Family

Mignon


Do you know the land where the lemon-trees grow,
in darkened leaves the gold-oranges glow,
a soft wind blows from the pure blue sky,
the myrtle stands mute, and the bay-tree high?
Do you know it well?

It’s there I’d be gone,
to be there with you, O, my beloved one!

Do you know the house? It has columns and beams,
there are glittering rooms, the hallway gleams,
and figures of marble looking at me?
‘What have they done, child of misery?
Do you know it well?


It’s there I’d be gone,
to be there with you, O my true guardian!

Do you know the clouded mountain mass?
The mule picks its way through the misted pass,
and dragons in caves raise their ancient brood,
and the cliffs are polished smooth by the flood;
Do you know it well?


It’s there I would be gone!
It’s there our way leads! Father, we must go on!

Hermann And Dorothea - VIII. Melpomene

HERMANN AND DOROTHEA.

So tow'rd the sun, now fast sinking to rest, the two walk'd together,
Whilst he veil'd himself deep in clouds which thunder portended.
Out-of his veil now here, now there, with fiery glances
Beaming over the plain with rays foreboding and lurid.
'May this threatening weather,' said Hermann, 'not bring to us shortly
Hail and violent rain, for well does the harvest now promise.'
And they both rejoiced in the corn so lofty and waving,
Well nigh reaching the heads of the two tall figures that walk'd there.
Then the maiden spoke to her friendly leader as follows
'Generous youth, to whom I shall owe a kind destiny shortly,
Shelter and home, when so many poor exiles must weather the tempest,
In the first place tell me all about your good parents,
Whom I intend to serve with all my soul from hence-forward;
Knowing one's master, 'tis easier far to give satisfaction,
By rememb'ring the things which he deems of the highest importance,
And on which he has set his heart with the greatest decision.
Tell me, then, how best I can win your father and mother.'


Then the good and sensible youth made answer as follows
'You are indeed quite right, my kind and excellent maiden,
To begin by asking about the tastes of my parents!
For I have hitherto striven in vain to satisfy Father,
When I look'd after the inn, as well as my regular duty,
Working early and late in the field, and tending the vineyard.
Mother indeed was contented; she knew how to value my efforts;
And she will certainly hold you to be an excellent maiden,
If you take care of the house, as though the dwelling your own were.
But my father's unlike her; he's fond of outward appearance.
Gentle maiden, deem me not cold and void of all feeling,
If I disclose my father's nature to you, who're a stranger.
Yes, such words have never before escaped, I assure von
Out of my mouth, which is little accustom'd to babble and chatter;
But you have managed to worm all my secrets from out of my bosom.
Well, my worthy father the graces of life holds in honour,
Wishes for outward signs of love, as well as of rev'rence,
And would doubtless be satisfied with an inferior servant
Who understood this fancy, and hate a better, who did not.'


Cheerfully she replied, with gentle movement increasing
Through the darkening path the speed at which she was walking:
I in truth shall hope to satisfy both of your parents,
For your mother's character my own nature resembles,
And to external graces have I from my youth been accustom'd.
Our old neighbours, the French, in their earlier days laid much stress on
Courteous demeanour; 'twas common alike to nobles and burghers,
And to peasants, and each enjoin'd it on all his acquaintance.
in the same way, on the side of the Germans, the children were train'd up
Every morning, with plenty of kissing of hands and of curtsies,
To salute their parents, and always to act with politeness.
All that I have learnt, and all I have practised since childhood,



All that comes from my heart,--I will practise it all with the old man.
But on what terms shall I--I scarcely dare ask such a question,--
Be with yourself, the only son, and hereafter my master?'


Thus she spoke, and at that moment they came to the peartree.
Down from the skies the moon at her full was shining in glory;
Night had arrived, and the last pale gleam of the sunset had vanish'd.
So before them were lying, in masses all heap'd up together,
Lights as clear as the day, and shadows of night and of darkness.
And the friendly question was heard by Hermann with pleasure,
Under the shade of the noble tree at the spot which he loved so
Which that day had witness'd his tears at the fate of the exile.
And whilst they sat themselves down, to take a little repose there,
Thus the loving youth spoke, whilst he seized the hand of the maiden
'Let your heart give the answer, and always obey what it tells you!'
But he ventured to say no more, however propitious
Was the moment; he feard that a No would be her sole answer,
Ah! and he felt the ring on her finger, that sorrowful token.
So by the side of each other they quietly sat and in silence,
But the maiden began to speak, and said, 'How delightful
Is the light of the moon! The clearness of day it resembles.
Yonder I see in the town the houses and courtyards quite plainly,
In the gable a window; methinks all the panes I can reckon.'


'That which you see,' replied the youth, who spoke with an effort,
'That is our house down to which I now am about to conduct you,
And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic,
Which will probably soon be yours, as we're making great changes.
All these fields are ours, and ripe for the harvest to-morrow;
Here in the shade we are wont to rest, enjoying our meal-time.
But let us now descend across the vineyard and garden,
For observe how the threatening storm is hitherward rolling,
Lightening first, and then eclipsing the beautiful full moon.'
So the pair arose, and wauder'd down by the corn-field,


Through the powerful corn, in the nightly clearness rejoicing;
And they reach'd the vineyard, and through its dark shadows proceeded.
So he guided her down the numerous tiers of the flat stones
Which, in an unhewn state, served as steps to the walk through the foliage.
Slowly she descended, and placed her hands on his shoulders;
And, with a quivering light, the moon through the foliage o'erlook'd them,
Till by storm-clouds envelop'd, she left the couple in darkness.
Then the strong youth supported the maiden, who on him was leaning;
She, however, not knowing the path, or observing the rough steps,
Slipp'd as she walk'd, her foot gave way, and she well nigh was falling.
Hastily held out his arm the youth with nimbleness thoughtful,
And held up his beloved one; she gently sank on his shoulders,
Breast was press'd against breast, and cheek against cheek, and so stood he
Fix'd like a marble statue, restrained by a firm resolution;
He embraced her no closer, thoughall her weight he supported;
So he felt his noble burden, the warmth of her bosom,
And her balmy breath, against his warm lips exhaling,



Bearing with manly feelings the woman's heroical greatness.


But she conceal'd the pain which she felt, and jestingly spoke thus
'It betokens misfortune,--so scrupulous people inform us,--
For the foot to give way on entering a house, near the threshold.
I should have wish'd, in truth, for a sign of some happier omen!
Let us tarry a little, for fear your parents should blame you
For their limping servant, and you should be thought a bad landlord.'

Hermann And Dorothea - IX. Urania

CONCLUSION.

O YE Muses, who gladly favour a love that is heartfelt,
Who on his way the excellent youth have hitherto guided,
Who have press'd the maid to his bosom before their betrothal,
Help still further to perfect the bonds of a couple so loving,
Drive away the clouds which over their happiness hover!
But begin by saying what now in the house has been passing.


For the third time the mother impatiently enter'd the chamber
Where the men were sitting, which she had anxiously quitted,
Speaking of the approaching storm, and the loss of the moon's light,
Then of her son's long absence, and all the perils that night brings.
Strongly she censured their friends for having so soon left the youngster,
For not even addressing the maiden, or seeking to woo her.


'Make not the worst of the mischief,' the father peevishly answer'd;
'For you see we are waiting ourselves, expecting the issue.'


But the neighbour sat still, and calmly address'd them as follows:-'
In uneasy moments like these, I always feel grateful
To my late father, who when I was young all seeds of impatience
In my mind uprooted, and left no fragment remaining,
And I learnt how to wait, as well as the best of the wise men.
'Tell us what legerdemain he employ'd,' the pastor made answer.
'I will gladly inform you, and each one may gain by the lesson,'
Answer'd the neighbour. 'When I was a boy, I was standing one Sunday
In a state of impatience, eagerly waiting the carriage
Which was to carry us out to the fountain under the lime-trees;
But it came not; I ran like a weasel now hither, now thither,
Up and down the stairs, and from the door to the window;
Both my hands were prickling, I scratch'd away at the tables,
Stamping and trotting about, and scarcely refrain'd I from crying.
All this the calm man composedly saw; but finally when I
Carried my folly too far, by the arm he quietly took me,
Led me up to the window, and used this significant language
'See you up yonder the joiner's workshop, now closed for the Sunday?
'Twill be re-open'd to-morrow, and plane and saw will be working.
Thus will the busy hours be pass'd from morning till evening.
But remember this: the rimming will soon be arriving,
When the master, together with all his men, will be busy
In preparing and finishing quickly and deftly your coffin,
And they will carefully bring over here that house made of boards, which
Will at length receive the patient as well as impatient,
And which is destined to carry a roof that's unpleasantly heavy.
All that he mention'd I forthwith saw taking place in my mind's eye,
Saw the boards join'd together, and saw the black cover made ready,
Patiently then I sat, and meekly awaited the carriage.
And I always think of the coffin whenever I see men
Running about in a state of doubtful and wild expectation.'


Smilingly answered the pastor:--'Death's stirring image is neither



Unto the wise a cause of alarm,--or an end to the pious.
Back into life it urges the former, and teaches him action,
And, for the weal of the latter, it strengthens his hope in affliction.
Death is a giver of life unto both. Your father did wrongly
When to the sensitive boy he pointed out death in its own form.
Unto the youth should be shown the worth of a noble and ripen'd
Age, and unto the old man, youth, that both may rejoice in
The eternal circle, and life may in life be made perfect!'


