Farm legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

FARM LEGENDS.

THE SCHOOL-MASTER'S GUESTS.

I.

The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk,
Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque.

As whisper the half-leafless branches, when Autumn's brisk breezes have come,
His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum;

Like the frequent sharp bang of a wagon, when treading a forest path o'er,
Resounded the feet of his pupils, whenever their heels struck the floor.

There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth;
And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth;

There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom;
And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room:

With a countenance grave—as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed—on a pin,
Queer-bent on a deeply laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin.

There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into the brain,
Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting a train.

There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate,
And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate,

And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist,
As to say, “I could whip you, confound you! if sums could be done with my fist!”

There were two pretty girls in the corner, each one with some cunning possessed,
In a whisper discussing a problem: which one the young master liked best!

A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains,
How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;

And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood,
Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the task all he could.

II.

Around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath,
With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath;

A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair,
Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair;

There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in search of their prey;
Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day;

The square stove it puffed and it thundered, and broke out in red-flaming sores,
Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out-o'-doors;

White snow-flakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks;
And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing their backs.

III.

Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er,
And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door;

And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row,
And stood themselves up by the hot fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow;

And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad,
Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had:

“We've come here, school-master, intendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round,
Concarnin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found;
To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about;
An' see if it's payin' to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out.

“The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read:
You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need;
You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han',
An' you turn a stray g in their doin's, an' tack an odd d on their an'.
There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see,
Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be.

An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto last;
It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past.
Whatever is done as to redin', providin' things goes to my say,
Sha'n't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way.”

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And nodded obliquely, and muttered, “Them 'ere is my sentiments tew.”

“Then, as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by them as has looked into this,
That you turn the u out o' your labour, an' make the word shorter than 'tis;
An' clip the k off o' yer musick, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed,
An' when he spells out as he used ter, you pass the word on to the next.
They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters along;
But if it is so, just depend on't, them new-grafted books is made wrong.
You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about war,
As to say that the old-fashioned teachers didn't know what them letters was for!”

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said, “Them's my sentiments tew.”

“Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me,
Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three;
An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please,
With saw-bucks an' crosses and pot-hooks, an' w's, x, y's, and z's.
We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reached
By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached.”

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said, “Them's my sentiments tew.”

“Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day:
Concernin' some words in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say.
My gals is as steady as clock-work, an' never give cause for much fear,
But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talkin' such stuff as this here:
‘I love,’ an' ‘Thou lovest,’ an' ‘He loves,’ an' ‘Ye love,’ an' ‘You love,’ an' ‘They—’
An' they answered my questions, ‘It's grammar’—'twas all I could get 'em to say.
Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so
As to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that I want to know;—”

IV.

Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening before,
Had well-nigh unjointed the stove-pipe, to make it come down on the floor;

And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had said,
A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head.

The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place,
And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the face.

The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books,
And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' looks;

And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue;
And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say, “Them's my sentiments tew.”

THREE LINKS OF A LIFE.

I.

A word went over the hills and plains
Of the scarce-hewn fields that the Tiffin drains,
Through dens of swamps and jungles of trees,
As if it were borne by the buzzing bees
As something sweet for the sons of men;
Or as if the blackbird and the wren
Had lounged about each ragged clearing
To gossip it in the settlers' hearing;
Or the partridge drum-corps of the wood
Had made the word by mortals heard,
And Diana made it understood;
Or the loud-billed hawk of giant sweep
Were told it as something he must keep;

As now, in the half-built city of Lane,
Where the sons of the settlers strive for gain,
Where the Indian trail is graded well,
And the anxious ring of the engine-bell
And the Samson Steam's deep, stuttering word
And the factory's dinner-horn are heard;
Where burghers fight, in friendly guise,
With spears of bargains and shields of lies;
Where the sun-smoked farmer, early a-road,
Rides into the town his high-built load
Of wood or wool, or corn or wheat,
And stables his horses in the street;—
It seems as to each and every one
A deed were known ere it well be done,

As if, in spite of roads or weather,
All minds were whispering together;
So over the glens and rough hill-sides
Of the fruitful land where the Tiffin glides,
Went the startling whisper, clear and plain,
“There's a new-born baby over at Lane!”

Now any time, from night till morn,
Or morn till night, for a long time-flight,
Had the patient squaws their children borne;
And many a callow, coppery wight
Had oped his eyes to the tree-flecked light,
And grown to the depths of the woodland dell
And the hunt of the toilsome hills as well
As though at his soul a bow were slung,
And a war-whoop tattooed on his tongue;
But never before, in the Tiffin's sight,
Had a travail bloomed with a blossom of white.

And the fire-tanned logger no longer pressed
His yoke-bound steeds and his furnace fire;
And the gray-linked log-chain drooped to rest,
And a hard face softened with sweet desire;
And the settler-housewife, rudely wise,
With the forest's shrewdness in her eyes,
Yearned, with tenderly wondering brain,
For the new-born baby over at Lane.

And the mother lay in her languid bed,
When the flock of visitors had fled—
When the crowd of settlers all had gone,
And left the young lioness alone
With the tiny cub they had come to see
In the rude-built log menagerie;
When grave Baw Beese, the Indian chief,
As courtly as ever prince in his prime,
Or cavalier of the olden time,
Making his visit kind as brief,
Had beaded the neck of the pale-face miss,

And dimpled her cheek with a farewell kiss;
When the rough-clad room was still as sleek,
Save the deaf old nurse's needle-click,
The beat of the grave clock in its place,
With its ball-tipped tail and owl-like face,
And the iron tea-kettle's droning song
Through its Roman nose so black and long,
The mother lifted her baby's head,
And gave it a clinging kiss, and said:

Why did thou come so straight to me,
Thou queer one?
Thou might have gone where riches be,
Thou dear one!
For when 'twas talked about in heaven,
To whom the sweet soul should be given,
If thou had raised thy pretty voice,
God sure had given to thee a choice,
My dear one, my queer one!

“Babe in the wood” thou surely art,
My lone one:
But thou shalt never play the part,
My own one!
Thou ne'er shalt wander up and down,
With none to claim thee as their own:
Nor shall the Redbreast, as she grieves,
Make up for thee a bed of leaves,
My own one, my lone one!

