CASSANDER
“Cassander! O Cassander!”—her mother's voice seems cle'r
As ever, from the old back-porch, a-hollerin' fer her—
Especially in airly Spring—like May, two year' ago—
Last time she hollered fer her,—and Cassander didn't hear!
Cassander was so chirpy-like and sociable and free,
And good to ever'body, and wuz even good to me
Though I wuz jes' a common—well, a farm-hand, don't you know,
A-workin' on her father's place, as pore as pore could be!
Her bein' jes' a' only child, Cassander had her way
A good-'eal more'n other girls; and neighbers ust to say
She looked most like her Mother, but wuz turned most like her Pap,—
Except he had no use fer town-folks then—ner yit to-day!
I can't claim she incouraged me: She'd let me drive her in
To town sometimes, on Saturd'ys, and fetch her home ag'in,
Tel onc't she 'scused “Old Moll” and me,—and some blame' city-chap,
He driv her home, two-forty style, in face o' kith-and-kin.
She even tried to make him stay fer supper, but I 'low
He must 'a' kind o' 'spicioned some objections.—Anyhow,
Her mother callin' at her, whilst her father stood and shook
His fist,—the town-chap turnt his team and made his partin' bow.
“Cassander! You, Cassander!”—hear her mother jes' as plain,
And see Cassander blushin' like the peach tree down the lane,
Whilse I sneaked on apast her, with a sort o' hang-dog look,
A-feelin' cheap as sorghum and as green as sugarcane!
(You see, I'd skooted when she met her town-beau—when, in fact,
Ef I'd had sense I'd stayed fer her.—But sense wuz what I lacked!
So I'd cut home ahead o' her, so's I could tell 'em what
Wuz keepin' her. And—you know how a jealous fool'll act!)
I past her, I wuz sayin',—but she never turnt her head;
I swallered-like and cle'red my th'oat—but that wuz all I said;
And whilse I hoped fer some word back, it wuzn't what I got.—
That girl'll not stay stiller on the day she's layin' dead!
Well, that-air silence lasted!—Ust to listen ever' day
I'd be at work and hear her mother callin' thataway;
I'd sight Cassander, mayby, cuttin' home acrost the blue
And drizzly fields; but nary answer—nary word to say!
Putt in about two weeks o' that—two weeks o' rain and mud,
Er mostly so: I couldn't plow. The old crick like a flood:
And, lonesome as a borried dog, I'd wade them old woods through—
The dogwood blossoms white as snow, and redbuds red as blood.
Last time her mother called her—sich a morning like as now:
The robins and the bluebirds, and the blossoms on the bough—
And this wuz yit 'fore brekfust, with the sun out at his best,
And hosses kickin' in the barn—and dry enough to plow.
“Cassander! O Cassander!” ... And her only answer—What?—
A letter, twisted round the cook-stove damper, smokin'-hot,
A-statin': “I wuz married on that day of all the rest,
The day my husband fetched me home—ef you ain't all fergot!”
“Cassander! O Cassander!” seems, allus, 'long in May,
I hear her mother callin' her—a-callin', night and day—
“Cassander! O Cassander!” allus callin', as I say,
“Cassander; O Cassander!” jes' a-callin' thataway.
