A Child-World

  Even in such a scene of senseless play
  The children were surprised one summer-day
  By a strange man who called across the fence,
  Inquiring for their father's residence;
  And, being answered that this was the place,
  Opened the gate, and with a radiant face,
  Came in and sat down with them in the shade
  And waited—till the absent father made
  His noon appearance, with a warmth and zest
  That told he had no ordinary guest
  In this man whose low-spoken name he knew
  At once, demurring as the stranger drew
  A stuffy notebook out and turned and set
  A big fat finger on a page and let
  The writing thereon testify instead
  Of further speech. And as the father read
  All silently, the curious children took
  Exacting inventory both of book
  And man:—He wore a long-napped white fur-hat
  Pulled firmly on his head, and under that
  Rather long silvery hair, or iron-gray—
  For he was not an old man,—anyway,
  Not beyond sixty. And he wore a pair
  Of square-framed spectacles—or rather there
  Were two more than a pair,—the extra two
  Flared at the corners, at the eyes' side-view,
  In as redundant vision as the eyes
  Of grasshoppers or bees or dragonflies.
  Later the children heard the father say
  He was "A Noted Traveler," and would stay
  Some days with them—In which time host and guest
  Discussed, alone, in deepest interest,
  Some vague, mysterious matter that defied
  The wistful children, loitering outside
  The spare-room door. There Bud acquired a quite
  New list of big words—such as "Disunite,"
  And "Shibboleth," and "Aristocracy,"
  And "Juggernaut," and "Squatter Sovereignty,"
  And "Anti-slavery," "Emancipate,"
  "Irrepressible conflict," and "The Great
  Battle of Armageddon"—obviously
  A pamphlet brought from Washington, D. C.,
  And spread among such friends as might occur
  Of like views with "The Noted Traveler."

  While any day was notable and dear
  That gave the children Noey, history here
  Records his advent emphasized indeed
  With sharp italics, as he came to feed
  The stock one special morning, fair and bright,
  When Johnty and Bud met him, with delight
  Unusual even as their extra dress—
  Garbed as for holiday, with much excess
  Of proud self-consciousness and vain conceit
  In their new finery.—Far up the street
  They called to Noey, as he came, that they,
  As promised, both were going back that day
  To his house with him!

                      And by time that each
  Had one of Noey's hands—ceasing their speech
  And coyly anxious, in their new attire,
  To wake the comment of their mute desire,—
  Noey seemed rendered voiceless. Quite a while
  They watched him furtively.—He seemed to smile
  As though he would conceal it; and they saw
  Him look away, and his lips purse and draw
  In curious, twitching spasms, as though he might
  Be whispering,—while in his eye the white
  Predominated strangely.—Then the spell
  Gave way, and his pent speech burst audible:
  "They wuz two stylish little boys,
    and they wuz mighty bold ones,
  Had two new pairs o' britches made
    out o' their daddy's old ones!"
  And at the inspirational outbreak,
  Both joker and his victims seemed to take
  An equal share of laughter,—and all through
  Their morning visit kept recurring to
  The funny words and jingle of the rhyme
  That just kept getting funnier all the time.

  At Noey's house—when they arrived with him—
  How snug seemed everything, and neat and trim:
  The little picket-fence, and little gate—
  It's little pulley, and its little weight,—
  All glib as clock-work, as it clicked behind
  Them, on the little red brick pathway, lined
  With little paint-keg-vases and teapots
  Of wee moss-blossoms and forgetmenots:
  And in the windows, either side the door,
  Were ranged as many little boxes more
  Of like old-fashioned larkspurs, pinks and moss
  And fern and phlox; while up and down across
  Them rioted the morning-glory-vines
  On taut-set cotton-strings, whose snowy lines
  Whipt in and out and under the bright green
  Like basting-threads; and, here and there between,
  A showy, shiny hollyhock would flare
  Its pink among the white and purple there.—
  And still behind the vines, the children saw
  A strange, bleached, wistful face that seemed to draw
  A vague, indefinite sympathy. A face
  It was of some newcomer to the place.—
  In explanation, Noey, briefly, said
  That it was "Jason," as he turned and led
  The little fellows 'round the house to show
  Them his menagerie of pets. And so
  For quite a time the face of the strange guest
  Was partially forgotten, as they pressed
  About the squirrel-cage and rousted both
  The lazy inmates out, though wholly loath
  To whirl the wheel for them.—And then with awe
  They walked 'round Noey's big pet owl, and saw
  Him film his great, clear, liquid eyes and stare
  And turn and turn and turn his head 'round there
  The same way they kept circling—as though he
  Could turn it one way thus eternally.

  Behind the kitchen, then, with special pride
  Noey stirred up a terrapin inside
  The rain-barrel where he lived, with three or four
  Little mud-turtles of a size not more
  In neat circumference than the tiny toy
  Dumb-watches worn by every little boy.

  Then, back of the old shop, beneath the tree
  Of "rusty-coats," as Noey called them, he
  Next took the boys, to show his favorite new
  Pet 'coon—pulled rather coyly into view
  Up through a square hole in the bottom of
  An old inverted tub he bent above,
  Yanking a little chain, with "Hey! you, sir!
  Here's comp'ny come to see you, Bolivur!"
  Explanatory, he went on to say,
  "I named him 'Bolivur' jes thisaway,—
  He looks so round and ovalish and fat,
  'Peared like no other name 'ud fit but that."

  Here Noey's father called and sent him on
  Some errand. "Wait," he said—"I won't be gone
  A half a' hour.—Take Bud, and go on in
  Where Jason is, tel I git back agin."

  Whoever Jason was, they found him there
  Still at the front-room window.—By his chair
  Leaned a new pair of crutches; and from one
  Knee down, a leg was bandaged.—"Jason done
  That-air with one o' these-'ere tools we call
  A 'shin-hoe'—but a foot-adz mostly all
  Hardware-store-keepers calls 'em."—(Noey made
  This explanation later.)

                      Jason paid
  But little notice to the boys as they
  Came in the room:—An idle volume lay
  Upon his lap—the only book in sight—
  And Johnty read the title,—"Light, More Light,
  There's Danger in the Dark,"—though first and best—
  In fact, the whole of Jason's interest
  Seemed centered on a little dog—one pet
  Of Noey's all uncelebrated yet—
  Though Jason, certainly, avowed his worth,
  And niched him over all the pets on earth—
  As the observant Johnty would relate
  The Jason-episode, and imitate
  The all-enthusiastic speech and air
  Of Noey's kinsman and his tribute there:—

  "That little dog 'ud scratch at that door
  And go on a-whinin' two hours before
  He'd ever let up! There!—Jane: Let him in.—
  (Hah, there, you little rat!) Look at him grin!
          Come down off o' that!—
          W'y, look at him! (Drat
  You! you-rascal-you!)—bring me that hat!
  Look out!—He'll snap you!—He wouldn't let
  You take it away from him, now you kin bet!
  That little rascal's jist natchurly mean.—
  I tell you, I never (Git out!! ) never seen
  A spunkier little rip! (Scratch to git in,
  And now yer a-scratchin' to git out agin!
  Jane: Let him out!) Now, watch him from here
  Out through the winder!—You notice one ear
  Kindo' in side-out, like he holds it?—Well,
  He's got a tick in it—I kin tell!
          Yes, and he's cunnin'—
          Jist watch him a-runnin',
  Sidelin'—see!—like he ain't 'plum'd true'
  And legs don't 'track' as they'd ort to do:—
  Plowin' his nose through the weeds—I jing!
  Ain't he jist cuter'n anything!

  "W'y, that little dog's got grown-people's sense!—
  See how he gits out under the fence?—
  And watch him a-whettin' his hind-legs 'fore
  His dead square run of a miled er more—
  'Cause Noey's a-comin', and Trip allus knows
  When Noey's a-comin'—and off he goes!—
  Putts out to meet him and—There they come now!  Well-sir! it's raially singalar how
          That dog kin tell,—
          But he knows as well
  When Noey's a-comin' home!—Reckon his smell  'Ud carry two miled?—You needn't to smile—
  He runs to meet him, ever'-once-n-a-while,
  Two miled and over—when he's slipped away
  And left him at home here, as he's done to-day—
  'Thout ever knowin' where Noey wuz goin'—
  But that little dog allus hits the right way!
  Hear him a-whinin' and scratchin' agin?—
  (Little tormentin' fice!) Jane: Let him in.