Although thou be not Riches' flower,
Thou neat one,
Yet thou hast come from Beauty's bower,
Thou sweet one!
Thy every smile's as warm and bright
As if a diamond mocked its light;
Thy every tear's as pure a pearl
As if thy father was an earl,
Thou neat one, thou sweet one!

And thou shalt have a queenly name,
Thou grand one:
A lassie's christening's half her fame,
Thou bland one!
And may thou live so good and true,
The honor will but be thy due;
And friends shall never be ashamed,
Or when or where they hear thee named,
Thou bland one, thou grand one!

E'en like the air—our rule and sport—
Thou meek one,
Thou art my burden and support,
Thou weak one!
Like manna in the wilderness,
A joy hath come to soothe and bless;
But 'tis a sorrow unto me,
To love as I am loving thee,
Thou weak one, thou meek one!

The scarlet-coated child-thief waits,
Thou bright one,
To bear thee through the sky-blue gates,
Thou light one!
His feverish touch thy brow may pain,
And while I to my sad lips strain
The sheath of these bright-beaming eyes,
The blade may flash back to the skies,
Thou light one, thou bright one!

And if thou breast the morning storm,
Thou fair one,
And gird a woman's thrilling form,
Thou rare one:
Sly hounds of sin thy path will trace,
And on thy unsuspecting face
Hot lust will rest its tarnished eyes,
And thou wilt need be worldly-wise,
Thou rare one, thou fair one!

O that the heaven that smiles to-day,
My blest one,
May give thee light to see thy way,
My best one!
That when around thee creeps The Gloom,
The gracious God will call thee home,
And then, increased a hundredfold,
Thou proudly hand Him back His gold,
My best one, my blest one!

II.

A word went over the many miles
Of the well-tilled land where the Tiffin smiles,
And sought no youthful ear in vain:
“There's a wedding a-coming off at Lane!”

They stood in the shade of the western door—
Father, mother, and daughter one—
And gazed, as they oft had gazed before,
At the downward glide of the western sun.
The rays of his never-jealous light
Made even the cloud that dimmed him bright;
And lower he bent, and kissed, as he stood,
The lips of the distant blue-eyed wood.

And just as the tired sun bowed his head,
The sun-browned farmer sighed, and said:

And so you'll soon be goin' away,
My darling little Bess;
And you ha' been to the store to-day,
To buy your weddin'-dress;

And so your dear good mother an' I,
Whose love you long have known,
Must lay the light o' your presence by,
And walk the road alone.

So come to-night, with mother and me,
To the porch for an hour or two,
And sit on your old father's knee,
And talk, as we used to do;

For we, who ha' loved you many a year,
And clung to you, strong and true,
Since we've had the young Professor here,
Have not had much of you!

But lovers be lovers, while earth endures;
And once on a time, be it known,
I helped a girl with eyes like yours
Construct a world of our own;

And we laid it out in a garden spot,
And dwelt in the midst of flowers;
Till we found that the world was a good-sized lot,
And most of it wasn't ours!

You're heavier, girl, than when you come
To us one cloudy day,
And seemed to feel so little at home,
We feared you wouldn't stay;

Till I knew the danger was passed, because
You'd struck so mortal a track,
And got so independent an' cross,
God never would let you back!

But who would ever ha' had the whim,
When you lay in my arms an' cried,
You'd some day sit here, pretty an' prim,
A-waitin' to be a bride!

But lovers be lovers, while earth goes on,
And marry, as they ought;
And if you would keep the love you've won,
Remember what you've been taught:

Look first that your wedded lives be true,
With naught from the other apart;
For the flowers of true love never grew
In the soil of a faithless heart.

Look next that the buds of health shall rest
Their blossoms upon your cheek;
For life and love are a burden at best,
If the body be sick and weak.

Look next that your kitchen fire be bright,
And your hands be neat and skilled;
For the love of man oft takes its flight,
If his stomach be not well filled!

Look next that your money is fairly earned,
Ere ever it be spent;
For comfort and love, however turned,
Will ne'er pay six per cent.

And, next, due care and diligence keep
That the mind be trained and fed;
For blessings ever look shabby and cheap,
That light on an empty head.

And if it shall please the gracious God
That children to you belong,
Remember, my child, and spare the rod
Till you've taught them right and wrong;

And show 'em, that though this life's a start
For the better world, no doubt,
Yet earth an' heaven ain't so far apart
As many good folks make out!

III.

A word went over the broad hill-sweeps
Of the listening land where the Tiffin creeps:

“She married, holding on high her head;
But the groom was false as the vows he said;
With lies and crimes his days are checked;
The girl is alone, and her life is wrecked.”

The midnight rested its heavy arm
Upon the grief-encumbered farm;
And hoarse-voiced Sorrow wandered at will,
Like a moan when the summer's night is still,
And the spotted cows, with bellies of white,
And well-filled teats all crowded awry,
Stood in the black stalls of the night,
Nor herded nor milked, and wondered why.
And the house was gloomy, still, and cold;
And the hard-palmed farmer, newly old,
Sat in an unfrequented place,
Hiding e'en from the dark his face;
And a solemn silence rested long
On all, save the cricket's dismal song.

But the mother drew the girl to her breast,
And gave to her spirit words of rest:

Come to my lap, my wee-grown baby; rest you upon my knee;
You have been traveling toward the light, and drawing away from me;
You turned your face from my dark path to catch the light o' the sun,
And 'tis no more nor less, my child, than children ever have done.
So you joined hands with one you loved, when we to the cross-road came,
And went your way, as Heaven did say, and who but Heaven to blame?

You must not weep that he you chose was all the time untrue,
Or stab with hate the man whose heart you thought was made for you.
The love God holds for your bright soul is more to get and give
Than all the love of all of the men while He may bid them live.
So let your innocence stanch the wound made by another's guilt;
For Vengeance' blade was ever made with neither guard nor hilt!

Who will avenge you, darling? The sun that shines on high.
He will paint the picture of your wrongs before the great world's eye.
He will look upon your sweet soul, in its pure mantle of white,
Till it shine upon your enemies, and dazzle all their sight.
He'll come each day to point his finger at him who played the knave;
And 'tis denied from him to hide, excepting in the grave.

