 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
Who wouldn't rejoice, after journey like mine,
To get where his features could soften and shine?
Tho' rough be his welcome,—his company be
Bar-room haunting idlers, of every degree,
He knows he can learn, if he isn't a fool,
Something new in each class of humanity's school.
To get where his features could soften and shine?
Tho' rough be his welcome,—his company be
Bar-room haunting idlers, of every degree,
He knows he can learn, if he isn't a fool,
Something new in each class of humanity's school.
The host I judged Dutch, or of Dutch-land descent,
For he smoked when he sat, and he smoked when he went;
Descended, perhaps, from some lofty old Van,
But shook-down and dumpy descended the man,
Shut into himself like a telescope slide,
And longitude covered by latitude wide.
Kind-hearted he seemed, and appeared to aspire
To make his guests happy, and keep a good fire.
That fire! it was one of the old-fashioned kind,
Like those in the back-wooded country we find;
By those that were lit by our sires on the hearth,
The focus of comfort, good cheer and of mirth.
That fire as it flickered and blazed up the flue,
Lit scenes that Will Mount with his easel should view;
For the rain of the day and the night's foggy weather
Set the “birds of a feather” to flocking together.
The wit of the hamlet, o'er lazy for work;
The rough mountain hind talked of taters and pork;
The blacksmith talked learned in things of his line;
The miller, all “tight” as a hard knot in twine;
The doctor, who managed, by hook or by crook,
To be pretty well “smashed,” and yet dignified look;
The greenhorn as gawky as gawky could be,—
Not green as he thought, but oh! verdant was he;
And a certain old fellow they called “Uncle Mose,”
Very queer in his countenance, queer in his clothes,
Who sat in one corner, his feet on the jamb,
And listened to all, but kept mum as a clam.
A hot iron poker lay red in the coals,
Suggestive of flip and of rollicking souls,
And I made up my mind by an inference fair,
That the law made in Maine never troubled them there.
For he smoked when he sat, and he smoked when he went;
Descended, perhaps, from some lofty old Van,
But shook-down and dumpy descended the man,
Shut into himself like a telescope slide,
And longitude covered by latitude wide.
Kind-hearted he seemed, and appeared to aspire
To make his guests happy, and keep a good fire.
That fire! it was one of the old-fashioned kind,
Like those in the back-wooded country we find;
By those that were lit by our sires on the hearth,
The focus of comfort, good cheer and of mirth.
72
Lit scenes that Will Mount with his easel should view;
For the rain of the day and the night's foggy weather
Set the “birds of a feather” to flocking together.
The wit of the hamlet, o'er lazy for work;
The rough mountain hind talked of taters and pork;
The blacksmith talked learned in things of his line;
The miller, all “tight” as a hard knot in twine;
The doctor, who managed, by hook or by crook,
To be pretty well “smashed,” and yet dignified look;
The greenhorn as gawky as gawky could be,—
Not green as he thought, but oh! verdant was he;
And a certain old fellow they called “Uncle Mose,”
Very queer in his countenance, queer in his clothes,
Who sat in one corner, his feet on the jamb,
And listened to all, but kept mum as a clam.
A hot iron poker lay red in the coals,
Suggestive of flip and of rollicking souls,
And I made up my mind by an inference fair,
That the law made in Maine never troubled them there.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |