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Farm festivals

Carleton, Will (1845-1912)

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THE FESTIVAL OF ANECDOTE;

OR, AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY STORE.

I.

An evening in the quaint old country store!
While Winter's feet were kicking at the door,
And Winter's white-nailed fingers striving hard
To raise the windows he himself had barred;
Save when he chased upon their weary rounds,
Through tracks of air, his yelling tempest-hounds.
Bark louder, storm-dogs! to our dreamy sight,
Your voices made the fire-cheer twice as bright,
Promoting high beyond a moment's doubt,
The value of the dry-goods shelved about.
There's little you'll be wanting, cheap or dear,
That has not something somewhat like it, here;
Whatever honest people drink or eat,
Or pack their bodies in, from head to feet,
Want what you may, you'll get it—search no more—
Or imitation of it—in this store.
The body's needs not only here you find,
But food, too, for the sympathies and mind;
For in one corner, fed by many lands,
The small post-office dignifiedly stands,
With square, red-numbered boxes in its arms,
Well stocked with white and brown enveloped charms.
Here the little girl, irresolutely gay,
Asks if there's “any thing for us to-day”;

Here the farm lad, who wider fields would seek,
Comes for the county paper once a week.
Through this delivery port-hole there is hurled
Printed bombardment from the outside world;
The great, far world, whose heart-throbs, up and down,
Strike pulses, e'en within this quiet town.
The quaint, well populated country store!
A hospitable, mirth-productive shore,
Where masculine barks take refuge from distress,
In the port of an evening's cheerfulness.
The rusty stove, with wood-fed heat endowed,
Shoots hot invisible arrows at the crowd,
To which the chewing population nigh
Send back a prompt and vigorous reply,
And find time for side-battles of retort,
In various moralled stories, long and short:
From one that's smart and good enough to print,
To one that has a hundred hell-seeds in 't.
Here laws are put on trial by debate,
Here solved conundrums, both of Church and State;
Here is contested, with more voice than brain,
Full many a hot political campaign;
The half surmised shortcomings of the church
Are opened to some sinner's anxious search;
And criticisms the minister gets here,
From men who have not heard him once a year.
Or maybe some inside the sacred fold
No longer their experiences can hold
Within the flock, who 've harked to them so oft,
Invariably referring them aloft,
That, tired of this monotony, they yearn
A little godless sympathy to earn.
And maybe it is one of these, who now,
With elevated feet and earnest brow,
And face where sentiment flits to and fro,
Tells sorrows he has felt not long ago:

[OUR TRAVELED PARSON.]

For twenty years and over, our good parson had been toiling,
To chip the bad meat from our hearts, and keep the good from spoiling;
But suddenly he wilted down, and went to looking sickly,
And the doctor said that something must be put up for him quickly.
So we kind o' clubbed together, each according to his notion,
And bought a circular ticket, in the lands across the ocean;
Wrapped some pocket-money in it—what we thought would easy do him—
And appointed me committee-man, to go and take it to him.
I found him in his study, looking rather worse than ever;
And told him 'twas decided that his flock and he should sever.
Then his eyes grew big with wonder, and it seemed almost to blind 'em,
And some tears looked out o' window, with some others close behind 'em!
But I handed him the ticket, with a little bow of deference,
And he studied quite a little ere he got the proper reference;
And then the tears that waited—great unmanageable creatures—
Let themselves quite out o' window, and came climbing down his features.