Who will avenge you, darling? Your sister, the sky above.
Each cloud she floats above you shall be a token of love;
She will bend o'er you at night-fall her pure broad breast of blue,
And every gem that glitters there shall flash a smile to you.
And all her great wide distances to your good name belong;
'Tis not so far from star to star as 'twixt the right and wrong!

Who will avenge you, darling? All the breezes that blow.
They will whisper to each other your tale of guiltless woe;
The perfumes that do load them your innocence shall bless,
And they will soothe your aching brow with pitying, kind caress.
They will sweep away the black veil that hangs about your fame:
There is no cloud that long can shroud a virtuous woman's name.

Who will avenge you, darling? The one who proved untrue.
His memory must undo him, whate'er his will may do;

The pitch-black night will come when he must meet Remorse alone;
He will rush at your avenging as if it were his own.
His every sin is but a knot that yet shall hold him fast;
For guilty hands but twine the strands that fetter them at last.

Lay thee aside thy grief, darling!—lay thee aside thy grief!
And Happiness will cheer thee beyond all thy belief!
As oft as winter comes summer, as sure as night comes day,
And as swift as sorrow cometh, so swift it goeth away!
E'en in your desolation you are not quite unblest:
Not all who choose may count their woes upon a mother's breast.

ROB, THE PAUPER.

I.

Rob, the Pauper, is loose again.
Through the fields and woods he races.
He shuns the women, he beats the men,
He kisses the children's frightened faces.
There is no mother he hath not fretted;
There is no child he hath not petted;
There is no house, by road or lane,
He did not tap at the window-pane,
And make more dark the dismal night,
And set the faces within with white.

Rob, the Pauper, is wild of eye,
Wild of speech, and wild of thinking;
Over his forehead broad and high,
Each with each wild locks are linking.
Yet, there is something in his bearing
Not quite what a pauper should be wearing:
In every step is a shadow of grace;
The ghost of a beauty haunts his face;
The rags half-sheltering him to-day,
Hang not on him in a beggarly way.

Rob, the Pauper, is crazed of brain:
The world is a lie to his shattered seeming.
No woman is true unless insane;
No man but is full of lecherous scheming.
Woe to the wretch, of whate'er calling,
That crouches beneath his cudgel's falling!
Pity the wife, howe'er high-born,
Who wilts beneath his words of scorn!
But youngsters, he caresses as wild
As a mother would kiss a rescued child.

He hath broke him loose from his poor-house cell;
He hath dragged him clear from rope and fetter.
They might have thought; for they know full well
They could keep a half-caged panther better.
Few are the knots so strategy-shunning
That they can escape his maniac cunning;
Many a stout bolt strives in vain
To bar his brawny shoulders' strain;
The strongest men in town agree
That the Pauper is good for any three.

He hath crossed the fields, the woods, the street:
He hides in the swamp his wasted feature;
The frog leaps over his bleeding feet;
The turtle crawls from the frightful creature.
The loud mosquito, hungry-flying,
For his impoverished blood is crying;
The scornful hawk's loud screaming sneer
Falls painfully upon his ear;
And close to his unstartled eye,
The rattlesnake creeps noisily by.

He hath fallen into a slough of sleep;
A haze of the past bends softly o'er him;
His restless spirit a watch doth keep,
As Memory's canvas glides before him.
Through slumber's distances he travels;
The tangled skein of his mind unravels;
The bright past dawns through a cloud of dreams,
And once again in his prime he seems;
For over his heart's lips, as a kiss,
Sweepeth a vision like to this:

A cozy kitchen, a smooth-cut lawn,
A zephyr of flowers in the bright air straying;
A graceful child, as fresh as dawn,
Upon the greensward blithely playing;
Himself on the door-stone idly sitting,
A blonde-haired woman about him flitting.

She dreamily stands beside him there,
And deftly toys with his coal-black hair,
And hovers about him with her eyes,
And whispers to him, pleading-wise:

O Rob, why will you plague my heart? why will you try me so?
Is she so fair, is she so sweet, that you must need desert me?
I saw you kiss her twice and thrice behind the maple row,
And each caress you gave to her did like a dagger hurt me.
Why should for her and for her smiles your heart a moment hunger?
What though her shape be trim as mine, her face a trifle younger?
She does not look so young to you as I when we were wed;
She can not speak more sweet to you than words that I have said;
She can not love you half so well as I, when all is done;
And she is not your wedded wife—the mother of your son.

O Rob, you smile and toss your head; you mock me in your soul;
You say I would be overwise—that I am jealous of you;
And what if my tight-bended heart should spring beyond control?
My jealous tongue but tells the more the zeal with which I love you.
Oh, we might be so peaceful here, with nothing of reproving!
Oh, we might be so happy here, with none to spoil our loving!
Why should a joy be more a joy because, forsooth, 'tis hid?
How can a kiss be more a kiss because it is forbid?
Why should the love you get from her be counted so much gain,
When every smile you give to her but adds unto my pain?

O Rob, you say there is no guilt betwixt the girl and you:
Do you not know how slack of vows may break the bond that's dearest?
You twirl a plaything in your hand, not minding what you do,
And first you know it flies from you, and strikes the one that's nearest.
So do not spoil so hopelessly you ne'er may cease your ruing;
The finger-post of weakened vows points only to undoing.
Remember there are years to come, and there are thorns of woe
That you may grasp if once you let the flowers of true love go;
Remember the increasing bliss of marriage undefiled;
Remember all the pride or shame that waits for yonder child!

II.

Rob, the Pauper, awakes and runs;
A clamor cometh clear and clearer.
They are hunting him with dogs and guns;
They are every moment pressing nearer.
Through pits of stagnant pools he pushes,
Through the thick sumac's poison-bushes;
He runs and stumbles, leaps and clambers,
Through the dense thicket's breathless chambers.
The swamp-slime stains at his bloody tread;
The tamarack branches rasp his head;

From bog to bog, and from slough to slough,
He flees, but his foes come yelling nearer;
And ever unto his senses now,
The long-drawn bay of the hounds is clearer.
He is worn and worried, hot and panting;
He staggers at every footstep's planting;
The hot blood races through his brain;
His every breath is a twinge of pain;
Black shadows dance before his eyes;
The echoes mock his agony-cries.