Here the door was open'd. The handsome couple appear'd there,
And the friends were amazed, the loving parents astonish'd
At the form of the bride, the form of the bridegroom resembling.
Yes! the door appear'd too small to admit the tall figures
Which now cross'd the threshold, in company walking together.
To his parents Hermann presented her, hastily saying:-'
Here is a maiden just of the sort you are wishing to have here,
Welcome her kindly, dear father! she fully deserves it, and you too,
Mother dear, ask her questions as to her housekeeping knowledge,
That you may see how well she deserves to form one of our party.'
Then he hastily took on one side the excellent pastor,
Saying:--' Kind sir, I entreat you to help me out of this trouble
Quickly, and loosen the knot, whose unravelling I am so dreading;
For I have not ventured to woo as my bride the fair maiden,
But she believes she's to be a maid in the house, and I fear me
She will in anger depart, as soon as we talk about marriage.
But it must be decided at once! no longer in error
Shall she remain, and I no longer this doubt can put up with.
Hasten and once more exhibit that wisdom we all hold in honour.'
So the pastor forthwith turn'd round to the rest of the party,
But the maiden's soul was, unhappily, troubled already
By the talk of the father, who just had address'd her as follows,
Speaking good humour'dly, and in accents pleasant and lively
'Yes, I'm well satisfied, child! I joyfully see that my son has
Just as good taste as his father, who in his younger days show'd it,
Always leading the fairest one out in the dance, and then lastly
Taking the fairest one home as his wife--'twas your dear little mother!
For by the bride whom a man selects, we may easily gather
What kind of spirit his is, and whether he knows his own value.
But you will surely need but a short time to form your decision,
For I verily think he will find it full easy to follow.'
Hermann but partially heard the words; the whole of his members
Inwardly quivered, and all the circle were suddenly silent.


But the excellent maiden, by words of such irony wounded,
(As she esteem'd them to be) and deeply distress'd in her spirit,
Stood, while a passing flush from her cheeks as far as her neck was
Spreading, but she restrain'd herself, and collected her thoughts soon;
Then to the old man she said, not fully concealing her sorrow
'Truly I was not prepared by your son for such a reception,
When he described his father's nature,--that excellent burgher,
And I know I am standing before you, a person of culture,
Who behaves himself wisely to all, in a suitable manner.



But it would seem that you feel not pity enough for the poor thing
Who has just cross'd your threshold, prepared to enter your service
Else you would not seek to point out, with ridicule bitter,
How far removed my lot from your son's and that of yourself is.
True, with a little bundle, and poor, I have enter'd your dwelling,
Which it is the owner's delight to furnish with all things.
But I know myself well, and feel the whole situation.
Is it generous thus to greet me with language so jeering,
Which was well nigh expelled me the house, when just on the threshold?'


Hermann uneasily moved about, and signed to the pastor
To interpose without delay, and clear up the error.
Quickly the wise man advanced to the spot, and witness'd the maiden's
Silent vexation and tearful eyes and scarce-restrain'd sorrow.
Then his spirit advised him to solve not at once the confusion,
But, on the contrary, prove the excited mind of the maiden.
So, in words framed to try her, the pastor address'd her as follows:-'
Surely, my foreign maiden, you did not fully consider,
When you made up your mind to serve a stranger so quickly,
What it really is to enter the house of a master;
For a shake of the hand decides your fate for a twelvemonth,
And a single word Yes to much endurance will bind you.
But the worst part of the service is not the wearisome habits,
Nor the bitter toil of the work, which seems never-ending;
For the active freeman works hard as well as the servant.
But to suffer the whims of the master, who blames you unjustly,
Or who calls for this and for that, not knowing his own mind,
And the mistress's violence, always so easily kindled,
With the children's rough and supercilious bad manners,--
This is indeed hard to bear, whilst still fulfilling your duties
Promptly and actively, never becoming morose or ill-natured;
Yet for such work you appear little fit, for already the father's
Jokes have offended you deeply; yet nothing more commonly happens
Than to tease a maiden about her liking a youngster.'
Thus he spoke, and the maiden felt the weight of his language,
And no more restrain'd herself; mightily all her emotions
Show'd themselves, her bosom heaved, and a deep sigh escaped her,
And whilst shedding burning tears, she answer'd as follows:-'
Ne'er does the clever man, who seeks to advise us in sorrow,
Think how little his chilling words our hearts can deliver
From the pangs which an unseen destiny fastens upon us.
You are happy and merry. How then should a jest ever wound you?
But the slightest touch gives torture to those who are suff'ring.
Even dissimulation would nothing avail me at present.
Let me at once disclose what later would deepen my sorrow,
And consign me perchance to agony mute and consuming.
Let me depart forthwith! No more in this house dare I linger;
I must hence and away, and look once more for my poor friends
Whom I left in distress, when seeking to better my fortunes.
This is my firm resolve; and now I may properly tell you
That which had else been buried for many a year in my bosom.
Yes, the father's jest has wounded me deeply, I own it,



Not that I'm proud and touchy, as ill becometh a servant,
But because in truth in my heart a feeling has risen
For the youth, who to-day has fill'd the part of my Saviour.
For when first in the road he left me, his image remain'd still
Firmly fix'd in my mind; and I thought of the fortunate maiden
Whom, as his betroth'd one, he cherish'd perchance in his bosom.
And when I found him again at the well, the sight of him charm'd me
Just as if I had-seen an angel descending from heaven.
And I follow'd him willingly, when as a servant he sought me,
But by my heart in truth I was flatter'd (I need must confess it),
As I hitherward came, that I might possibly win him,
If I became in the house an indispensable pillar.
But, alas, I now see the dangers I well nigh fell into,
When I bethought me of living so near a silently-loved one.
Now for the first time I feel how far removed a poor maiden
Is from a richer youth, however clever she may be.
I have told you all this, that you my heart may mistake not,
Which an event that in thought I foreshadow has wounded already.
For I must have expected, my secret wishes concealing,
That, ere much time had elapsed, I should see him bringing his bride home.
And how then could I have endured my hidden affliction!
Happily I am warn'd in time, and out of my bosom
Has my secret escaped, whilst curable still is the evil.
But no more of the subject! I now must tarry no longer
In this house, where I now am standing in pain and confusion,
All my foolish hopes and my feelings freely confessing.
Not the night which, with sinking clouds, is spreading around us,
Not the rolling thunder (I hear it already) shall stop me,
Not the falling rain, which outside is descending in torrents,
Not the blustering storm. All this I had to encounter
In that sorrowful flight, while the enemy follow'd behind Us.
And once more I go on my way, as I long have been wont to,
Seized by the whirlpool of time, and parted from all that I care for.
So farewell! I'll tarry no longer. My fate is accomplish'd!'


Thus she spoke, and towards the door she hastily turn'd her,
Holding under her arm the bundle she brought when arriving.
But the mother seized by both of her arms the fair maiden,
Clasping her round the body, and cried with surprise and amazement
'Say, what signifies this? These fruitless tears, what denote they?
No, I'll not leave you alone! You're surely my dear son's betroth'd one!'
But the father stood still, and show'd a great deal of reluctance,
Stared at the weeping girl, and peevishly spoke then as follows
'This, then, is all the indulgence my friends are willing to give me,
That at the close of the day the most unpleasant thing happens!
For there is nothing I hate so much as the tears of a woman,
And their passionate cries, set up with such heat and excitement,
Which a little plain sense would show to be utterly needless.
Truly, I find the sight of these whimsical doings a nuisance.
Matters must shift for themselves; as for me, I think it is bed-time.'
So he quickly turn'd round, and hasten'd to go to the chamber
Where the marriage-bed stood, in which he slept for the most part.



But his son held him back, and spoke in words of entreaty
'Father, don't go in a hurry, and be not amniote with the maiden!
I alone have to bear the blame of all this confusion,
Which our friend has increased by his unexpected dissembling.
Speak then, honour'd Sir! for to you the affair I confided;
Heap not up pain and annoyance, but rather complete the whole matter;
For I surely in future should not respect you so highly,
If you play practical jokes, instead of displaying true wisdom.'


Thereupon the worthy pastor smilingly answer'd
'What kind of wisdom could have extracted the charming confession
Of this good maiden, and so have reveal'd all her character to us?
Is not your care converted at once to pleasure and rapture?
Speak out, then, for yourself! Why need explanations from others
Hermann then stepped forward, and gently address'd her as follows
'Do not repent of your tears, nor yet of your passing affliction;
For they perfect my happiness; yours too, I fain would consider.
I came not to the fountain, to hire so noble a maiden
As a servant, I came to seek to win you affections.
But, alas! my timid gaze had not strength to discover
Your heart's leanings; it saw in your eye but a friendly expression,
When you greeted it out of the tranquil fountain's bright mirror.
Merely to bring you home, made half of my happiness certain
But you now make it complete! May every blessing be yours, then!'
Then the maiden look'd on the youth with heartfelt emotion,
And avoided not kiss or embrace, the summit of rapture,
When they also are to the loving the long-wish'd-for pledges
Of approaching bliss in a life which now seems to them endless.
Then the pastor told the others the whole of the story;
But the maiden came and gracefully bent o'er the father,
Kissing the while his hand, which he to draw back attempted.
And she said:--' I am sure that you will forgive the surprised one,
First for her tears of sorrow, and then for her tears of true rapture.
O forgive the emotions by which they both have been prompted,
And let me fully enjoy the bliss that has now been vouchsafed me!
Let the first vexation, which my confusion gave rise to,
Also be the last! The loving service which lately
Was by the servant promised, shall now by the daughter be render'd.'