I wish you could ha' seen him, when he came back, fresh and glowing,
His clothes all worn and seedy, and his face all fat and knowing;
I wish you could ha' heard him, when he prayed for us who sent him,
Paying back with compound int'rst every dollar that we'd lent him!
'Twas a feast to true believers—'twas a blight on contradiction—
To hear one just from Calvary talk about the crucifixion;
'Twas a damper on those fellows who pretended they could doubt it,
To have a man who'd been there stand and tell 'em all about it!
Why every foot of Scripture, whose location used to stump us,
Was now regularly laid out with the different points o' compass;
When he undertook a subject, in what nat'ral lines he'd draw it!
He would paint it out so honest that it seemed as if you saw it.
And the way he went for Europe! oh, the way he scampered through it!
Not a mountain but he clim' it—not a city but he knew it;
There wasn't any subject to explain, in all creation,
But he could go to Europe and bring back an illustration!
So we crowded out to hear him, quite instructed and delighted;
'Twas a picture-show, a lecture, and a sermon—all united;
And my wife would rub her glasses, and serenely pet her Test'ment,
And whisper, “That 'ere ticket was a splendid good investment.”

Now, after six months' travel, we was most of us all ready
To settle down a little, so 's to live more staid and steady;
To develop home resources, with no foreign cares to fret us,
Using house-made faith more frequent; but our parson wouldn't let us!
To view the same old scenery, time and time again he'd call us—
Over rivers, plains, and mountains he would any minute haul us;
He slighted our soul-sorrows, and our spirits' aches and ailings,
To get the cargo ready for his regular Sunday sailings!
Why, he'd take us off a-touring, in all spiritual weather,
Till we at last got home-sick and sea-sick all together!
And “I wish to all that's peaceful,” said one free-expressioned brother,
“That The Lord had made one cont'nent, an' then never made another!”

Sometimes, indeed, he'd take us into old, familiar places,
And pull along quite nat'ral, in the good old Gospel traces:
But soon my wife would shudder, just as if a chill had got her,
Whispering, “Oh, my goodness gracious! he's a-takin' to the water!”

And it wasn't the same old comfort, when he called around to see us;
On some branch of foreign travel he was sure at last to tree us;
All unconscious of his error, he would sweetly patronize us,
And with oft-repeated stories still endeavor to surprise us.

And the sinners got to laughing; and that fin'lly galled and stung us,
To ask him, Wouldn't he kindly once more settle down among us?
Didn't he think that more home produce would improve our soul's digestions?
They appointed me committee-man to go and ask the questions.
I found him in his garden, trim an' buoyant as a feather;
He shook my hand, exclaiming, “This is quite Italian weather!
How it 'minds me of the evenings when, your distant hearts caressing,
Upon my dear, good brothers, I invoked God's choicest blessing!”

I went and told the brothers, “No; I can not bear to grieve him;
He's so happy in his exile, it's the proper place to leave him.
I took that journey to him, and right bitterly I rue it;
But I can not take it from him; if you want to, go and do it.”

Now a new restraint entirely seemed next Sunday to enfold him,
And he looked so hurt and humbled, that I knew that they had told him.
Subdued-like was his manner, and some tones were hardly vocal;
But every word and sentence was pre-eminently local!

Still, the sermon sounded awkward, and we awkward felt who heard it;
'Twas a grief to see him steer it—'twas a pain to hear him word it.
“When I was abroad”—was maybe half a dozen times repeated,
But that sentence seemed to choke him, and was always uncompleted.

As weeks went on, his old smile would occasionally brighten,
But the voice was growing feeble, and the face began to whiten;
He would look off to the eastward, with a wistful, weary sighing,
And 'twas whispered that our pastor in a foreign land was dying.

The coffin lay 'mid garlands, smiling sad as if they knew us;
The patient face within it preached a final sermon to us;
Our parson had gone touring—on a trip he'd long been earning—
In that wonder-land, whence tickets are not issued for returning!
O tender, good heart-shepherd! your sweet smiling lips, half-parted,
Told of scenery that burst on you, just the minute that you started!
Could you preach once more among us, you might wander, without fearing;
You could give us tales of glory that we'd never tire of hearing!

II.