They have hunted him to the open field;
He is falling upon their worn-out mercies.
They loudly call to him to yield;
He hoarsely pays them back in curses.
His blood-shot eye is wildly roaming;
His firm-set mouth with rage is foaming;
He waves his cudgel, with war-cry loud,
And dares the bravest of the crowd.
There springs at his throat a hungry hound;
He dashes its brains into the ground.

Rob, the Pauper, is sorely pressed;
The men are crowding all around him.
He crushes one to a bloody rest,
And breaks again from the crowd that bound him.

The crash of a pistol comes unto him—
A well-sped ball goes crushing through him;
But still he rushes on—yet on—
Until, at last, some distance won,
He mounts a fence with a madman's ease,
And this is something of what he sees:

A lonely cottage, some tangled grass,
Thickets of thistles, dock, and mullein;
A forest of weeds he scarce can pass,
A broken chimney, cold and sullen;
Trim housewife-ants, with rush uncertain,
The spider hanging her gauzy curtain.
The Pauper falls on the dusty floor,
And there rings in his failing ear once more
A voice as it might be from the dead,
And says, as it long ago hath said:

O Rob, I have a word to say—a cruel word—to you:
I can not longer live a lie—the truth for air is calling!
I can not keep the secret locked that long has been your due,
Not if you strike me to the ground, and spurn me in my falling!
He came to me when first a cloud across your smile was creeping—
He came to me—he brought to me a slighted heart for keeping;
He would not see my angry frown; he sought me, day by day;
I flung at him hot words of scorn, I turned my face away.
I bade him dread my husband's rage when once his words were known:
He smiled at me, and said I had no husband of my own!

O Rob, his words were overtrue! they burned into my brain!
I could not rub them out again, were I awake or sleeping!
I saw you kiss her twice and thrice—my chidings were in vain—
And well I knew your wayward heart had wandered from my keeping.
I counted all that was at stake—I bribed my pride with duty;
I knelt before your manly face, in worship of its beauty;
I painted pictures for your eyes you were too blind to see;
I worked at all the trades of love, to earn you back to me;
I threw myself upon your heart; I pleaded long to stay;
I held my hands to you for help—you pushed them both away!

He came to me again; he held his eager love to me—
To me, whose weak and hungry heart deep desolation dreaded!
And I had learned to pity him; but still my will was free,
And once again I threatened him, and warned him I was wedded.
He bade me follow him, and see my erring fancy righted:
We crept along a garden glade by moonbeams dimly lighted;
She silent sat 'mid clustering vines, though much her eyes did speak,
And your black hair was tightly pressed unto her glowing cheek. ...
It crazed me, but he soothed me sweet with love's unnumbered charms;
I, desolate, turned and threw myself into his desolate arms!

O Rob, you know how little worth, when once a woman slips,
May be the striking down a hand to save herself from falling!
Once more my heart groped for your heart, my tired lips sought your lips;
But 'twas too late—'twas after dark—and you were past recalling.
'Tis hard to claim what once is given; my foe was unrelenting;
Vain were the tempests of my rage, the mists of my repenting.
The night was dark, the storm had come, the fancy-stars of youth
Were covered over by the thick unfading cloud of truth;
So one by one my hopes went back, each hid its pale white face,
Till all was dark, and all was drear, and all was black disgrace.

O Rob, good-by; a solemn one!—'tis till the Judgment-day.
You look about you for the boy? You never more shall see him.
He's crying for his father now full many miles away;
For he is mine—you need not rage—you can not find or free him.
We might have been so peaceful here, with nothing of reproving—
We might have been so happy here, with none to spoil our loving—
As I, a guilty one, might kiss a corpse's waiting brow,
I bend to you where you have fallen, and calmly kiss you now;
As I, a wronged and injured one, might seek escape's glad door,
I wander forth into the world, to enter here no more.

III.

Rob, the Pauper, is lying in state.
In a box of rough-planed boards, unpainted,
He waits at the poor-house grave-yard gate,
For a home by human lust untainted.

They are crowding round and closely peering
At the face of the foe who is past their fearing;
The men lift children up to see
The arms of the man who was good for three;
The women gaze and hold their breath,
For the man looks kingly even in death.

They have gone to their homes anear and far—
Their joys and griefs, their loves and hating;
Some to sunder the ties that are,
And some to cooing and wooing and mating.
They will pet and strike, they will strive and blunder,
And leer at their woes with innocent wonder;
They will swiftly sail love's delicate bark,
With never a helm, in the dangerous dark;
They will ne'er quite get it understood
That the Pauper's woes were for their good.

THE THREE LOVERS.

Here's a precept, young man, you should follow with care.
If you're courting a girl, court her honest and square.

Mr. 'Liakim Smith was a hard-fisted farmer,
Of moderate wealth,
And immoderate health,
Who fifty-odd years, in a stub-and-twist armor
Of callus and tan,
Had fought like a man
His own dogged progress, through trials and cares,
And log-heaps and brush-heaps and wild-cats and bears,
And agues and fevers and thistles and briers,
Poor kinsmen, rich foemen, false saints, and true liars;
Who oft, like the “man in our town,” overwise,
Through the brambles of error had scratched out his eyes,
And when the unwelcome result he had seen,
Had altered his notion,
Reversing the motion,
And scratched them both in again, perfect and clean;
Who had weathered some storms, as a sailor might say,
And tacked to the left and the right of his way,
Till he found himself anchored, past tempests and breakers,
Upon a good farm of a hundred-odd acres.

As for 'Liakim's wife, in four words may be told
Her whole standing in life:
She was 'Liakim's wife.
Whereas she'd been young, she was now growing old,
But did, she considered, as well as one could,
When HE looked on her hard work, and saw that 'twas good

The family record showed only a daughter;
But she had a face,
As if each fabled Grace
In a burst of delight to her bosom had caught her,
Or as if all the flowers in each Smith generation
Had blossomed at last in one grand culmination.
Style lingered unconscious in all of her dresses;
She'd starlight for glances, and sunbeams for tresses.
Wherever she went, with her right royal tread,
Each youth, when he'd passed her a bit, turned his head;
And so one might say, though the figure be strained,
She had turned half the heads that the township contained.