And the father, his tears concealing, straightway embraced her;
Lovingly came the mother in turn, and heartily kiss'd her,
Warmly shaking her hand; and silently wept they together.
Then in a hasty manner, the good and sensible pastor
Seized the hand of the father, his wedding-ring off from his finger
Drawing (not easily though; so plump was the member that held it)
Then he took the mother's ring, and betroth'd the two children,
Saying:--'Once more may it be these golden hoops' destination
Firmly to fasten a bond altogether resembling the old one!
For this youth is deeply imbued with love for the maiden,
And the maiden confesses that she for the youth has a liking.
Therefore, I now betroth you, and wish you all blessings hereafter,
With the parents' consent, and with our friend here as a witness.'



And the neighbour bent forward, and added his own benediction;
But when the clergyman placed the gold ring on the hand of the maiden,
He with astonishment saw the one which already was on it,
And which Hermann before at the fountain had anxiously noticed.
Whereupon he spoke in words at once friendly and jesting
'What! You are twice engaging yourself? I hope that the first one
May not appear at the altar, unkindly forbidding the banns there!'


But she said in reply:--'O let me devote but one moment
To this mournful remembrance! For well did the good youth deserve it,
Who, when departing, presented the ring, but never return'd home.
All was by him foreseen, when freedom's love of a sudden,
And a desire to play his part in the new-found Existence,
Drove him to go to Paris, where prison and death were his portion.
'Farewell,' said he, 'I go; for all things on earth are in motion
At this moment, and all things appear in a state of disunion.
Fundamental laws in the steadiest countries are loosen'd,
And possessions are parted from those who used to possess them,
Friends are parted from friends, and love is parted from love too.
I now leave you here, and whether I ever shall see you
Here again,--who can tell? Perchance these words will our last be.
Man is a stranger here upon earth, the proverb informs us;
Every person has now become more a stranger than ever.
Ours the soil is no longer; our treasures are fast flying from us;
All the sacred old vessels of gold and silver are melted,
All is moving, as though the old-fashion'd world would roll backwards
Into chaos and night, in order anew to be fashion'd.
You of my heart have possession, and if we shall ever here-after
Meet again over the wreck of the world, it will be as new creatures,
All remodell'd and free and independent of fortune;
For what fetters can bind down those who survive such a period!
But if we are destined not to escape from these dangers,
If we are never again to embrace each other with raptures
O then fondly keep in your thoughts my hovering image,
That you may be prepared with like courage for good and ill fortune!
If a new home or a new alliance should chance to allure you,
Then enjoy with thanks whatever your destiny offers,
Purely loving the loving, and grateful to him who thus loves you.
But remember always to tread with a circumspect footstep,
For the fresh pangs of a second loss will behind you be lurking.
Deem each day as sacred; but value not life any higher
Than any other possession, for all possessions are fleeting.'
Thus he spoke; and the noble youth and I parted for ever:
Meanwhile I ev'rything lost, and a thousand times thought of his warning.
Once more I think of his words, now that love is sweetly preparing
Happiness for me anew, and the brightest of hopes is unfolding.
Pardon me, dearest friend, for trembling e'en at the moment
When I am clasping your arm! For thus, on first landing, the sailor
Fancies that even the solid ground is shaking beneath him.'


Thus she spoke, and she placed the rings by the side of each other.



But the bridegroom answer'd, with noble and manly emotion
'All the firmer, amidst the universal disruption,
Be, Dorothea, our union! We'll show ourselves bold and enduring,
Firmly hold our own, and firmly retain our possessions.
For the man who in wav'ring times is inclined to be wav'ring
Only increases the evil, and spreads it wider and wider;
But the man of firm decision the universe fashions.
'Tis not becoming the Germans to further this fearful commotion,
And in addition to waver uncertainly hither and thither.
'This is our own!' we ought to say, and so to maintain it!
For the world will ever applaud those resolute nations
Who for God and the Law, their wives, and parents, and children
Struggle, and fall when contending against the foeman together.
You are mine; and now what is mine, is mine more than ever.
Not with anxiety will I preserve it, or timidly use it,
But with courage and strength. And if the enemy threaten
Now or hereafter, I'll hold myself ready, and reach down my weapons.
If I know that the house and my parents by you are protected,
I shall expose my breast to the enemy, void of all terror;
And if all others thought thus, then might against might should be measured,
And in the early prospect of peace we should all be rejoicing.'

Hermann And Dorothea - I. Kalliope

FATE AND SYMPATHY.

'NE'ER have I seen the market and streets so thoroughly empty!
Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy
Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there.
People are so inquisitive! All are running and racing
Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile.
Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is,
And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday.
As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at
Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry,
Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine-stream,
Over to us are crossing, and wander through the delightful
Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings.
Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them,
Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too,
Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them.
How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses!
Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; inside it
Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox.
This time he is alone; how easily-turns it the corner!'
Thus to his wife the host of the Golden Lion discoursed,
Sitting at ease in the porch of his house adjoining the market.
Then replied as follows the shrewd and sensible hostess
'Father, I don't like giving old linen away, for I find it
Useful in so many ways, 'tis not to he purchased for money
Just when it's wanted. And yet to-day I gladly have given
Many excellent articles, shirts and covers and suchlike;
For I have heard of old people and children walking half-naked.
Will you forgive me, too, for having ransacked your presses?
That grand dressing-gown, cover'd with Indian flowers all over,
Made of the finest calico, lined with excellent flannel,
I have despatch'd with the rest; 'tis thin, old, quite out of fashion.'


But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd
I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment,
Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer.
Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward
Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket,
Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!'


'See,' continued his wife, 'a few are already returning
Who have seen the procession, which long ago must have pass'd by.
See how dusty their shoes are, and how their faces are glowing
Each one carries a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
I, for one, wouldn't hurry and worry myself in such weather
Merely to see such a sight! I'm certain to hear all about it.'


And the worthy father, speaking with emphasis, added
'Such fine weather seldom lasts through the whole of the harvest
And we're bringing the fruit home, just as the hay we brought lately,
Perfectly dry; the sky is clear, no cloud's in the heavens,



And the whole day long delicious breezes are blowing.
Splendid weather I call it! The corn already too ripe is,
And to-morrow begin we to gather the plentiful harvest.'


Whilst he was thus discoursing, the number of men and of women
Crossing the market and going towards home kept ever increasing;
And there return'd amongst others, bringing with him his daughters,
On the other side of the market, their prosperous neighbour,
Going full speed to his newbuilt house, the principal merchant,
Riding inside an open carriage (in Landau constructed).
All the streets were alive; for the town, though small, was well peopled,
Many a factory throve there, and many a business also.


Long sat the excellent couple under the doorway, exchanging
Many a passing remark on the people who happen'd to pass them.
Presently thus to her husband exclaim'd the good-natured hostess
'See! Yon comes the minister; with him is walking the druggist:
They'll be able to give an account of all that has happen'd,
What they witness'd, and many a sight I fear which was painful.'


Both of them came in a friendly manner, and greeted the couple,
Taking their seats on the wooden benches under the doorway,
Shaking the dust from their feet, their handkerchiefs using to fan them.
Presently, after exchanging reciprocal greetings, the druggist
Open'd his mouth, and almost peevishly vented his feelings
'What strange creatures men are! They all resemble each other,
All take pleasure in staring, when troubles fall on their neighbours.
Ev'ry one runs to see the flames destroying a dwelling,
Or a poor criminal led in terror and shame to the scaffold.
All the town has been out to gaze at the sorrowing exiles,
None of them bearing in mind that a like misfortune hereafter,
Possibly almost directly, may happen to be their own portion.
I can't pardon such levity; yet 'tis the nature of all men.'
Thereupon rejoin'd the noble and excellent pastor,
He, the charm of the town, in age scarce more than a stripling:-(
He was acquainted with life, and knew the wants of his hearers,
Fully convinced of the worth of the Holy Scriptures, whose mission
Is to reveal man's fate, his inclinations to fathom;
He was also well read in the best of secular writings.)
'I don't like to find fault with any innocent impulse
Which in the mind of man Dame Nature has ever implanted;
For what reason and intellect ne'er could accomplish, is often
Done by some fortunate, quite irresistible instinct within him.
If mankind were never by curiosity driven,
Say, could they e'er have found out for themselves the wonderful manner
Things in the world range in order? For first they Novelty look for,
Then with untiring industry seek to discover the Useful,
Lastly they yearn for the Good, which makes them noble and worthy.
All through their youth frivolity serves as their joyous companion,
Hiding the presence of danger, and. swiftly effacing the traces
Caused by misfortune and grief, as soon as their onslaught is over.
Truly the man's to be praised who, as years roll onward, develops



Out of such glad disposition an intellect settled and steady,--
Who, in good fortune as well as misfortune, strives zealously, nobly;
For what is Good he brings forth, replacing whatever is injured.'
Then in a friendly voice impatiently spoke thus the hostess:-'
Tell us what have you seen; I am eagerly longing to hear it.'