The grave sends fascination with its fear:
We shrink and dread to see it yawning near,
But when on others falls the endless spell,
We like to talk about it mighty well;
And handle o'er, with fear-abated breath,
The gruesome, grim particulars of death.
Never can horror so a tale unfold,
But curious mortals love to hear it told,
As if they were not of the race they view,
And subject to the same conditions, too.
When the last speaker had a period found,
And placed his parson safely under-ground,
Mortality of every phase and age
Became at once the conversational rage;
And he was sachem of our gossip-tribe,
Who had the dolefulest death-pangs to describe.

Most well I recollect, of course (though least),
My own addition to the horror-feast.
I had seen two men hanged, for some red crime
Committed in drink's murder-harvest time;
By sheriff-usher through the jail-yard shown,
They walked unto this funeral of their own;
Their rites were said by one in priesthood's guise;
Two empty coffins lay before their eyes.
One scarcely yet had left youth's pleasure vale;
(His mother waited for him near the jail.)
The other had his tutor been in crime,
And sold the devil half a manhood's time.
They did not flinch, when first frowned on their sight
Their gallows death-bed, standing bolt-upright:
But when the youngster turned and took his place,
A cold wind brushed the noose against his face;
Then first that feigned indifference seemed to fail;
Death, when it came, made not the boy more pale.
(I saw him in the coffin, after this;
It was a face that woman-eyes would kiss.)
Close to his side, notice the older pass:
Teacher and pupil, standing in one class.
This rogue had learned a knack to calmly die,
And glanced the younger wretch a cold good-bye;
But he, unmagnetized from past control,
With silent-moving lips prayed for his soul.
(The black cap hid the last part of his prayer,
And shut it in, but could not keep it there.)
He had prayed for his body, had he known;
For while the older died without a groan,
When with a “thud!” the two went bounding high,
He struggled, gasped, and wailed, but could not die,
Till the slow-gripping rope had choked him quite,
And strong men fainted at the piteous sight.
(I thought I told this pretty middling well;
But was eclipsed by an old sea-dog swell,
Anchored by age in our calm rustic bay,
Who'd seen twelve Turks beheaded in one day.)

Then followed accidents, by field and flood,
Such as had fettered breath or loosened blood;
Fires, earthquakes, shipwrecks, and such cheerful themes,
Furnished material for our future dreams.
And when at last there came a little pause
(The silent horror-method of applause),
A lad, with face appropriately long,
Said, “Jacob, won't you sing that little song
That you sat up all t'other night to make,
About the children drownded in the lake?”
Jacob, whose efforts none had need to urge,
Promptly materialized the following dirge:

[A DIRGE OF THE LAKE.]

On the lake—on the lake—
The sun the day is tingeing;
The sky's rich hue shows brighter blue
Above its forest fringing.
The breezes high blow far and nigh
White cloudlets, like a feather;
The breezes low sweep to and fro,
And wavelets race together.

Up the lake—up the lake—
The busy oars are dipping;
The blades of wood that cleave the flood,
With streamlets fresh are dripping.
A graceful throng of golden song
Comes floating smoothly after;
Like silver chains, ring loud the strains
Of childhood's merry laughter.

By the lake—by the lake—
The lilies' heads are lifting,
And into night the warmth and light
Of happy homes are drifting.
The bright sun-rays upon them gaze,
In pity unavailing;

With laughing eyes, between two skies
They for the grave are sailing.

In the lake—in the lake—
The barge is sinking steady;
A startled hush, a frantic rush—
The feast of Death is ready!
A pleading cry, a faint reply,
A frenzied, brave endeavor—
And o'er them deep the wavelets creep,
And smile as sweet as ever.

'Neath the lake—'neath the lake—
The wearied forms are lying;
They sleep away their gala-day—
Too fair a day for dying!
With hands that grasped, and nothing clasped,
With terror-frozen faces,
In slimy caves and gloomy graves,
They nestle to their places.

From the lake—from the lake—
They one by one are creeping;
Their very rest is grief-possessed,
And piteous looks their sleeping.
Upon no face is any trace
Of sickness' friendly warning,
But sad they lie 'neath even-sky,
Who were so gay at morning!

