our escape from such a fate
As their lying lips could send,



Tom Van Arden, my old friend!


Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,
Ripen sweetest, I contend,
As the frost falls over them:
Your regard for me to-day
Makes November taste of May,
And through every vein of rhyme
Pours the blood of summer-time.


When our souls are cramped with youth
Happiness seems far away
In the future, while, in truth,


We look back on it to-day
Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-'
Better to have loved and lost!'
Broken hearts are hard to mend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.


Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
I grow prosy, and you tire;
Fill the glasses while I bend
To prod up the failing fire. . . .
You are restless:--I presume
There's a dampness in the room.--
Much of warmth our nature begs,
With rheumatics in our legs! . . .


Humph! the legs we used to fling
Limber-jointed in the dance,
When we heard the fiddle ring
Up the curtain of Romance,
And in crowded public halls
Played with hearts like jugglers' balls.--
FEATS OF MOUNTEBANKS, DEPEND!--
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.


Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Pardon, then, this theme of mine:
While the firelight leaps to lend
Higher color to the wine,--
I propose a health to those
Who have HOMES, and home's repose,
Wife- and child-love without end!
. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Told By

Coming, clean from the Maryland-end
Of this great National Road of ours,
Through your vast West; with the time to spend,
Stopping for days in the main towns, where
Every citizen seemed a friend,
And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers,--
I found no thing that I might narrate
More singularly strange or queer
Than a thing I found in your sister-state
Ohio,--at a river-town--down here
In my notebook: _Zanesville--situate
On the stream Muskingum--broad and clear,
And navigable, through half the year,
North, to Coshocton; south, as far
As Marietta._--But these facts are
Not of the _story_, but the _scene_
Of the simple little tale I mean
To tell _directly_--from this, straight through
To the _end_ that is best worth listening to:

Eastward of Zanesville, two or three
Miles from the town, as our stage drove in,
I on the driver's seat, and he
Pointing out this and that to me,--
On beyond us--among the rest--
A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng
Of little children, which he 'guessed'
Was a picnic, as we caught their thin
High laughter, as we drove along,
Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly
He turned and asked, with a curious grin,
What were my views on _Slavery? 'Why?'_
I asked, in return, with a wary eye.
'Because,' he answered, pointing his whip
At a little, whitewashed house and shed
On the edge of the road by the grove ahead,-'
Because there are two slaves _there_,' he said-'
Two Black slaves that I've passed each trip
For eighteen years.--Though they've been set free,
They have been slaves ever since!' said he.
And, as our horses slowly drew
Nearer the little house in view,
All briefly I heard the history
Of this little old Negro woman and
Her husband, house and scrap of land;
How they were slaves and had been made free
By their dying master, years ago
In old Virginia; and then had come
North here into a _free_ state--so,
Safe forever, to found a home--
For themselves alone?--for they left South there
Five strong sons, who had, alas!


All been sold ere it came to pass
This first old master with his last breath
Had freed the _parents_.--(He went to death
Agonized and in dire despair
That the poor slave _children_ might not share
Their parents' freedom. And wildly then
He moaned for pardon and died. Amen!)


Thus, with their freedom, and little sum
Of money left them, these two had come
North, full twenty long years ago;
And, settling there, they had hopefully
Gone to work, in their simple way,
Hauling--gardening--raising sweet
Corn, and popcorn.--Bird and bee
In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree
Singing with them throughout the slow
Summer's day, with its dust and heat--
The crops that thirst and the rains that fail;
Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low,
And hand-made hominy might find sale
In the near town-market; or baking pies
And cakes, to range in alluring show
At the little window, where the eyes
Of the Movers' children, driving past,
Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew
Into a halt that would sometimes last
Even the space of an hour or two--
As the dusty, thirsty travelers made
Their noonings there in the beeches' shade
By the old black Aunty's spring-house, where,
Along with its cooling draughts, were found
Jugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer,
Served with her gingerbread-horses there,
While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'round
Till the children's rapture knew no bound,
As she sang and danced for them, quavering clear
And high the chant of her old slave-days-


'Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so',
Dancin' on yo' sandy flo'!'