Then with emphasis answer'd the druggist:--' The terrible stories
Told me to-day will serve for a long time to make me unhappy.
Words would fail to describe the manifold pictures of mis'ry.
Far in the distance saw we the dust, before we descended
Down to the meadows; the rising hillocks hid the procession
Long from our eyes, and little could we distinguish about it.
When, however, we reach'd the road that winds thro' the valley,
Great was the crowd and the noise of the emigrants mix'd with the waggons.
We unhappily saw poor fellows passing in numbers,
Some of them showing how bitter the sense of their sorrowful flight was,
Some with a feeling of joy at saving their lives in a hurry.
Sad was the sight of the manifold goods and chattels pertaining
Unto a well-managed house, which the careful owner's accustom'd
Each in its proper position to place, and in regular order,
Always ready for use, for all are wanted and useful.--
Sad was the sight of them now, on many a waggon and barrow
Heap'd in thorough confusion, and hurriedly huddled together.
Over a cupboard was placed a sieve and a coverlet woollen;
Beds in the kneeding troughs lay, and linen over the glasses.
Ah! and the danger appear'd to rob the men of their senses,
Just as in our great fire of twenty years ago happen'd,
When what was worthless they saved, and left all the best things behind them.
So on the present occasion with heedless caution they carried
Many valueless chattels, o'erlading the cattle and horses,--
Common old boards and barrels, a birdcage next to a goosepen.
Women and children were gasping beneath the weight of their bundles,
Baskets and tubs full of utterly useless articles, bearing.
(Man is always unwilling the least of his goods to abandon.)
Thus on its dusty way advanced the crowded procession,
All in hopeless confusion. First one, whose cattle were weaker,
Fain would slowly advance, while others would eagerly hasten.
Then there arose a scream of half-crush'd women and children,
And a lowing of cattle, with yelping of dogs intermingled,
And a wailing of aged and sick, all sitting and shaking,
Ranged in their beds on the top of the waggon too-heavily laden.
Next some lumbering wheel, push'd out of the track by the pressure,
Went to the edge of the roadway; the vehicle fell in the ditch then,
Rolling right over, and throwing, in falling, the men who were in it
Far in the field, screaming loudly, their persons however uninjured.
Then the boxes roll'd off and tumbled close to the waggon.
Those who saw them failing full surely expected to see them
Smash'd to pieces beneath the weight of the chests and the presses.
So the waggon lay broken, and those that it carried were helpless,
For the rest of the train went on, and hurriedly pass'd them,
Thinking only of self, and carried away by the current.
So we sped to the spot, and found the sick and the aged



Who, when at home and in bed, could scarcely endure their sad ailments,
Lying there on the ground, all sighing and groaning in anguish,
Stifled by clouds of dust, and scorch'd by the fierce sun of summer.


Then replied in tones of compassion the sensitive landlord
Hermann I trust will find them and give them refreshment and clothing.
I should unwillingly see them: I grieve at the eight of such sorrow.
Touch'd by the earliest news of the sad extent of the suffering,
Hastily sent we a trifle from out of our superabundance,
Just to comfort a few, and then our minds were more easy.
Now let us cease to discourse on such a sorrowful subject,
For men's hearts are easily overshadow'd by terror,
And by care, more odious far to me than misfortune.
Now let us go to a cooler place, the little back-parlour;
There the sun never shines, and the walls are so thick that the hot air
Never can enter; and mother shall forthwith bring us a glass each
Full of fine Eighty-three, well fitted to drive away trouble.
This is a bad place for drinking; the flies will hum round the glasses.'
So they all went inside, enjoying themselves in the coolness.
Then in a well-cut flask the mother carefully brought them
Some of that clear good wine, upon a bright metal waiter
With those greenish rummers, the fittingest goblets for Rhine wine.
So the three sat together, around the glistening polish'd
Circular large brown table-Äon massive feet it was planted.
Merrily clink'd together the glasses of host and of pastor,
But the other one thoughtfully held his glass without moving,
And in friendly fashion the host thus ask'd him to join them:-


'Drink, good neighbour, I pray! A merciful God has protected
Us in the past from misfortune, and will protect us in future.
All must confess that since He thought fit to severely chastise us,
When that terrible fire occurr'd, He has constantly bless'd us.
And watch'd over us constantly, just as man is accustom'd
His eye's precious apple to guard, that dearest of members.
Shall He not for the future preserve us, and be our Protector?
For 'tis in danger we learn to appreciate duly His Goodness.
This so flourishing town, which He built again from its ashes
By the industrious hands of its burghers, and bless'd it so richly,
Will He again destroy it, and render their toil unavailing?'


Cheerfully answer'd the excellent pastor, in accents of mildness
'Steadfastly cling to this faith, and cherish such worthy opinions;
In good fortune they'll make you prudent, and then in misfortune
Well-grounded hopes they'll supply, and furnish you true consolation.'


Then continued the host, with thoughts full of manhood and wisdom
'Oft have I greeted with wonder the rolling flood of the Rhine stream,
When, on my business trav'lling, I've once more come to its borders.
Grand has it ever appear'd, exalting my feelings and senses;
But I could never imagine that soon its beautiful margin
Into a wall would be turn'd, to keep the French from our country,
And its wide-spreading bed a ditch to hinder and check them.



So by Nature we're guarded, we're guarded by valorous Germans,
And by the Lord we're guarded; who then would foolishly tremble?
Weary the combatants are, and all things indicate peace soon;
And when at length the long-expected festival's holden
Here in our church, and the bells chime in with the organ in chorus,
And the trumpets are blowing, the noble Te Deum upraising,
Then on that selfsame day I fain would see, my good pastor,
Our dear Hermann kneel with his bride at the altar before you,
And the glad festival held through the length and breadth of the country
Will henceforward to me be a glad anniversary also!
But I am grieved to observe that the youth, who is always so active
When he is here at home, abroad is so slow and so timid.
Little at any time cares he to mix with the rest of the people;
Yes, he even avoids young maidens' society ever,
And the frolicsome dance, that great delight of young people.'


Thus he spake, and then listen'd. The sound of the stamping of horses
Drawing nearer was heard; and then the roll of the carriage,
Which, with impetuous speed, now thunder'd under the gateway.

Death-Lament Of The Noble Wife Of Asan Aga

WHAT is yonder white thing in the forest?
Is it snow, or can it swans perchance be?
Were it snow, ere this it had been melted,
Were it swans, they all away had hastend.
Snow, in truth, it is not, swans it is not,
'Tis the shining tents of Asan Aga.
He within is lying, sorely wounded;
To him come his mother and his sister;
Bashfully his wife delays to come there.
When the torment of his wounds had lessen'd,
To his faithful wife he sent this message:
"At my court no longer dare to tarry,
At my court, or e'en amongst my people."


When the woman heard this cruel message,
Mute and full of sorrow stood that true one.
At the doors she hears the feet of horses,
And bethinks that Asan comes--her husband,
To the tower she springs, to leap thence headlong,
Her two darling daughters follow sadly,
And whilst weeping bitter tears, exclaim they:
These are not our father Asan's horses;
'Tis thy brother Pintorowich coming!"


So the wife of Asan turns to meet him,
Clasps her arms in anguish round her brother:
"See thy sister's sad disgrace, oh brother!
How I'm banish'd--mother of five children!"
Silently her brother from his wallet,
Wrapp'd in deep red-silk, and ready written,
Draweth forth the letter of divorcement,
To return home to her mother's dwelling,
Free to be another's wife thenceforward.


When the woman saw that mournful letter,
Fervently she kiss'd her two sons' foreheads,
And her two girls' cheeks with fervour kiss'd she,
But she from the suckling in the cradle
Could not tear herself, so deep her sorrow!
So she's torn thence by her fiery brother,
On his nimble steed he lifts her quickly,
And so hastens, with the heart-sad woman,
Straightway tow'rd his father's lofty dwelling.


Short the time was--seven days had pass'd not,--
Yet enough 'twas; many mighty princes
Sought the woman in her widow's-mourning.
Sought the woman,--as their wife they sought her.
And the mightiest was Imoski's Cadi,
And the woman weeping begg'd her brother:
By thy life, my brother, I entreat thee,
Let me not another's wife be ever,



Lest my heart be broken at the image
Of my poor, my dearly-cherish'd children!"


To her prayer her brother would not hearken,
Fix'd to wed her to Imoski's Cadi.
Yet the good one ceaselessly implored him:
"Send, at least a letter, oh, my brother,
With this message to Imoski's Cadi:
'The young widow sends thee friendly greeting;
Earnestly she prays thee, through this letter,
That, when thou com'st hither, with thy Suatians,
A long veil thou'lt bring me, 'neath whose shadow
I may hide, when near the house of Asan,
And not see my dearly cherish'd orphans.'"


Scarcely had the Cadi read this letter,
Than he gather'd all his Suatians round him,
And then tow'rd the bride his course directed,
And the veil she ask'd for, took he with him.


Happily they reach'd the princess' dwelling,
From the dwelling happily they led her.
But when they approach'd the house of Asan,
Lo! the children saw from high their mother,
And they shouted: "To thy halls return thou!
Eat thy supper with thy darling children!"
Mournfully the wife of Asan heard it,
Tow'rd the Suatian prince then turn'd she, saying:
"Let, I pray, the Suatians and the horses
At the loved ones' door a short time tarry,
That I may give presents to my children."


And before the loved ones' door they tarried,
And she presents gave to her poor children,
To the boys gave gold-embroider'd buskins,
To the girls gave long and costly dresses,
To the suckling, helpless in the cradle,
Gave a garment, to be worn hereafter.


This aside saw Father Asan Aga,--
Sadly cried he to his darling children:
"Hither come, ye dear unhappy infants,
For your mother's breast is turn'd to iron,
Lock'd for ever, closed to all compassion!"


When the wife of Asan heard him speak thus,
On the ground, all pale and trembling, fell she,
And her spirit fled her sorrowing bosom,
When she saw her children flying from her.

Ballad Of The Banished And Returning Count

OH, enter old minstrel, thou time-honour'd one!