O'er the lake—o'er the lake—
A spectre bark is sailing;
There is no cry of danger nigh,
There is no sound of wailing.
They who have died gaze from its side—
Their spirit-faces glowing;
For through the skies the life-boat plies,
And angel hands are rowing.

III.

There was among our various-tempered crowd,
A graduate; who, having last year plowed
The utmost furrow of scholastic lore,
Now boarded with his father, as before.
His course was hard, but he had mastered all:
Aquatics, billiards, flirting, and base-ball;
And now, once more to rural science turned,
Was leisurely unlearning what he'd learned.
The death-theme made him sad and serious-eyed,
About a college comrade who had died;
And with a sudden, strong sigh-lengthened breath,
He gave this boyish paragraph of death:

[THE DEAD STUDENT.]

'Twas mighty slow to make it seem as if poor Brown was dead;
'Twas only just the day he died, he had to take his bed;
The day before, he played first-base, and ran McFarland down;
And then to slip away so sly—'twas not at all like Brown.

'Twas hard for my own life to leave that fellow's life behind;
'Tis work, sometimes, to get a man well laid out in your mind!
It wouldn't have shook me very much, long after all was o'er,
To hear a whoop, and see the man go rushing past my door!

Poor Brown!—so white and newly still within his room he lay!
I called upon him, as it were, at noon the second day.
A-rushing into Brownie's room seemed awkward-like, and queer;
We hadn't spoken back and forth for something like a year.

We never pulled together square a single night or day:
Whate'er direction I might start, Brown went the other way;
(Excepting in our love affairs; we picked a dozen bones
About a girl Smith tried to get, who fin'lly married Jones.)

He worked against me in our class, before my very eyes;
He opened up and scooped me square out of the Junior prize;

I never wanted any place, clean from the last to first,
But Brown was sure to have a friend who wanted it the worst;

In the last campus rush, we came to strictly business blows,
And with the eye he left undimmed, I viewed his damaged nose;
In short, I came at last to feel—I own it with dismay—
That life would be worth living for, if Brown were out the way.

He lay within his dingy room, as white as drifted snow—
Things all around were wondrous neat—the women fixed them so;
'Twas plain he had no hand in that, and naught about it knew;
To 've seen the order lying round, it would have made him blue!

A bright bouquet of girlish flowers smiled on the scene of death,
And through the open window came a sweet geranium-breath;

Close-caged, a small canary bird, with glossy, yellow throat,
Tripped drearily from perch to perch, and never sung a note;

With hair unusually combed, sat poor McFarland near,
Alternately perusing Greek, and wrestling with a tear;
A homely little girl of six, for some old kindness' sake,
Sat sobbing in a corner near, as if her heart would break;

The books looked pale and wretched-like, almost as if they knew,
And seemed to be a-whispering their titles to the view;
His rod and gun were in their place; and high where all could see,
Gleamed jauntily the boating-cup he won last year from me;

I lifted up the solemn sheet; the honest, manly face
Had signs of study and of toil that death could not erase;
As western skies at twilight mark where late the sun has been,
Brown's face showed yet the mind and soul that late had burned within.

He looked so grandly helpless there upon that lonely bed—
Ah me! these manly foes are foes no more when they are dead!
“Old boy,” said I, “'twas half my fault; this heart makes late amends.”
I grasped the white cold hand in mine—and Brown and I were friends.

IV.

“That was a sudden death, 'twill be allowed,”
Said a half-Yankeed Scotchman in the crowd:
“We never know what paths may help or kill;
Death has a-many ways to work his will.
It is his daily study and his care,
To utilize earth, water, fire, and air,
Seduce them from their master man's employ,
And make the traitors murder and destroy.
Men call this “accident.” Of one I know,
That came about not very long ago,
Where I once lived, three thousand miles away;
I read it in my paper, yesterday.”
Then, with a strong voice that came not amiss,
He told the story, something like to this:

[THE DEATH-BRIDGE OF THE TAY.]