Even so had they wrought all ways
To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,--
And with what ultimate end in view?--
They were saving up money enough to be
Able, in time, to buy their own
Five children back.


Ah! the toil gone through!
And the long delays and the heartaches, too,
And self-denials that they had known!



But the pride and glory that was theirs
When they first hitched up their shackly cart
For the long, long journey South.--The start
In the first drear light of the chilly dawn,
With no friends gathered in grieving throng,--
With no farewells and favoring prayers;
But, as they creaked and jolted on,
Their chiming voices broke in song-


''Hail, all hail! don't you see the stars a-fallin'?
Hail, all hail! I'm on my way.
Gideon[1] am
A healin' ba'm--
I belong to the blood-washed army.
Gideon am
A healin' ba'm--
On my way!''


And their _return!_--with their oldest boy
Along with them! Why, their happiness
Spread abroad till it grew a joy
_Universal_--It even reached
And thrilled the town till the _Church_ was stirred
Into suspecting that wrong was wrong!--
And it stayed awake as the preacher preached
A _Real_ 'Love'-text that he had not long
To ransack for in the Holy Word.


And the son, restored, and welcomed so,
Found service readily in the town;
And, with the parents, sure and slow,
_He_ went 'saltin' de cole cash down.'


So with the _next_ boy--and each one
In turn, till _four_ of the five at last
Had been bought back; and, in each case,
With steady work and good homes not
Far from the parents, _they_ chipped in
To the family fund, with an equal grace.
Thus they managed and planned and wrought,
And the old folks throve--Till the night before
They were to start for the lone last son
In the rainy dawn--their money fast
Hid away in the house,--two mean,
Murderous robbers burst the door.
...Then, in the dark, was a scuffle--a fall--
An old man's gasping cry--and then
A woman's fife-like shriek.


...Three men
Splashing by on horseback heard
The summons: And in an instant all



Sprung to their duty, with scarce a word.
And they were _in time_--not only to save
The lives of the old folks, but to bag
Both the robbers, and buck-and-gag
And land them safe in the county-jail--
Or, as Aunty said, with a blended awe
And subtlety,--'Safe in de calaboose whah
De dawgs caint bite 'em!'


--So prevail
The faithful!--So had the Lord upheld
His servants of both deed and prayer,--
HIS the glory unparalleled-_
Theirs_ the reward,--their every son
Free, at last, as the parents were!
And, as the driver ended there
In front of the little house, I said,
All fervently, 'Well done! well done!'
At which he smiled, and turned his head
And pulled on the leaders' lines and--'See!'
He said,--''you can read old Aunty's sign?'
And, peering down through these specs of mine
On a little, square board-sign, I read:


'Stop, traveler, if you think it fit,
And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit.
The rocky spring is very clear,
And soon converted into beer.'


And, though I read aloud, I could
Scarce hear myself for laugh and shout
Of children--a glad multitude
Of little people, swarming out
Of the picnic-grounds I spoke about.--
And in their rapturous midst, I see
Again--through mists of memory--
A black old Negress laughing up
At the driver, with her broad lips rolled
Back from her teeth, chalk-white, and gums
Redder than reddest red-ripe plums.
He took from her hand the lifted cup
Of clear spring-water, pure and cold,
And passed it to me: And I raised my hat
And drank to her with a reverence that
My conscience knew was justly due
The old black face, and the old eyes, too--
The old black head, with its mossy mat
Of hair, set under its cap and frills
White as the snows on Alpine hills;
Drank to the old _black_ smile, but yet
Bright as the sun on the violet,--
Drank to the gnarled and knuckled old



Black hands whose palms had ached and bled
And pitilessly been worn pale
And white almost as the palms that hold
Slavery's lash while the victim's wail
Fails as a crippled prayer might fail.--
Aye, with a reverence infinite,
I drank to the old black face and head--
The old black breast with its life of light--
The old black hide with its heart of gold.