Now Bess had a lover—a monstrous young hulk;
A farmer by trade—
Strong, sturdy, and staid;
A man of good parts—if you counted by bulk;
A man of great weight—by the scales; and, indeed,
A man of some depth—as was shown by his feed.
His face was a fat exclamation of wonder;
His voice was not quite unsuggestive of thunder;
His laugh was a cross 'twixt a yell and a chuckle;
He'd a number one foot,
And a number ten boot,
And a knock-down reserved in each separate knuckle.
He'd a heart mad in love with the girl of his choice,
Who made him alternately mope and rejoice,
By dealing him one day discouraging messes,
And soothing him next day with smiles and caresses.

Now Bess had a lover, who hoped her to wed—
A rising young lawyer—more rising than read;
Whose theories all were quite startling; and who,
Like many a chap
In these days of strange hap,
Was living on what he expected to do;
While his landlady thought 'twould have been rather neat
Could he only have learned,
Till some practice was earned,

To subsist upon what he expected to eat.
He was bodily small, howe'er mentally great,
And suggestively less than a hundred in weight.

Now Bess had a lover—young Patrick; a sinner,
And lad of all work,
From the suburbs of Cork,
Who worked for her father, and thought he could win her.
And if Jacob could faithful serve fourteen years through,
And still thrive and rejoice,
For the girl of his choice,
He thought he could play at that game one or two.

Now 'Liakim Smith had a theory hid,
And by egotism fed,
Somewhere up in his head,
That a dutiful daughter should always as bid
Grow old in the service of him who begot her,
Imbibe his beliefs,
Have a care for his griefs,
And faithfully bring him his cider and water.
So, as might be expected, he turned up his nose,
Also a cold shoulder, to Bessie's two beaux;
And finally turned them away from his door,
Forbidding them ever to enter it more;
And detailed young Patrick as kind of a guard,
With orders to keep them both out of the yard.
So Pat took his task, with a treacherous smile,
And bullied the small one,
And dodged the big tall one,
And slyly made love to Miss Bess all the while.

But one evening, when 'Liakim and wife crowned their labors
With praise and entreating
At the village prayer-meeting,
And Patrick had stepped for a while to some neighbor's,
The lawyer had come, in the trimmest of dress,
And, dapper and slim,
And small, e'en for him,

Was holding a session of court with Miss Bess.
And Bess, sly love-athlete, was suited first rate
At a flirtation-mill with this legal light-weight;
And was listening to him, as minutes spun on,
Of pleas he could make,
And of fees he would take,
And of suits that he should, in the future, have won;
When just as the cold, heartless clock counted eight,
Miss Bessie's quick ear caught a step at the gate.
“'Tis mother!” she cried: “oh, go quick, I implore!
But father'll drive 'round and come in the back-door!
You can not escape them, however you turn!
So hide for a while—let me see—in this churn!”

The churn was quite large enough for him to turn in—
Expanded out so,
By machinery to go,
'Twould have done for a dairy-man-Cyclops to churn in.
'Twas fixed for attaching a pitman or lever,
To go by a horse-power—a notion quite clever,
Invented and built by the Irishman, Pat,
Who pleased Mrs. 'Liakim hugely by that.

The lawyer went into the case with much ease,
And hugged the belief
That the cause would be brief,
And settled himself down with hardly a squeeze.
And Bess said, “Keep still, for there's plenty of room.”
And shut down the cover, and left him in gloom.

But scarcely were matters left decently so,
In walked—not her mother,
But—worry and bother!—
The mammoth young farmer, whose first name was Joe.
And he gleefully sung, in a heavy bass tone,
Which came in one note
From the depths of his throat,
“I'm glad I have come, since I've found you alone.
Let's sit here a while, by this kerosene light,

An' spark it a while now with all of our might.”
And Bessie was willing; and so they sat down,
The maiden so fair and the farmer so brown.
They talked of things great, and they talked of things small,
Which none could condemn,
And which may have pleased them,
But which did not interest the lawyer at all;
And Bessie seemed giving but little concern
To the feelings of him she had shut in the churn.

Till Bessie just artlessly mentioned the man,
And Joe with a will to abuse him began,
And called him full many an ignoble name,
Appertaining to “Scrubby,”
And “Shorty,” and “Stubby,”
And other descriptions not wide of the same;
And Bessie said naught in the lawyer's behalf,
But seconded Joe, now and then, with a laugh;
And the lawyer said nothing, but winked at his fate,
And, somewhat abashed,
And decidedly dashed,
Accepted Joe's motions sans vote or debate.
And several times he, with policy stern,
Repressed a desire to break out of the churn,
Well knowing he thus might get savagely used,
And if not quite eaten,
Would likely be beaten,
And probably injured as well as abused.

But now came another quick step at the door,
And Bessie was fearful, the same as before;
And tumbling Joe over a couple of chairs,
With a general sound
Of thunder all 'round,
She hurried him up a short pair of back-stairs;
And close in the garret condemned him to wait
Till orders from her, be it early or late.
Then tripping her way down the staircase, she said.
“I'll smuggle them off when the folks get to bed.”

It was not her parents; 'twas crafty young Pat,
Returned from his visit; and straightway he sat
Beside her, remarking, The chairs were in place,
So he would sit near her, and view her sweet face.
So gayly they talked, as the minutes fast flew,
Discussing such matters as both of them knew,
While often Miss Bessie's sweet laugh answered back,
For Pat, be it known,
Had some wit of his own,

And in irony's efforts was sharp as a tack.
And finally Bessie his dancing tongue led,
By a sly dextrous turn,
To the man in the churn,
And the farmer, who eagerly listened o'erhead;
Whereat the young Irishman volubly gave
A short dissertation,
Whose main information
Was that one was a fool, and the other a knave.