The night and the storm fell together upon the old town of Dundee,
And, trembling, the mighty firth-river held out its cold hand toward the sea.
Like the dull-booming bolts of a cannon, the wind swept the streets and the shores;
It wrenched at the roofs and the chimneys—it crashed 'gainst the windows and doors;
Like a mob that is drunken and frenzied, it surged through the streets up and down,
And screamed the sharp, shrill cry of “Murder!” o'er river and hill-top and town.
It leaned its great breast 'gainst the belfries—it perched upon minaret and dome—
Then sprang on the shivering firth-river, and tortured its waves into foam.
'Twas a night when the landsman seeks shelter, and cares not to venture abroad;
When the sailor clings close to the rigging, and prays for the mercy of God.

Look! the moon has come out, clad in splendor, the turbulent scene to behold;
She smiles at the night's devastation—she dresses the storm-king in gold.
She kindles the air with her cold flame, as if to her hand it were given
To light the frail earth to its ruin, with the tenderest radiance of heaven.
Away to the north, ragged mountains climb high through the shuddering air;
They bend their dark brows o'er the valley, to read what new ruin is there.
Along the shore-line creeps the city, in crouching and sinuous shape,
With firesides so soon to be darkened, and doors to be shaded with crape!
To the south, like a spider-web waving, there curves, for a two-mile away,
This world's latest man-devised wonder—the far-famous bridge of the Tay.

It stretches and gleams into distance; it creeps the broad stream o'er and o'er,
Till it rests its strong, delicate fingers in the palm of the opposite shore.
But look! through the mists of the southward, there flash to the eye, clear and plain,
Like a meteor that's bound to destruction—the lights of a swift-coming train!

O cruel and bloodthirsty tempest! we sons of humanity know,
Wherever and whene'er we find you, that you are our faithfulest foe!
You plow with the death-pointed cyclone wherever life's dwellings may be;
You spur your fire-steeds through our cities—you scuttle our ships on the sea.
The storm-shaken sailor has cursed you; white hands have implored you in vain;
And still you have filled Death's dominions, and laughed at humanity's pain.
But ne'er in the cave where your dark deeds are plotted and hid from the light,
Was one half so cruel and treacherous as this you have kept for tonight!
You lurked 'round this bridge in its building; you counted each span and each pier;
You marked the men's daily endeavors—you looked at them all with a sneer;
You laughed at the brain-girded structure; you deemed it an easy-fought foe,
And bided the time when its builders your easy-plied prowess should know.
O tempest! feed full with destruction! fling down these iron beams from on high!
But temper your triumph with mercy, and wait till the train has gone by!

O angels! sweet guardian angels!—who once in the body drew breath,
Till, wearied, you found the great river, and crossed on the black bridge of death,

You who, from the shores of the sun-land, fly back on the wings of the soul,
And round your frail earth-loves yet hover, and strive their weak steps to control,
Look out through the mists to the southward!—the hearts on yon swift-coming train,
So light and so happy this moment, are rushing to terror and pain!
Oh whisper a word to the driver, that till morning the bridge be not braved;
At the cost of a night lost in waiting, the years of these lives may be saved!
On yon cheer-freighted train there are hundreds, who soon beyond help will be hurled;
Oh whisper to them the dread secret, before it is known to the world!
On this home-lighted shore are full many who wait for their friends, blithe and gay;
They will wait through full many a night-time—through many a sorrow-strewn day.
The trim evening lamps from the windows their comfort-charged beauty will shed;
The fire will burn bright on the hearth-stone—its rays will be cheerful and red;
The sun will come out of the cold sea—the morning will rise clear and bright,
But death will eclipse all its radiance, and darken your world into night!

'Mid the lights that so gayly are gleaming yon city of Dundee within,
Is one that is waiting a wanderer, who long o'er the ocean has been.
His age-burdened parents are watching from the window that looks on the firth,
For the train that will come with their darling—their truest-loved treasure on earth.
“He'll be comin' the nicht,” says the father, “for sure the hand-writin's his ain;
The letter says, ‘Ha' the lamp lichted—I'll come on the seven o'clock train.