We children are here in the hall all alone,
The portals we straightway will bar.
Our mother is praying, our father is gone


To the forest, on wolves to make war.


Oh sing us a ballad, the tale then repeat,
'Till brother and I learn it right;
We long have been hoping a minstrel to meet,


For children hear tales with delight.


"At midnight, when darkness its fearful veil weaves,
His lofty and stately old castle he leaves,
But first he has buried his wealth.


What figure is that in his arms one perceives,


As the Count quits the gateway by stealth?
O'er what is his mantle so hastily thrown?
What bears he along in his flight?


A daughter it is, and she gently sleeps on"--
The children they hear with delight.
"The morning soon glimmers. the world is so wide,


In valleys and forests a home is supplied,


The bard in each village is cheer'd.
Thus lives he and wanders, while years onward glide,
And longer still waxes his beard;


But the maiden so fair in his arms grows amain,


'Neath her star all-protecting and bright,
Secured in the mantle from wind and from rain--"
The children they hear with delight.
"And year upon year with swift footstep now steals,


The mantle it fades, many rents it reveals,


The maiden no more it can hold.
The father he sees her, what rapture he feels!
His joy cannot now be controll'd.


How worthy she seems of the race whence she springs,
How noble and fair to the sight!


What wealth to her dearly-loved father she brings!"--
The children they hear with delight.
"Then comes there a princely knight galloping by,


She stretches her hand out, as soon as he's nigh,


But alms he refuses to give.
He seizes her hand, with a smile in his eye:
'Thou art mine!' he exclaims, 'while I live!'


'When thou know'st,' cries the old man, 'the treasure that's


there,
A princess thou'lt make her of right;
Betroth'd be she now, on this spot green and fair--'"


The children they hear with delight.


"So she's bless'd by the priest on the hallowed place,
And she goes with a smiling but sorrowful face,
From her father she fain would not part.


The old man still wanders with ne'er-changing pace,


He covers with joy his sad heart.
So I think of my daughter, as years pass away,
And my grandchildren far from my sight;


I bless them by night, and I bless them by day"--
The children they hear with delight.
He blesses the children: a knocking they hear,


The father it is! They spring forward in fear,


The old man they cannot conceal-"
Thou beggar, wouldst lure, then, my children so dear?
Straight seize him, ye vassals of steel!


To the dungeon most deep, with the fool-hardy knave!"


The mother from far hears the fight;
She hastens with flatt'ring entreaty to crave--
The children they hear with delight.
The vassals they suffer the Bard to stand there,


And mother and children implore him to spare,
The proud prince would stifle his ire,
'Till driven to fury at hearing their prayer,



His smouldering anger takes fire:


"Thou pitiful race! Oh, thou beggarly crew!
Eclipsing my star, once so bright!
Ye'll bring me destruction, ye sorely shall rue!"


The children they hear with affright.


The old man still stands there with dignified mien,
The vassals of steel quake before him, I ween,
The Count's fury increases in power;


"My wedded existence a curse long has been,


And these are the fruits from that flower!
'Tis ever denied, and the saying is true,
That to wed with the base-born is right;


The beggar has borne me a beggarly crew,--"
The children they hear with affright.
"If the husband, the father, thus treats you with scorn,


If the holiest bonds by him rashly are torn,


Then come to your father--to me!
The beggar may gladden life's pathway forlorn,
Though aged and weak he may be.


This castle is mine! thou hast made it thy prey,


Thy people 'twas put me to flight;
The tokens I bear will confirm what I say"--
The children they hear with delight.
"The king who erst govern'd returneth again,


And restores to the Faithful the goods that were ta'en,


I'll unseal all my treasures the while;
The laws shall be gentle, and peaceful the reign"--
The old man thus cries with a smile-


"Take courage, my son! all hath turned out for good,


And each hath a star that is bright,
Those the princess hath borne thee are princely in blood,"--
The children thy hear with delight.

Writin' Back To The Home-Folks

My dear old friends--It jes beats all,
The way you write a letter
So's ever' _last_ line beats the _first_,
And ever' _next_-un's better!-W'y,
ever' fool-thing you putt down
You make so inte_rest_in',
A feller, readin' of 'em all,
Can't tell which is the _best_-un.


It's all so comfortin' and good,
'Pears-like I almost _hear_ ye
And git more sociabler, you know,
And hitch my cheer up near ye
And jes smile on ye like the sun
Acrosst the whole per-rairies
In Aprile when the thaw's begun
And country couples marries.


It's all so good-old-fashioned like
To _talk_ jes like we're _thinkin'_,
Without no hidin' back o' fans
And giggle-un and winkin',
Ner sizin' how each-other's dressed--
Like some is allus doin',-'_
Is_ Marthy Ellen's basque ben _turned_
Er shore-enough a new-un!'--


Er 'ef Steve's city-friend haint jes
'A _lee_tle kindo'-sorto''--
Er 'wears them-air blame eye-glasses
Jes 'cause he hadn't ort to?'
And so straight on, _dad-libitum_,
Tel all of us feels, _some_way,
Jes like our 'comp'ny' wuz the best
When we git up to come 'way!


That's why I like _old_ friends like you,--
Jes 'cause you're so _abidin'_.--
Ef I was built to live '_fer keeps_,'
My principul residin'
Would be amongst the folks 'at kep'
Me allus _thinkin'_ of 'em,
And sorto' eechin' all the time
To tell 'em how I love 'em.--


Sich folks, you know, I jes love so
I wouldn't live without 'em,
Er couldn't even drap asleep
But what I _dreamp'_ about 'em,--
And ef we minded God, I guess
We'd _all_ love one-another
Jes like one fam'bly,--me and Pap



And Madaline and Mother.

Where The Children Used To Play

The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,
And filled it is with plenty and to spare--,
But we are lonely here in life's decline,
Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:
We look across the gold
Of the harvests, as of old--
The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay;
But most we turn our gaze,
As with eyes of other days,
To the orchard where the children used to play.


O from our life's full measure
And rich hoard of worldly treasure
We often turn our weary eyes away,
And hand in hand we wander
Down the old path winding yonder
To the orchard where the children used to play.


Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;
The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'ver;
The grove's a paradise of singing birds--
The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door;
Yet lonely, lonely still,
Let us prosper as we will,
Our old hearts seem so empty everyway--
We can only through a mist
See the faces we have kissed
In the orchard where the children used to play.


O from our life's full measure
And rich hoard of worldly treasure
We often turn our weary eyes away,
And hand in hand we wander
Down the old path winding yonder
To the orchard where the children used to play.

What Chris'mas Fetched The Wigginses

Wintertime, er Summertime,
Of late years I notice I'm,
Kindo'-like, more subjec' to
What the _weather_ is. Now, you
Folks 'at lives in town, I s'pose,
Thinks its bully when it snows;
But the chap 'at chops and hauls
Yer wood fer ye, and then stalls,
And snapps tuggs and swingletrees,
And then has to walk er freeze,
Haint so much 'stuck on' the snow
As stuck _in_ it--Bless ye, no!--
When its packed, and sleighin's good,
And _church_ in the neighborhood,
Them 'at's _got_ their girls, I guess,
Takes 'em, likely, more er less,
Tell the plain facts o' the case,
No men-folks about our place
On'y me and Pap--and he
'Lows 'at young folks' company
Allus made him sick! So I
Jes don't want, and jes don't try!
Chinkypin, the dad-burn town,
'S too fur off to loaf aroun'
Either day er night--and no
Law compellin' me to go!-'
Less 'n some Old-Settlers' Day,
Er big-doin's thataway-_
Then_, to tell the p'inted fac',
I've went more so's to come back
By old Guthrie's 'still-house, where
Minors _has_ got licker there-That's
pervidin' we could show 'em
Old folks sent fer it from home!
Visit roun' the neighbors some,
When the boys wants me to come.-Coon-
hunt with 'em; er set traps
Fer mussrats; er jes, perhaps,
Lay in roun' the stove, you know,
And parch corn, and let her snow!
Mostly, nights like these, you'll be
(Ef you' got a writ fer _me_)
Ap' to skeer me up, I guess,
In about the Wigginses.
Nothin' roun' _our_ place to keep
Me at home--with Pap asleep
'Fore it's dark; and Mother in
Mango pickles to her chin;
And the girls, all still as death,
Piecin' quilts.--Sence I drawed breath
Twenty year' ago, and heerd
Some girls whispern' so's it 'peared



Like they had a row o' pins
In their mouth--right there begins
My first rickollections, built
On that-air blame old piece-quilt!

Summertime, it's jes the same-'
Cause I've noticed,--and I claim,
As I said afore, I'm more
Subjec' to the weather, _shore_,
'Proachin' my majority,
Than I ever ust to be!
Callin' back _last_ Summer, say,-Don't
seem hardly past away--
With night closin' in, and all
S' lonesome-like in the dew-fail:
Bats--ad-drat their ugly muggs!--
Flickern' by; and lightnin'-bugs
Huckstern' roun' the airly night
Little sickly gasps o' light;-Whip-
poor-wills, like all possessed,
Moanin' out their mournfullest;--
Frogs and katydids and things
Jes clubs in and sings and sings
Their _ding-dangdest_!--Stock's all fed,
And Pap's washed his feet fer bed;--
Mother and the girls all down
At the milk-shed, foolin' roun'--
No wunder 'at I git blue,
And lite out--and so would you!
I caint stay aroun' no place
Whur they haint no livin' face:-'
Crost the fields and thue the gaps
Of the hills they's friends, perhaps,
Waitin' somers, 'at kin be
Kindo' comfertin' to me!