Slim chance there must be for the world e'er to learn
How pleasant this was to the man in the churn;

Though, to borrow a figure lent by his position,
He was doubtless in somewhat a worked-up condition.
It ne'er may be sung, and it ne'er may be said,
How well it was liked by the giant o'erhead.
He lay on a joist—for there wasn't any floor—
And the joists were so few,
And so far apart too,
He could not, in comfort, preempt any more;
And he nearly had knocked through the plastering quite,
And challenged young Pat to a fair and square fight;
But he dared not do elsewise than Bessie had said,
For fear, as a lover, he might lose his head.

But now from the meeting the old folks returned,
And sat by the stove as the fire brightly burned;
And Patrick came in from the care of the team;
And since in the house there was overmuch cream,
He thought that the horses their supper might earn,
And leave him full way
To plow early next day,
By working that night for a while at the churn.

The old folks consented; and Patrick went out,
Half chuckling; for he had a shrewd Irish doubt,
From various slight sounds he had chanced to discern,
That Bess had a fellow shut up in that churn.

The lawyer, meanwhile, in his hiding-place cooped,
Low-grunted and hitched and contorted and stooped,
But hung to the place like a man in a dream;
And when the young Irishman went for the team,
To stay or to fly, he could hardly tell which;
But hoping to get
Neatly out of it yet,
He concluded to hang till the very last hitch.

The churn was one side of the house, recollect,
So rods with the horse-power outside could connect;
And Bess stood so near that she took the lamp's gleam in

While her mother was cheerfully pouring the cream in;
Who, being near-sighted, and minding her cup,
Had no notion of what she was covering up;
But the lawyer, meanwhile, had he dared to have spoke,
Would have owned that he saw the whole cream of the joke.

But just as the voice of young Patrick came strong
And clear through the window, “All ready! go 'long!”
And just as the dasher its motion began,
Stirred up by its knocks,
Like a jack-in-the-box
He jumped from his damp, dripping prison—and ran;
And made a frog-leap o'er the stove and a chair,
With some crisp Bible words not intended as prayer.

All over the kitchen he rampaged and tore,
And ran against everything there but the door;
Tipped over old 'Liakim flat on his back,
And left a long trail of rich cream on his track.
“Ou! ou! 'tis a ghost!” quavered 'Liakim's wife;
“A ghost, if I ever saw one in my life!”
“The devil!” roared 'Liakim, rubbing his shin.
“No! no!” shouted Patrick, who just then came in:
“It's only a lawyer: the devil ne'er runs—
To bring on him a laugh—
In the shape of a calf;
It isn't the devil; it's one of his sons!
If so that the spalpeen had words he could utther,
He'd swear he loved Bessie, an' loved no one butther.”

Now Joe lay full length on the scantling o'erhead,
And tried to make out
What it all was about,
By list'ning to all that was done and was said;
But somehow his balance became uncontrolled,
And he on the plastering heavily rolled.
It yielded instanter, came down with a crash,
And fell on the heads of the folks with a smash.
And there his plump limbs through the orifice swung,

And he caught by the arms and disgracefully hung,
His ponderous body, so clumsy and thick,
Wedged into that posture as tight as a brick.
And 'Liakim Smith, by amazement made dumb
At those legs in the air
Hanging motionless there,
Concluded that this time the devil had come;
And seizing a chair, he belabored them well,
While the head pronounced words that no printer would spell.

And there let us leave them, 'mid outcry and clatter,
To come to their wits, and then settle the matter;
And take for the moral this inference fair:
If you're courting a girl, court her honest and square.

THE SONG OF HOME.

“Sing me a song, my Alice, and let it be your choice,
So as you pipe out plainly, and give me the sweet o' your voice;
An' it be not new-fashioned: the new-made tunes be cold,
An' never awake my fancy like them that's good an' old.
Fie on your high-toned gimcracks, with rests an' beats an' points,
Shaking with trills an' quavers—creakin' in twenty joints!
Sing me the good old tunes, girl, that roll right off the tongue,
Such as your mother gave me when she an' I was young.”

So said the Farmer Thompson, smoking his pipe of clay,
Close by his glowing fire-place, at close of a winter day.
He was a lusty fellow, with grizzled beard unshorn,
Hair half combed and flowing, clothing overworn;
Boots of mammoth pattern, with many a patch and rent;
Hands as hard as leather, body with labor bent;
Face of resolution, and lines of pain and care,
Such as the slow world's vanguards are ever doomed to bear;
While from his eyes the yearnings of unemployed desire
Gleamed like the fitful embers of a half-smothered fire.

Alice, the country maiden, with the sweet, loving face,
Sung these words to an old air, with an unstudied grace:

There's nothing like an old tune, when friends are far apart,
To 'mind them of each other, and draw them heart to heart.
New strains across our senses on magic wings may fly,
But there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high.

The scenes we have so oft recalled when once again we view,
Have lost the smile they used to wear, and seem to us untrue;
We gaze upon their faded charms with disappointed eye;
And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high.

We clasp the hands of former friends—we feel again their kiss—
But something that we loved in them, in sorrow now we miss;
For women fade and men grow cold as years go hurrying by;
And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high.

The forest where we used to roam, we find it swept away;
The cottage where we lived and loved, it moulders to decay;
And all that feeds our hungry hearts may wither, fade, and die;
And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high.

“That was well sung, my Alice,” the farmer proudly said,
When the last strain was finished and the last word had fled;
“That is as true as Gospel; and since you've sung so well,
I'll give you a bit of a story you've never heard me tell.

“When the cry o' the axes first through these parts was heard,
I was young and happy, and chipper as a bird;
Fast as a flock o' pigeons the days appeared to fly,
With no one 'round for a six mile except your mother an' I.
Now we are rich, an' no one except the Lord to thank;
Acres of land all 'round us, money in the bank;
But happiness don't stick by me, an' sunshine ain't so true
As when I was five-an'-twenty, with twice enough to do.

“As for the way your mother an' I made livin' go,
Just some time you ask her—of course she ought to know.
When she comes back in the morning from nursing Rogers' wife,
She'll own she was happy in them days as ever in her life.
For I was sweet on your mother;—why should not I be?
She was the gal I had fought for—she was the world to me;
And since we'd no relations, it never did occur
To me that I was a cent less than all the world to her.