For years in the mines I've been toiling, in this wonderfu' West, o'er the sea;
My work has brought back kingly wages—there's plenty for you an' for me.
Your last days shall e'en be your best days; the high-stepping youngster you knew,
Who cost so much care in his raising, now'll care for himself and for you.
Gang not to the station to meet me; ye never need run for me more;
But when ye shall hear the gate clickit, ye maun rise up an' open the door.
We will hae the first glow of our greeting when nae one o' strangers be nigh,
We will smile out the joy o' our meeting on the spot where we wept our good-bye.
Ye maun put me a plate on the table, an' set in the auld place a chair;
An' if but the good Lord be willing, doubt never a bit I'll be there.
So sit ye an' wait for my coming (ye will na' watch for me in vain),
An' see me glide over the river, along o' the roar o' the train.
Ye may sit at the southernmost window, for I will come hame from that way;
I will fly where I swam, when a youngster, across the broad Firth o' the Tay.’”

So they sit at the southernmost window, the parents, with hand clasped in hand,
And gaze o'er the tempest-vexed waters, across to the storm-shaken land.
They see the bold acrobat-monster creep out on the treacherous line;
Its cinder-breath glitters like star-dust—its lamp-eyes they glimmer and shine.
It braces itself 'gainst the tempest—it fights for each inch with the foe—
With torrents of air all around it—with torrents of water below.
But look! look! the monster is stumbling, while trembles the fragile bridge-wall—
They struggle like athletes entwining—then both like a thunder-bolt fall!

Down, down through the dark the train plunges, with speed unaccustomed and dire;
It glows with its last dying beauty—it gleams like a hail-storm of fire!
No wonder the mother faints death-like, and clings like a clod to the floor;
No wonder the man flies in frenzy, and dashes his way through the door!
He fights his way out through the tempest; he is beaten and baffled and tossed;
He cries, “The train's gang off the Tay brig! lend help here to look for the lost!”
Oh, little to him do they listen, the crowds to the river that flee;
The news, like the shock of an earthquake, has thrilled through the town of Dundee.
Like travelers belated, they're rushing to where the bare station-walls frown;
Suspense twists the blade of their anguish—like maniacs they run up and down.
Out, out, creep two brave, sturdy fellows, o'er danger-strewn buttress and piers;
They can climb 'gainst that blast, for they carry the blood of old Scotch mountaineers.
But they leave it along as they clamber; they mark all their hand-path with red;
Till they come where the torrent leaps bridgeless—a grave dancing over its dead.
A moment they gaze down in horror; then creep from the death-laden tide,
With the news, “There's nae help for our loved ones, save God's mercy for them who have died!”

How sweetly the sunlight can sparkle o'er graves where our best hopes have lain!
How brightly its gold beams can glisten on faces that whiten with pain!
Oh, never more gay were the wavelets, and careless in innocent glee,
And never more sweet did the sunrise shine over the town of Dundee.

But though the town welcomed the morning, and the firth threw its gold lances back,
On the hearts of the grief-stricken people death's cloud rested heavy and black.
And the couple who waited last evening their man-statured son to accost,
Now laid their heads down on the table, and mourned for the boy that was lost.
“'Twas sae sad,” moaned the crushed, aged mother, each word dripping o'er with a tear,
“Sae far he should come for to find us, and then he should perish sae near!
O Robin, my bairn! ye did wander far from us for mony a day,
And when ye ha' come back sae near us, why could na' ye come a' the way?”