Neighbors all 'is plenty good,
Scattered thue this neighberhood;
Yit, of all, I like to jes
Drap in on the Wigginses.--
Old man, and old lady too,
'Pear-like, makes so much o' you--,
Least, they've allus pampered me
Like one of the fambily.--
The boys, too, 's all thataway--
Want you jes to come and stay;--
Price, and Chape, and Mandaville,
Poke, Chasteen, and 'Catfish Bill'-Poke's
the runt of all the rest,
But he's jes the beatinest
Little schemer, fer fourteen,
Anybody ever seen!-



'Like his namesake,' old man claims,
'Jeems K. Poke, the first o' names!
Full o' tricks and jokes--and you
Never know what _Poke's_ go' do!'
Genius, too, that-air boy is,
With them awk'ard hands o' his:
Gits this blame pokeberry-juice,
Er some stuff, fer ink--and goose-
Quill pen-p'ints: And then he'll draw
Dogdest pictures yevver saw!
Er make deers and eagles good
As a writin'-teacher could!
Then they's two twin boys they've riz
Of old Coonrod Wigginses
'At's deceast--and glad of it,
'Cause his widder's livin' yit!


Course _the boys_ is mostly jes'
Why I go to Wigginses.---
Though _Melviney_, sometimes, _she_
Gits her slate and algebry
And jes' sets there ciphern' thue
Sums old Ray hisse'f caint do!--
Jes' sets there, and tilts her chair
Forreds tel, 'pear-like, her hair
Jes' _spills_ in her lap--and then
She jes' dips it up again
With her hands, as white, I swan,
As the apern she's got on!


Talk o' hospitality!--
Go to Wigginses with me--
Overhet, or froze plum thue,
You'll find welcome waitin' you:-Th'ow
out yer tobacker 'fore
You set foot acrost that floor,-'
Got to eat whatever's set--
Got to drink whatever's wet!'
Old man's sentimuns--them's his---
And means jes the best they is!
Then he lights his pipe; and she,
The old lady, presen'ly
She lights her'n; and Chape and Poke.
I haint got none, ner don't smoke,-(
In the crick afore their door--
Sorto so's 'at I'd be shore--
Drownded mine one night and says
'I won't smoke at _Wigginses_!')
Price he's mostly talkin' 'bout
Politics, and 'thieves turned out'--
What he's go' to be, ef he
Ever 'gits there'--and 'we'll see!'-



Poke he 'lows they's blame few men
Go' to hold their breath tel then!
Then Melviney smiles, as she
Goes on with her algebry,
And the clouds clear, and the room's
Sweeter 'n crabapple-blooms!
(That Melviney, she' got some
Most surprisin' ways, I gum!-Don't
'pear like she ever _says_
Nothin', yit you'll _listen_ jes
Like she was a-talkin', and
Half-way seem to understand,
But not quite,--_Poke_ does, I know,
'Cause he good as told me so,-Poke's
her favo-rite; and he--
That is, confidentially-He's
_my_ favo-rite--and I
Got my whurfore and my why!)


I haint never ben no hand
Much at talkin', understand,
But they's _thoughts_ o' mine 'at's jes
Jealous o' them Wigginses!--
Gift o' talkin 's what they got,
Whether they want to er not-F'r
instunce, start the old man on
Huntin'-scrapes, 'fore game was gone,
'Way back in the Forties, when
Bears stold pigs right out the pen,
Er went waltzin' 'crost the farm
With a bee-hive on their arm!-And--
sir, _ping_! the old man's gun
Has plumped-over many a one,
Firin' at him from afore
That-air very cabin-door!
Yes--and _painters_, prowlin' 'bout,
Allus darkest nights.--Lay out
Clost yer cattle.--Great, big red
Eyes a-blazin' in their head,
Glittern' 'long the timber-line--
Shine out some, and then _un_-shine,
And shine back--Then, stiddy! whizz!
'N there yer Mr. Painter is
With a hole bored spang between
Them-air eyes! Er start Chasteen,
Say, on blooded racin'-stock,
Ef you want to hear him talk;
Er tobacker--how to raise,
Store, and k-yore it, so's she pays:
The old lady--and she'll cote
Scriptur' tel she'll git yer vote!



Prove to you 'at wrong is right,
Jes as plain as black is white:
Prove when you're asleep in bed
You're a-standin' on yer head,
And yer train 'at's goin' West,
'S goin' East its level best;
And when bees dies, it's their wings
Wears out--and a thousand things!
And the boys is 'chips,' you know;
'Off the old block'--So I go
To the Wigginses, 'cause--jes
'Cause I _like_ the Wigginses--
Even ef Melviney _she_
Hardly 'pears to notice me!


Rid to Chinkypin this week-Yisterd'y.--
No snow to speak
Of, and didn't have no sleigh
Anyhow; so, as I say,
I rid in--and froze one ear
And both heels--and I don't keer!-'
Mother and the girls kin jes
Bother 'bout their Chris'mases
_Next_ time fer _theirse'vs_, I jack!'
Thinks-says-I, a-startin' back,--
Whole durn meal-bag full of things
Wrapped in paper-sacks, and strings
Liable to snap their holt
Jes at any little jolt!
That in front o' me, and _wind_
With _nicks_ in it, 'at jes skinned
Me alive!--I'm here to say
Nine mile' hossback thataway
Would a-walked my log! But, as
Somepin' allus comes to pass,
As I topped old Guthrie's hill.
Saw a buggy, front the 'Still,
P'inted home'ards, and a thin
Little chap jes climbin' in.
Six more minutes I were there
On the groun's'--And course it were--
It were little Poke--and he
Nearly fainted to see me!-'
You ben in to Chinky, too?'
'Yes; and go' ride back with you,'
I-says-I. He he'pped me find
Room fer my things in behind--
Stript my hoss's reins down, and
Put his mitt' on the right hand
So's to lead--'Pile in!' says he,
'But you 've struck pore company!'
Noticed he was pale--looked sick,



Kindo-like, and had a quick
Way o' flickin' them-air eyes
0' his roun' 'at didn't size
Up right with his usual style-s'
I, 'You well?' He tried to smile,
But his chin shuck and tears come.-'_
I've run 'Viney 'way from home_!'

Don't know jes what all occurred
Next ten seconds--Nary word,
But my heart jes drapt, stobbed thue,
And whirlt over and come to.--
Wrenched a big quart bottle from
That fool-boy!--and cut my thumb
On his little fiste-teeth--helt
Him snug in one arm, and felt
That-air little heart o' his
Churn the blood o' Wigginses
Into that old bead 'at spun
Roun' her, spilt at Lexington!
His k'niptions, like enough,
He'pped us both,--though it was rough--
Rough on him, and rougher on
Me when last his nerve was gone,
And he laid there still, his face
Fishin' fer some hidin'-place
Jes a leetle lower down
In my breast than he 'd yit foun'!

Last I kindo' soothed him, so's
He could talk.--And what you s'pose
Them-air revelations of
Poke's was? . . . He'd ben writin' love-
Letters to Melviney, and
Givin her to understand
They was from 'a young man who
Loved her,' and--'the violet's blue
'N sugar's sweet'--and Lord knows what!
Tel, 'peared-like, Melviney got
S' interested in 'the young
Man,' Poke _he_ says, 'at she brung
A' answer onc't fer him to take,
Statin' 'she'd die fer his sake,'
And writ fifty xs 'fer
Love-kisses fer him from her!'
I was standin' in the road
By the buggy, all I knowed
When Poke got that fer.--'That's why,'
Poke says, 'I 'fessed up the lie-_
Had_ to--'cause I see,' says he,
''Viney was in airnest--she
Cried, too, when I told her.--Then


She swore me, and smiled again,
And got Pap and Mother to
Let me hitch and drive her thue
Into Chinkypin, to be
At Aunt 'Rindy's Chris'mas-tree-That's
to-night.' Says I, 'Poke--durn
Your lyin' soul!--'s that beau o' hern--
That--_she_--loves--Does _he_ live in
That hellhole o' Chinkypin?'
'No,' says Poke, 'er 'Viney would
Went some _other_ neighborhood.'
'Who _is_ the blame whelp?' says I.
'Promised 'Viney, hope I'd die
Ef I ever told!' says Poke,
Pittiful and jes heart-broke-''
Sides that's why she left the place,-'
She caint look him in the face
Now no more on earth!' she says.--'
And the child broke down and jes
Sobbed! Says I, 'Poke, I p'tend
T' be _your_ friend, and your _Pap's_ friend,
And your _Mother's_ friend, and all
The _boys_' friend, little, large and small--
The _whole fambily's_ friend--and you
Know that means _Melviney_, too.-Now--
you hush yer troublin!'--I'm
Go' to he'p friends ever' time-On'y
in _this_ case, _you_ got
To he'p _me_--and, like as not
I kin he'p Melviney then,
And we'll have her home again.
And now, Poke, with your consent,
I'm go' go to that-air gent
She's in love with, and confer
With _him_ on his views o' _her_.--
Blast him! give the man _some_ show.--
Who is he?--_I'm go' to know_!'
Somepin' struck the little chap
Funny, 'peared-like.--Give a slap
On his leg--laughed thue the dew
In his eyes, and says: 'It's you!'

Yes, and--'cordin' to the last
Love-letters of ours 'at passed
Thue his hands--we was to be
Married Chris'mas.--'Gee-mun-_nee_!
Poke,' says I, 'it's _suddent_--yit
We _kin_ make it! You're to git
Up tomorry, say, 'bout _three_--
Tell your folks you're go' with me:-We'll
hitch up, and jes drive in
'N take the town o' Chinkypin!'