To The Judge

_A Voice From the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole Township_

Friend of my earliest youth,
Can't you arrange to come down
And visit a fellow out here in the woods--
Out of the dust of the town?
Can't you forget you're a Judge
And put by your dolorous frown
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend-Can't
you arrange to come down?


Can't you forget for a while
The arguments prosy and drear,--
To lean at full-length in indefinite rest
In the lap of the greenery here?
Can't you kick over 'the Bench,'
And 'husk' yourself out of your gown
To dangle your legs where the fishing is good-Can't
you arrange to come down?


Bah! for your office of State!
And bah! for its technical lore!
What does our President, high in his chair,
But wish himself low as before!
Pick between peasant and king,--
Poke your bald head through a crown
Or shadow it here with the laurels of Spring!-Can't
you arrange to come down?


'Judge it' out _here_, if you will,--
The birds are in session by dawn;
You can draw, not _complaints_, but a sketch of the hill
And a breath that your betters have drawn;
You can open your heart, like a case,
To a jury of kine, white and brown,
And their verdict of 'Moo' will just satisfy you!-Can't
you arrange to come down?


Can't you arrange it, old Pard?--
Pigeonhole Blackstone and Kent!--
Here we have 'Breitmann,' and Ward,
Twain, Burdette, Nye, and content!
Can't you forget you're a Judge
And put by your dolorous frown
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend-Can't
you arrange to come down?

To Robert Burns

Sweet Singer that I loe the maist
O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste
I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste
O' hinnied sang,
I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist
In Heaven lang!


For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase,
Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways,
Could gar me freer blame, or praise,
Or proffer hand,
Where 'Rantin' Robbie' and his lays
Thegither stand.


And sae these hamely lines I send,
Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end,
In echo o' the sangs that wend
Frae thee to me
Like simmer-brooks, wi mony a bend
O' wimplin' glee.


In fancy, as wi' dewy een,
I part the clouds aboon the scene
Where thou wast born, and peer atween,
I see nae spot
In a' the Hielands half sae green
And unforgot?


I see nae storied castle-hall,
Wi' banners flauntin' ower the wall
And serf and page in ready call,
Sae grand to me
As ane puir cotter's hut, wi' all
Its poverty.


There where the simple daisy grew
Sae bonnie sweet, and modest too,
Thy liltin' filled its wee head fu'
O' sic a grace,
It aye is weepin' tears o' dew
Wi' droopit face.


Frae where the heather bluebells fling
Their sangs o' fragrance to the Spring,
To where the lavrock soars to sing,
Still lives thy strain,
For' a' the birds are twittering
Sangs like thine ain.


And aye, by light o' sun or moon,
By banks o' Ayr, or Bonnie Doon,
The waters lilt nae tender tune



But sweeter seems
Because they poured their limpid rune
Through a' thy dreams.


Wi' brimmin' lip, and laughin' ee,
Thou shookest even Grief wi' glee,
Yet had nae niggart sympathy
Where Sorrow bowed,
But gavest a' thy tears as free
As a' thy gowd.


And sae it is we be thy name
To see bleeze up wi' sic a flame,
That a' pretentious stars o' fame
Maun blink asklent,
To see how simple worth may shame
Their brightest glent.

To My Good Master

In fancy, always, at thy desk, thrown wide,
Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly--
The rarest rhymes of every land and sea
And 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 abide
Enthralled 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 overcome
My listening heart and all the love of it!

To Annie

When the lids of dusk are falling
O'er the dreamy eyes of day,
And the whippoorwills are calling,
And the lesson laid away,--
May Mem'ry soft and tender
As the prelude of the night,
Bend over you and render
As tranquil a delight.

To a Boy Whistling

The smiling face of a happy boy
With its enchanted key
Is now unlocking in memory
My store of heartiest joy.


And my lost life again to-day,
In pleasant colors all aglow,
From rainbow tints, to pure white snow,
Is a panorama sliding away.


The whistled air of a simple tune
Eddies and whirls my thoughts around,
As fairy balloons of thistle-down
Sail through the air of June.


O happy boy with untaught grace!
What is there in the world to give
That can buy one hour of the life you live
Or the trivial cause of your smiling face!