“I hae come a' the way,” said a strong voice, and a bearded and sun-beaten face
Smiled on them the first joyous pressure of one long and filial embrace:
“I cam' on last nicht far as Newport; but Maggie, my bride that's to be,
She ran through the storm to the station, to get the first greeting o' me.
I leaped from the carriage to kiss her; she held me sae fast and sae ticht,
The train it ran off and did leave me; I could na' get over the nicht.
I tried for to walk the brig over—my head it was a' in a whirl—
I could na'—ye know the sad reason—I had to go back to my girl!
I hope ye'll tak' kindly to Maggie; she's promised to soon be my wife;
She's a darling wee bit of a lassie, and her fondness it saved me my life.”

The night and the storm fell together upon the sad town of Dundee,
The half-smothered song of the tempest swept out like a sob to the sea;
The voice of the treacherous storm-king, as mourning for them he had slain;
O cruel and blood-thirsty tempest! your false tears are shed all in vain!
Beneath the dread roof of this ruin your sad victims nestle and creep;
They hear not the voices that call them; if they come, they will come in their sleep.
No word can they tell of their terror, no step of the dark route retrace,
Unless their sad story be written upon the white page of the face.
Perchance that may speak of their anguish when first came the crash of despair;
The long-drawn suspense of the instant they plunged through the shuddering air;
The life-panoramas that flitted swift past them, with duties undone;
The brave fight for life in a battle that strong death already had won;
The half stifled shouting of anguish the aid of high Heaven to implore;
The last patient pang of submission, when effort was ended and o'er.

But, tempest, a bright star in heaven a message of comfort sends back,
And draws our dim glances to skyward, away from thy laurels of black:
Thank God that whatever the darkness that covers his creature's dim sight,
He always vouchsafes some deliverance, throws some one a sweet ray of light;
Thank God that the strength of his goodness from dark depths ascended on high,
And carried the souls of the suffering away to the realms of the sky;

Thank God that his well-tempered mercy came down with the clouds from above,
And saved one from out the destruction, and him by the angel of love.

V.

What mind-smith who can trace the subtle links
That join a man's ideas, when he thinks?
Given the thought by which he's pleased or vexed,
Who can predict what one will strike him next?
Given a memory, who can tell us all
The other memories that its voice may call?
Given a fancy, who betimes can read
What other unlike fancies it may breed?
Given a fact, who surely can foreknow
What distant relatives may come and go?
Beneath our thoughts, thoughts hidden thickly teem;
Each mind is but a stream above a stream.
Given a story, what dissimilar one
May 't not remind you of before 'tis done!
Scarce had the Scotchman's tale been fairly told,
When a quaint farmer, wrinkled but not old,
Hastened to execute a cross-leg change,
And with no consciousness of seeming strange,
Leaped from the thought-depths that had him immersed,
His conversational puff-ball sharply burst,
Contributing, with countenance severe,
These notes, from his pecuniary career,
As if the average listener it might strike,
That the two tales were sing'larly alike:

[THE LIGHTNING-ROD DISPENSER.]

Which this railroad smash reminds me, in an underhanded way,
Of a lightning-rod dispenser that came down on me one day;
Oiled to order in his motions—sanctimonious in his mien—
Hands as white as any baby's, an' a face unnat'ral clean;
Not a wrinkle had his raiment, teeth and linen glittered white,
And his new-constructed neck-tie was an interestin' sight!

Which I almost wish a razor had made red that white-skinned throat,
And that new-constructed neck-tie had composed a hangman's knot,
Ere he brought his sleek-trimmed carcass for my woman-folks to see,
And his buzz-saw tongue a-runnin' for to gouge a gash in me!

Still I couldn't help but like him—as I fear I al'ays must,
The gold o' my own doctrines in a fellow-heap o' dust;
For I saw that my opinions, when I fired 'em round by round,
Brought back an answerin' volley of a mighty similar sound.
I touched him on religion, and the joys my heart had known:
And I found that he had very similar notions of his own!
I told him of the doubtings that made sad my boyhood years:
Why, he'd laid awake till morning with that same old breed of fears!
I pointed up the pathway that I hoped to Heaven to go:
He was on that very ladder, only just a round below!
Our politics was different, and at first he galled and winced;
But I arg'ed him so able, he was very soon convinced.