“But it is often doubtful which way a tree may fall;
When you are tol'ble certain, you are not sure at all.
When you are overconscious of travelin' right—that day
Look for a warnin' guide-post that points the other way.
For when you are feeling the safest, it very oft falls out
You rush head-foremost into a big bull-thistle o' doubt.

“'Twas in the fall o' '50 that I set out, one day,
To hunt for deer an' turkey, or what came in my way;

And wanderin' through the forest, my home I did not seek,
Until I was gone from the cabin the better part of a week.

“As Saturday's sun was creeping its western ladder down,
I stopped for a bit of supper at the house of Neighbor Brown.
He was no less my neighbor that he lived ten miles away;
For neighborhoods then was different from what they are to-day.

“Now Mrs. Brown was clever—a good, well-meaning soul—
And brought to time exactly things under her control.
By very few misgoings were her perfections marred;
She meant well, with one trouble—she meant it 'most too hard.

“Now when I had passed the time o' day, and laughed at Brown's last jokes,
Nat'rally I asked 'em if they had seen my folks.
Whereat she shrugged her shoulders quite dangerously-wise,
And looked as if a jury was sittin' in her eyes;
And after a prudent silence I thought would never end,
Asked if my wife had a brother, or cousin, or other friend;
For some one, passing my cabin, she'd heard, had lately found
Rather a sleek an' han'some young fellow hanging round;
Of course it was a brother, or somethin' of that sort?
I told her 'twas a brother, and cut my supper short.

“Which same was wrong, as viewed through a strictly moral eye;
But who, to shield his wife's name, wouldn't sometime tell a lie?
'Twas nothing but a lie, girl, and for a lie 'twas meant:
If brothers sold at a million, she couldn't ha' raised a cent.

“Home I trudged in a hurry—who could that fellow be?
Home I trudged in a hurry, bound that I would see;
And when I reached my cabin I thought 'twas only fair
To peep in at the window an' find out what was there.

“A nice, good-fashioned fellow as any in the land
Sat by my wife quite closely, a-holdin' of her hand,
An' whispering something into her willin'-listenin' ear,
Which I should judge by her actions she rather liked to hear.

“Now seeing such singular doin's before my very eyes,
The Devil he came upon me, and took me by surprise;
He put his hand on my mouth, girl, and never a word I said,
But raised my gun an' aimed it straight at the stranger's head.

“Lightly I touched the trigger; I drew a good long breath—
My heart was full o' Satan, my aim was full o' death;
But at that very instant they broke out, clear an' strong,
A-singing, both together, a good old-fashioned song.

“That simple little song, girl, still in my ears does ring;
'Twas one I had coaxed your mother while courting her to sing;
Never a word I remember how any verses goes,
But this is a little ditty that every body knows:
How though about a palace you might forever hang,
You'll never feel so happy as in your own shebang.

“It woke the recollections of happy days an' years—
I slowly dropped my rifle, an' melted into tears.

[OMITTED]

“It was a neighbor's daughter, made on the tomboy plan,
Who, keeping my wife company, had dressed like a spruce young man!
An' full of new-born praises to Him where they belong,
I thanked the Lord for makin' the man who made that good old song!’

PAUL'S RUN OFF WITH THE SHOW.

Jane, 'tis so—it is so!
How can I—his mother—bear it?
Paul's run off with the show!

Put all his things in the garret—
All o' his working gear;
He's never a-going to wear it,
Never again coming here.
If he gets sick, deaf, or blind,
If he falls and breaks his leg,
He can borrow an organ an' grind,
He can hobble about and beg.
Let him run—good luck behind him! ...
I wonder which way they went?
I suppose I might follow an' find him.—
But no! let him keep to his bent!
I'm never a-going to go
For a boy that runs off with the show!

Lay his books up in the chamber;
He never will want them now;
Never did want them much.
He al'ays could run and clamber,
Make somersets on the mow,
Hand-springs, cart-wheels, an' such,
And other profitless turning;
But when it came to learning,
He would always shirk somehow!

I was trimming him out for a preacher,
When he got over being wild

(He was always a sturdy creature—
A sinfully thrifty child);
A Cartwright preacher, perhaps,
As could eat strong boiled dinners,
Talk straight to saucy chaps,
And knock down fightin' sinners;
I told him of all Heaven's mercies,
Raked his sins o'er and o'er,
Made him learn Scripture verses,
Half a thousand or more;
I sung the hymn-book through him.
I whipped the Bible into him,
In grace to make him grow:
What did such training call for?
What did I name him Paul for?—
To have him run off with a show?

All o' the wicked things
That are found in circus rings,
I taught him to abhor 'em;
But he always was crazy for 'em.
I know what such follies be;
For once in my life—woe's me—
Let's see—
'Twas the fall before Paul was born—
I myself was crazy for shows.
How it happened, Goodness knows:
But howe'er it did befall—
Whate'er may ha' been the reason—
For once I went to all
The circuses of the season.
I watched 'em, high an' low,
Painfully try to be jolly;
I laughed at the tricks o' the clown:
I went and saw their folly,
In order to preach it down:
Little enough did I know
That Paul would run off with a show!

What'll they do with the boy?
They'll stand him upon a horse,
To his exceeding joy,
To teach him to ride, of course.
Sakes! he can do that now!
He can whip old Jim to a jump,
And ride upon him standing,
And never get a thump—
Never a bit of harm.
He has trained all the beasts on the farm,

From the ducks to the brindle cow,
To follow his commanding.
Sakes! that it should be so!
Him's I've brought up i' the bosom
Of church, and all things good:
All my pains—I shall lose 'em—
Might have known that I would.
I had hopes beyond my countin',
I had faith as big as a mountain;
But somehow I knew all the while
He'd turn out in some such style—
Always had that fear.

Well, he's never comin' back here.
If he comes to any harm,
If he falls an' sprains his arm,
If he slips and breaks his leg,
He can hobble about an' beg.
He can—Who is that boy out there, Jane,
Skulkin' 'long by the railroad track,
Head an' feet all bare, Jane,
One eye dressed in black?