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.

The Twins

One 's the pictur' of his Pa,
And the _other_ of her Ma--
Jes the bossest pair o' babies 'at a mortal ever saw!
And we love 'em as the bees
Loves the blossoms of the trees,
A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze!


One's got her Mammy's eyes--
Soft and blue as Apurl-skies--
With the same sort of a smile, like--Yes,
and mouth about her size,--
Dimples, too, in cheek and chin,
'At my lips jes _wallers_ in,
A-goin' to work, er gittin' home agin.


And the _other_--Well, they say
That he's got his Daddy's way
O' bein' ruther soberfied, er ruther extry gay,--
That he either cries his best,
Er he laughs his howlin'est--
Like all he lacked was buttons and a vest!


Look at _her_!--and look at _him_!--
Talk about yer 'Cheru-_bim_!'
Roll 'em up in dreams together, rosy arm and chubby limb!
O we love 'em as the bees
Loves the blossoms of the trees,
A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze!

The Stepmother

First she come to our house,
Tommy run and hid;
And Emily and Bob and me
We cried jus' like we did
When Mother died,--and we all said
'At we all wisht 'at we was dead!


And Nurse she couldn't stop us,
And Pa he tried and tried,--
We sobbed and shook and wouldn't look,
But only cried and cried;
And nen someone--we couldn't jus'
Tell who--was cryin' same as us!


Our Stepmother! Yes, it was her,
Her arms around us all-'
Cause Tom slid down the bannister
And peeked in from the hall.--
And we all love her, too, because
She's purt nigh good as Mother was!

The Raggedy Man

1
2
3
4
6
7
8
O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can --
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. -9
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
11
12
13
14
16
17
W'y, The Raggedy Man -- he's ist so good,
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do. --
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple down fer me --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann -18
19
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man. -Ain't
he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
21
22
An' The Raggedy Man one time say he
Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchurd-tree,
23 An' et 'em -- all ist roast' an' hot! -24
An' it's so, too! -- 'cause a corn-crib got
Afire one time an' all burn' down
26 On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town -27
On "The Smoot Farm"! Yes -- an' the hired han'
28
29
'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! -Ain't
he the beatin'est Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
31
32
33
34
36
37
38
39
41
The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind
He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind
Ever'thing 'at you make him do --
An' won't run off -- 'less you want him to!
I drived him wunst way down our lane
An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain,
An' ist rared up an' squealed and run
Purt' nigh away! -- an' it's all in fun!
Nen he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can ...
Whoa! y' old runaway Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
42
43
44
An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,
46
47
48
An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves:
An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,
'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can


49 Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!
50 Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
51 Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?
52 Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!


53 An' wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late,
54 An' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate,
55 He 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said,
56 "Old Bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!"
57 An' race' an' chase' 'em, an' they'd ist run
58 When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun
59 An' go "Bang! -- Bang!" nen 'tend he stan'
60 An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man!
61 He's an old Bear-shooter Raggedy Man!
62 Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!


63 An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on
64 We're little prince-children, an' old King's gone
65 To git more money, an' lef' us there -66
And Robbers is ist thick ever'where;
67 An' nen -- ef we all won't cry, fer shore -68
The Raggedy Man he'll come and "'splore
69 The Castul-halls," an' steal the "gold" -70
An' steal us, too, an' grab an' hold
71 An' pack us off to his old "Cave"! -- An'
72 Haymow's the "cave" o' The Raggedy Man! -73
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!


74 The Raggedy Man -- one time, when he
75 Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
76 Says "When you're big like your Pa is,
77 Air you go' to keep a fine store like his -78
An' be a rich merchunt -- an' wear fine clothes? -79
Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?"
80 An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
81 An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! -82
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!"
83 Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Old Tramp

A Old Tramp slep' in our stable wunst,
An' The Raggedy Man he caught
An' roust him up, an' chased him off
Clean out through our back lot!


An' th' Old Tramp hollered back an' said,-'
You're a _purty_ man!--_You_ air!--
With a pair o' eyes like two fried eggs,
An' a nose like a Bartlutt pear!'

The Old Home By The Mill

This is 'The old Home by the Mill'--far we still call it so,
Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, and a few
Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!


Here, Marg'et, fetch the man a tin to drink out of' Our spring
Keeps kindo-sorto cavin' in, but don't 'taste' anything!
She's kindo agein', Marg'et is--'the old process,' like me,
All ham-stringed up with rheumatiz, and on in seventy-three.


Jes' me and Marg'et lives alone here--like in long ago;
The childern all put off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' way out West somewhere; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.


The oldest gyrl--the first that went--married and died right here;
The next lives in Winn's Settlement--for purt' nigh thirty year!
And youngest one--was allus far the old home here--but no!--
Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!


I don't miss them like _Marg'et_ does--'cause I got _her_, you see;
And when she pines for them--that's 'cause _she's_ only jes' got
_me_!
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.--But talkin' sense, I'll say,
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed the t'other way!


I haint so favorble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when _us two_ come to die,
I'd 'dopt the 'new process' in full, ef _Marg'et_ died, you see,-I'd
jes' crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!

Philiper Flash

Young Philiper Flash was a promising lad,
His intentions were good--but oh, how sad
For a person to think
How the veriest pink
And bloom of perfection may turn out bad.
Old Flash himself was a moral man,
And prided himself on a moral plan,
Of a maxim as old
As the calf of gold,
Of making that boy do what he was told.


And such a good mother had Philiper Flash;
Her voice was as soft as the creamy plash
Of the milky wave
With its musical lave
That gushed through the holes of her patent churn-dash;--
And the excellent woman loved Philiper so,
She could cry sometimes when he stumped his toe,--
And she stroked his hair
With such motherly care
When the dear little angel learned to swear.


Old Flash himself would sometimes say
That his wife had 'such a ridiculous way,-She'd,
humor that child
Till he'd soon be sp'iled,
And then there'd be the devil to pay!'
And the excellent wife, with a martyr's look,
Would tell old Flash himself 'he took
No notice at all
Of the bright-eyed doll
Unless when he spanked him for getting a fall!'


Young Philiper Flash, as time passed by,
Grew into 'a boy with a roguish eye':
He could smoke a cigar,
And seemed by far
The most promising youth.--'He's powerful sly,
Old Flash himself once told a friend,
'Every copper he gets he's sure to spend--
And,' said he, 'don't you know
If he keeps on so
What a crop of wild oats the boy will grow!'


But his dear good mother knew Philiper's ways
So--well, she managed the money to raise;
And old Flash himself
Was 'laid on the shelf,'
(In the manner of speaking we have nowadays).
For 'gracious knows, her darling child,
If he went without money he'd soon grow wild.'
So Philiper Flash



With a regular dash
'Swung on to the reins,' and went 'slingin' the cash.'


As old Flash himself, in his office one day,
Was shaving notes in a barberous way,
At the hour of four
Death entered the door
And shaved the note on his life, they say.
And he had for his grave a magnificent tomb,
Though the venturous finger that pointed 'Gone Home,'
Looked white and cold
From being so bold,
As it feared that a popular lie was told.


Young Philiper Flash was a man of style
When he first began unpacking the pile
Of the dollars and dimes
Whose jingling chimes
Had clinked to the tune of his father's smile;
And he strewed his wealth with such lavish hand,
His rakish ways were the talk of the land,
And gossipers wise
Sat winking their eyes
(A certain foreboding of fresh surprise).


A 'fast young man' was Philiper Flash,
And wore 'loud clothes' and a weak mustache,
And 'done the Park,'
For an 'afternoon lark,'
With a very fast horse of 'remarkable dash.'
And Philiper handled a billiard-cue
About as well as the best he knew,
And used to say
'He could make it pay
By playing two or three games a day.'


And Philiper Flash was his mother's joy,
He seemed to her the magic alloy
That made her glad,
When her heart was sad,
With the thought that 'she lived for her darling boy.'
His dear good mother wasn't aware
How her darling boy relished a 'tare.'--
She said 'one night
He gave her a fright
By coming home late and ACTING tight.'


Young Philiper Flash, on a winterish day,
Was published a bankrupt, so they say--
And as far as I know
I suppose it was so,
For matters went on in a singular way;



His excellent mother, I think I was told,
Died from exposure and want and cold;
And Philiper Flash,
With a horrible slash,
Whacked his jugular open and went to smash.

Nothin' To Say

Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!
Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me--
Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she?


You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;
And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:
Like her, too, about _livin_' here,--because _she_ couldn't stay:
It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin' to say!


She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page--
And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.
I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away--
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!


You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!
And now yer--how old _air_ you? W'y, child, not '_twenty_!' When?
And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?
... I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say!


Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!
There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn round.
(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!)
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!

Mylo Jones's Wife

'Mylo Jones's wife' was all
I heerd, mighty near, last Fall--
Visitun relations down
T'other side of Morgantown!
Mylo Jones's wife she does
This and that, and 'those' and 'thus'!-Can't
'bide babies in her sight--
Ner no childern, day and night,
Whoopin' round the premises--
NER NO NOTHIN' ELSE, I guess!


Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
She's the boss of her own house!-Mylo--
consequences is--
Stays whare things seem SOME like HIS,--
Uses, mostly, with the stock--
Coaxin' 'Old Kate' not to balk,
Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
Act, I s'pose, so much like HER!
Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
She's PERFECTION.--Yes they do!