And 'twas gettin' tow'rd the middle of a hungry Summer day—
There was dinner on the table, and I asked him, would he stay?
And he sat him down among us—everlastin' trim and neat—
And he asked a short crisp blessin' almost good enough to eat!
Then he fired up on the mercies of our Everlastin' Friend,
Till he gi'n The Lord Almighty a good first-class recommend;
And for full an hour we listened to that sugar-coated scamp—
Talkin' like a blesséd angel—eatin' like a blasted tramp!

My wife—she liked the stranger, smiling on him, warm and sweet;
(It al'ays flatters women when their guests are on the eat!)
And he hinted that some ladies never lose their youthful charms,
And caressed her yearlin' baby, an' received it in his arms.
My sons and daughters liked him—for he had progressive views,
And he chewed the cud o' fancy, and gi'n down the latest news;
And I couldn't help but like him—as I fear I al'ays must,
The gold of my own doctrines in a fellow-heap o' dust.

He was chiselin' desolation through a piece of apple-pie,
When he paused an' gazed upon us, with a tear in his off-eye,

And said, “Oh happy family!—your joys they make me sad!
They all the time remind me of the dear ones once I had!
A babe as sweet as this one; a wife almost as fair;
A little girl with ringlets—like that one over there.
But had I not neglected the means within my way,
Then they might still be living, and loving me to-day.

“One night there came a tempest; the thunder-peals were dire;
The clouds that marched above us were shooting bolts of fire;
In my own house I lying, was thinking, to my blame,
How little I had guarded against those bolts of flame,
When crash!—through roof and ceiling the deadly lightning cleft,
And killed my wife and children, and only I was left!

“Since then afar I've wandered, and naught for life have cared,
Save to save others' loved ones whose lives have yet been spared;
Since then, it is my mission, where'er by sorrow tossed,
To sell to worthy people good lightning-rods at cost.
With sure and strong protection I'll clothe your buildings o'er;
'Twill cost you—twenty dollars (perhaps a trifle more;
Whatever else it comes to, at lowest price I'll put;
You simply sign a contract to pay so much per foot).”

I—signed it! while my family, all approvin', stood about;
The villain dropped a tear on 't—but he didn't blot it out!
That self-same day, with wagons came some rascals great and small;
They hopped up on my buildin's just as if they owned 'em all;
They hewed 'em and they hacked 'em—ag'in' my loud desires—
They trimmed 'em off with gewgaws, and they bound 'em down with wires;
They hacked 'em and they hewed 'em, and they hewed and hacked 'em still,
And every precious minute kep' a runnin' up the bill.

To find my soft-spoke neighbor, did I rave and rush an' run:
He was suppin' with a neighbor, just a few miles further on.
“Do you think,” I loudly shouted, “that I need a mile o' wire,
For to save each separate hay-cock out o' heaven's consumin' fire?
Did you think, to keep my buildin's out o' some uncertain harm,
I was goin' to deed you over all the balance of my farm?”

He silenced me with silence in a very little while,
And then trotted out the contract with a reassuring smile;
And for half an hour explained it, with exasperatin' skill,
While his myrmurdums kep' probably a-runnin' up my bill.
He held me to that contract with a firmness queer to see;
'Twas the very first occasion he had disagreed with me!
And for that 'ere thunder story, ere the rascal finally went,
I paid two hundred dollars, if I paid a single cent.

And if any lightnin'-rodist wants a dinner-dialogue
With the restaurant department of an enterprisin' dog,

Let him set his mouth a-runnin', just inside my outside gate;
And I'll bet two hundred dollars that he don't have long to wait.

VI.

“Time to shut up,” the lean store-keeper said:
“It's time that honest folks should be in bed.
And all this crowd I honest hold to be,
And penniless, so far as I can see;
If there's a cent here, it's well out of sight;
My cash-box has not seen it; friends, good-night!”