My boy! Come in! come in!
Come in! come in! come in!
Come in—you sha'n't be hurt.
Come in—you shall rest—you shall rest.
Why, you're all over blood an' dirt!
Did they hurt you?—well, well, it's too bad.
So you thought the old home the best?
You won't run off ag'in?
Well, come in, come in, poor lad;
Come in—come in—come in!

THE KEY TO THOMAS' HEART.

Ride with me, Uncle Nathan?
I don't care an' I do.
My poor old heart's in a hurry; I'm anxious to get through.
My soul outwalks my body; my legs are far from strong;
An' it's mighty kind o' you, doctor, to help the old man along.

I'm some'at full o' hustle; there's business to be done.
I've just been out to the village to see my youngest son.
You used to know him, doctor, ere he his age did get,
An' if I ain't mistaken, you sometimes see him yet.

We took him through his boyhood, with never a ground for fears;
But somehow he stumbled over his early manhood's years.
The landmarks that we showed him, he seems to wander from,
Though in his heart there was never a better boy than Tom.

He was quick o' mind an' body in all he done an' said;
But all the gold he reached for, it seemed to turn to lead.
The devil of grog it caught him, an' held him, though the while
He has never grudged his parents a pleasant word an' smile.

The devil of grog it caught him, an' then he turned an' said,
By that which fed from off him, he henceforth would be fed;
An' that which lived upon him, should give him a livin' o'er;
An' so he keeps that groggery that's next to Wilson's store.

But howsoe'er he's wandered, I've al'ays so far heard
That he had a sense of honor, an' never broke his word;
An' his mother, from the good Lord, she says, has understood
That, if he agrees to be sober, he'll keep the promise good.

An' so when just this mornin' these poor old eyes o' mine
Saw all the women round him, a-coaxin' him to sign,
An' when the Widow Adams let fly a homespun prayer,
An' he looked kind o' wild like, an' started unaware,

An' glanced at her an instant, an' then at his kegs o' rum,
I somehow knew in a minute the turnin'-point had come;
An' he would be as good a man as ever yet there's been,
Or else let go forever, an' sink in the sea of sin.

An' I knew, whatever efforts might carry him or fail,
There was only one could help God to turn the waverin' scale;
An' I skulked away in a hurry—I was bound to do my part—
To get the mother, who carries the key to Thomas' heart.

She's gettin' old an' feeble, an' childish in her talk;
An' we've no horse an' buggy, an' she will have to walk;
But she would be fast to come, sir, the gracious chance to seize,
If she had to crawl to Thomas upon her hands an' knees.

[OMITTED]

Crawl?—walk? No, not if I know it! So set your mind at rest.
Why, hang it! I'm Tom's customer, and said to be his best!
But if this blooded horse here will show his usual power,
Poor Tom shall see his mother in less than half an hour.

THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

I.

Good folks ever will have their way—
Good folks ever for it must pay.

But we, who are here and everywhere,
The burden of their faults must bear.

We must shoulder others' shame—
Fight their follies, and take their blame:

Purge the body, and humor the mind;
Doctor the eyes when the soul is blind;

Build the column of health erect
On the quicksands of neglect:

Always shouldering others' shame—
Bearing their faults and taking the blame!

II.

Deacon Rogers, he came to me;
“Wife is agoin' to die,” said he.

“Doctors great, an' doctors small,
Haven't improved her any at all.

“Physic and blister, powders and pills,
And nothing sure but the doctors' bills!

“Twenty women, with remedies new,
Bother my wife the whole day through.

“Sweet as honey, or bitter as gall—
Poor old woman, she takes 'em all.

“Sour or sweet, whatever they choose;
Poor old woman, she daren't refuse.

“So she pleases whoe'er may call,
An' Death is suited the best of all.

“Physic and blister, powder an' pill—
Bound to conquer, and sure to kill!”

III.

Mrs. Rogers lay in her bed,
Bandaged and blistered from foot to head.

Blistered and bandaged from head to toe,
Mrs. Rogers was very low.

Bottle and saucer, spoon and cup,
On the table stood bravely up;

Physics of high and low degree;
Calomel, catnip, boneset tea;

Every thing a body could bear,
Excepting light and water and air.

IV.

I opened the blinds; the day was bright,
And God gave Mrs. Rogers some light.

I opened the window; the day was fair,
And God gave Mrs. Rogers some air.

Bottles and blisters, powders and pills,
Catnip, boneset, sirups, and squills;

Drugs and medicines, high and low,
I threw them as far as I could throw.

“What are you doing?” my patient cried;
“Frightening Death,” I coolly replied.

“You are crazy!” a visitor said:
I flung a bottle at his head.

V.

Deacon Rogers he came to me;
“Wife is a-gettin' her health,” said he.

“I really think she will worry through;
She scolds me just as she used to do.

“All the people have poohed an' slurred—
All the neighbors have had their word;

“'Twere better to perish, some of 'em say,
Than be cured in such an irregular way.”

VI.

“Your wife,” said I, “had God's good care,
And His remedies, light and water and air.

“All of the doctors, beyond a doubt,
Couldn't have cured Mrs. Rogers without.”

VII.

The deacon smiled and bowed his head;
“Then your bill is nothing,” he said.

“God's be the glory, as you say!
God bless you, doctor! good-day! good-day!”

VIII.

If ever I doctor that woman again,
I'll give her medicine made by men.

THE CHRISTMAS BABY.

“Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid,
But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did:
Teimes are bad.”
English Ballad.

Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way,
Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day,
Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven,
An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven?

Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse;
An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes,
An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame),
An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name!

An' all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall;
An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all;

An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight,
An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night:

An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do,
An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through,
An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part,
Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven afore ye was ready to start!

An' now ye have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound,
A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound!
With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build,
An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled!

No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one!
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy—I only was just in fun.
Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks;
But we don't get much victual, an' half our livin' is jokes!

Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee;
I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me.
Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play,
An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day!

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old,
But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold;
An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there,
An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair!

Say! when ye come from heaven, my little namesake dear,
Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here?
That was yer little sister—she died a year ago,
An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew
Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you,
I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd,
Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God!