Mylo's wife she says she's found
Home hain't home with MEN-FOLKS round
When they's work like HERN to do-
Picklin' pears and BUTCHERN, too,
And a-rendern lard, and then
Cookin' fer a pack of men
To come trackin' up the flore
SHE'S scrubbed TEL she'll scrub no MORE!--
Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!


Mylo Jones's wife she sews
Carpet-rags and patches clothes
Jest year IN and OUT!--and yit
Whare's the livin' use of it?
She asts Mylo that.--And he
Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
With his team;--jest PLOWS--and don't
Never sware--like some folks won't!
Think ef HE'D CUT LOOSE, I gum!
'D he'p his heavenly chances some!


Mylo's wife don't see no use,
Ner no reason ner excuse
Fer his pore relations to
Hang round like they allus do!
Thare 'bout onc't a year--and SHE--
She jest GA'NTS 'em, folks tells me,
On spiced pears!--Pass Mylo one,
He says 'No, he don't chuse none!'



Workin'men like Mylo they
'D ort to have MEAT ev'ry day!


Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!
Ruther rake a blame caseknife
'Crost my wizzen than to see
Sich a womern rulin' ME!--
Ruther take and turn in and
Raise a fool mule-colt by hand'
MYLO, though--od-rot the man!--
Jest keeps ca'm--like some folks CAN--
And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,
Is MAN'S HE'PMEET'--Mercy knows!

My Father's Halls

My father's halls, so rich and rare,
Are desolate and bleak and bare;
My father's heart and halls are one,
Since I, their life and light, am gone.

O, valiant knight, with hand of steel
And heart of gold, hear my appeal:
Release me from the spoiler's charms,
And bear me to my father's arms.

Little Orphant Annie

To all the little children: -- The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.


Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!


Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,--
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:--
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!


An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was 'company,' an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!


An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you



Don't
Watch
Out!

John Alden And Percilly

We got up a Christmas-doin's
Last Christmas Eve--
Kindo' dimonstration
'At I railly believe
Give more satisfaction--
Take it up and down--
Than ary intertainment
Ever come to town!


Railly was a _theater_-That's
what it was,--
But, bein' in the church, you know,
We had a '_Santy Clause_'--
So 's to git the _old folks_
To patternize, you see,
And _back_ the institootion up
Kindo' _morally_.


Schoolteacher writ the thing-(
Was a friend o' mine),
Got it out o' Longfeller's
Pome 'Evangeline'--
Er some'rs--'bout the _Purituns_--.
_Anyway_, the part
'_John Alden_' fell to _me_--
And learnt it all by heart!


Claircy was '_Percilly_'-(
Schoolteacher 'lowed
Me and her could act them two
Best of all the crowd)-Then--
blame ef he didn't
Git her Pap, i jing!--
To take the part o' '_Santy Clause_,'
To wind up the thing.


Law! the fun o' practisun!--
Was a week er two
Me and Claircy didn't have
Nothin' else to do!--
Kep' us jes a-meetin' round,
Kindo' here and there,
Ever' night rehearsin'-like,
And gaddin' ever'where!


Game was wo'th the candle, though!--
Christmas Eve at last
Rolled around.--And 'tendance jes
Couldn't been surpassed!--
Neighbors from the country
Come from Clay and Rush--
Yes, and 'crost the county-line



Clean from Puckerbrush!


Meetin'-house jes trimbled
As 'Old Santy' went
Round amongst the childern,
With their pepperment
And sassafrac and wintergreen
Candy, and 'a ball
O' popcorn,' the preacher 'nounced,
'Free fer each and all!'


Schoolteacher suddently
Whispered in my ear,-'
Guess I got you:--_Christmas-gift_!-_
Christmas is here_!'
I give _him_ a gold pen,
And case to hold the thing,--
And _Claircy_ whispered '_Christmas-gift_!'
And I give her a _ring_.


'And now,' says I, 'jes watch _me_-Christmas-
gift,' says I,
'_I'm_ a-goin' to git one-'_
Santy's_' comin' by!'--
Then I rech and grabbed him:
And, as you'll infer,
'Course I got the old man's,
And _he_ gimme _her_!

John McKeen

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat,
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
And the wealth of a workman's vote!


Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets everywhere!


And let their voices be gladly blent
With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And old-time fiddle-tunes!


Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
And fill the hearing with childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound
Old book of the Used-to-be!


John McKeen of the Past! Ah John,
To have grown ambitious in worldly ways--!
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don
A broadcloth suit, and forgetful, gone
Out on election days!


John ah, John! Did it prove your worth
To yield you the office you still maintain--?
To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth
Of all the happier things on earth
To the hunger of heart and brain?


Under the dusk of your villa trees,
Edging the drives where your blooded span
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease--,
Where are the children about your knees,
And the mirth, and the happy man?


The blinds of your mansion are battened to;
Your faded wife is a close recluse;
And your 'finished' daughters will doubtless do
Dutifully all that is willed of you,
And marry as you shall choose--!


But O for the old-home voices, blent
With the watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And the motherly chirrup of glad content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,



And the old-time fiddle-tunes!

Ike Walton's Prayer

I crave, dear Lord,
No boundless hoard
Of gold and gear,
Nor jewels fine,
Nor lands, nor kine,
Nor treasure-heaps of anything.-
Let but a little hut be mine
Where at the hearthstore I may hear
The cricket sing,
And have the shine
Of one glad woman's eyes to make,
For my poor sake,
Our simple home a place divine;-
Just the wee cot-the cricket's chirr-
Love, and the smiling face of her.


I pray not for
Great riches, nor
For vast estates, and castle-halls,-
Give me to hear the bare footfalls
Of children o’er
An oaken floor,
New-risen with sunshine, or bespread
With but the tiny coverlet
And pillow for the baby’s head;
And pray Thou, may
The door stand open and the day
Send ever in a gentle breeze,
With fragrance from the locust-trees,
And drowsy moan of doves, and blur
Of robin-chirps, and drove of bees,
With afterhushes of the stir
Of intermingling sounds, and then
The good-wife and the smile of her
Filling the silences again-
The cricket’s call,
And the wee cot,
Dear Lord of all,
Deny me not!


I pray not that
Men tremble at
My power of place
And lordly sway, -
I only pray for simple grace
To look my neighbor in the face
Full honestly from day to day-
Yield me this horny palm to hold,
And I’ll not pray
For gold;-
The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,
It hath the kingliest smile on earth



The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,
Hath never need of coronet.
And so I reach,
Dear Lord, to Thee,
And do beseech
Thou givest me
The wee cot, and the cricket’s chirr,
Love, and the glad sweet face of her.

How John Quit The Farm

Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on--
And then, I want to say to you, we _needed_ he'p about,
As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out!


A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found
Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around!--
The house was small--but plenty-big we found it from the day
That John--our only livin' son--packed up and went way.


You see, we tuck sich pride in John--his mother more 'n me-That's
natchurul; but _both_ of us was proud as proud could be;
Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright,
And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight.


He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart
As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start;
And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up to say-'
Jest listen, David!--listen!--Johnny's beat the birds to-day!'


High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,--
He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn:
He'd ast more plaguey questions in a mortal-minute here
Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!


And read! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read and spell;
And 'The Childern of the Abbey'--w'y, he knowed that book as well
At fifteen as his parents!--and 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' too--
Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through and through!


At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance--
That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on,
Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was gone.


But--I missed him--w'y of course I did!--The Fall and Winter through
I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,
Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin,
But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home agin.


He'd come, sometimes--on Sund'ys most--and stay the Sund'y out;
And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:
But a change was workin' on him--he was stiller than before,
And did n't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any more.


And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,
He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped tie,
And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;
And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of his own.


But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to come home
And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him come;



But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went down,
When he bragged of 'a position' that was offered him in town.


'But,' says I, 'you'll not accept it?' 'W'y, of course
I will,' says he.-'
This drudgin' on a farm,' he says, 'is not the life fer me;
I've set my stakes up higher,' he continued, light and gay,
'And town's the place fer me, and I'm a-goin' right away!'


And go he did!--his mother clingin' to him at the gate,
A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.
I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry so,
And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine--and let him go!


I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about
The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;--
I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuck the boy's hand,
And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he'd understand.


And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore!
With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door,
Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and more---
Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!


The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write
A letter to his mother, savin' that his work was light,
And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit--
Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used to it.


And sometimes he would write and ast how _I_ was gittin' on,
And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;
And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock,
And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.


And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he would git home,
Fer business would, of course be dull in town.--But _didn't_ come:--
We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade
They filled the time 'invoicin' goods,' and that was why he staid.


And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word--
Exceptin' what the neighbors brung who'd been to town and heard
What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to inquire
If they could buy their goods there less and sell their produce higher.


And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,
And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-Day!
The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit,
The wind a-howlin' round the house--it makes me creepy yit!


And there set me and Mother--me a-twistin' at the prongs
Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs,
And Mother sayin', '_David! David!_' in a' undertone,



As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words unbeknown.


'I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow,' Mother said,
A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,-'
And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty nigh;
And the pound-cake is delicious-rich--' 'Who'll eat 'em?' I-says-I.


'The cramberries is drippin-sweet,' says Mother, runnin' on,
P'tendin' not to hear me;--'and somehow I thought of John
All the time they was a-jellin'--fer you know they allus was
His favour--he likes 'em so!' Says I, 'Well, s'pose he does?'


'Oh, nothin' much!' says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile-'
This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!'
And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant
And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content.


'It's _me_,' he says--'your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand;
Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand
How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we
Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life--jest Mother, you and me!'


* * * * * *


Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on;
And then, I want to say to you, we _need_ sich he'p about,
As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out!