 | The writings of James Russell Lowell |  |
NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS
10
The Courtin'.
Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown,
An' peeked in thru the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'ith no one nigh to hender.
An' peeked in thru the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'ith no one nigh to hender.
Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetched back frum Concord busted.
An' in amongst 'em rusted
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetched back frum Concord busted.
The wannut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An' leetle fires danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An' leetle fires danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
The very room, coz she wuz in,
Looked warm frum floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'.
Looked warm frum floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'.
She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu,
Araspin' on the scraper,—
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
Araspin' on the scraper,—
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the seekle;
His heart kep' goin' pitypat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
Some doubtfle o' the seekle;
His heart kep' goin' pitypat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yet she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work
Ez ef a wager spurred her.
Ez though she wished him furder,
11
Ez ef a wager spurred her.
“You want to see my Pa, I spose?”
“Wal, no; I come designin'—”
“To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es
Agin to-morrow's i'nin'.”
“Wal, no; I come designin'—”
“To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es
Agin to-morrow's i'nin'.”
He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on tother,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He could n't ha' told ye, nuther.
Then stood a spell on tother,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He could n't ha' told ye, nuther.
Sez he, “I'd better call agin”;
Sez she, “Think likely, Mister”;
The last word pricked him like a pin,
An'—wal, he up and kist her.
Sez she, “Think likely, Mister”;
The last word pricked him like a pin,
An'—wal, he up and kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kind o' smily round the lips
An' teary round the lashes.
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kind o' smily round the lips
An' teary round the lashes.
Her blood riz quick, though, like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they wuz cried
In meetin', come nex Sunday.
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they wuz cried
In meetin', come nex Sunday.
| The writings of James Russell Lowell | |