          "—You say he ain't there?—
          Well now, I declare!—
  Lem me limp out and look! ... I wunder where—
  Heuh, Trip!—Heuh, Trip!—Heuh, Trip!... There—
  There he is!—Little sneak!—What-a'-you-'bout?—
  There he is—quiled up as meek as a mouse,
  His tail turnt up like a teakittle-spout,
  A-sunnin' hisse'f at the side o' the house!
  Next time you scratch, sir, you'll haf to git in,
  My fine little feller, the best way you kin!
  —Noey he learns him sich capers!—And they—
  Both of 'em's ornrier every day!—
  Both tantalizin' and meaner'n sin—
  Allus a—(Listen there!)—Jane: Let him in.

  "—O! yer so innocent! hangin' yer head!—
  (Drat ye! you'd better git under the bed!)
          —Listen at that!—
          He's tackled the cat!—
  Hah, there! you little rip! come out o' that!—
  Git yer blame little eyes scratched out
  'Fore you know what yer talkin' about!—
  Here! come away from there!—(Let him alone—
  He'll snap you, I tell ye, as quick as a bone!)
  Hi, Trip!—Hey, here!—What-a'-you-'bout!—
  Oo! ouch! 'Ll I'll be blamed!—Blast ye! GIT OUT!
  ... O, it ain't nothin'—jist scratched me, you see.—
  Hadn't no idy he'd try to bite me!
  Plague take him!—Bet he'll not try that agin!—
  Hear him yelp.—(Pore feller!) Jane: Let him in."

  "Hey, Bud! O Bud!" rang out a gleeful call,—
  "The Loehrs is come to your house!" And a small
  But very much elated little chap,
  In snowy linen-suit and tasseled cap,
  Leaped from the back-fence just across the street
  From Bixlers', and came galloping to meet
  His equally delighted little pair
  Of playmates, hurrying out to join him there—
  "The Loehrs is come!—The Loehrs is come!" his glee
  Augmented to a pitch of ecstasy
  Communicated wildly, till the cry
  "The Loehrs is come!" in chorus quavered high
  And thrilling as some paean of challenge or
  Soul-stirring chant of armied conqueror.
  And who this avant courier of "the Loehrs"?—
  This happiest of all boys out-o'-doors—
  Who but Will Pierson, with his heart's excess
  Of summer-warmth and light and breeziness!
  "From our front winder I 'uz first to see
  'Em all a-drivin' into town!" bragged he—
  "An' seen 'em turnin' up the alley where
  Your folks lives at. An' John an' Jake wuz there
  Both in the wagon;—yes, an' Willy, too;
  An' Mary—Yes, an' Edith—with bran-new
  An' purtiest-trimmed hats 'at ever wuz!—
  An' Susan, an' Janey.—An' the Hammonds-uz  In their fine buggy 'at they're ridin' roun'
  So much, all over an' aroun' the town
  An' ever'wheres,—them city-people who's
  A-visutin' at Loehrs-uz!"

                      Glorious news!—
  Even more glorious when verified
  In the boys' welcoming eyes of love and pride,
  As one by one they greeted their old friends
  And neighbors.—Nor until their earth-life ends
  Will that bright memory become less bright
  Or dimmed indeed.

                      ... Again, at candle-light,
  The faces all are gathered. And how glad
  The Mother's features, knowing that she had
  Her dear, sweet Mary Loehr back again.—
  She always was so proud of her; and then
  The dear girl, in return, was happy, too,
  And with a heart as loving, kind and true
  As that maturer one which seemed to blend
  As one the love of mother and of friend.
  From time to time, as hand-in-hand they sat,
  The fair girl whispered something low, whereat
  A tender, wistful look would gather in
  The mother-eyes; and then there would begin
  A sudden cheerier talk, directed to
  The stranger guests—the man and woman who,
  It was explained, were coming now to make
  Their temporary home in town for sake
  Of the wife's somewhat failing health. Yes, they
  Were city-people, seeking rest this way,
  The man said, answering a query made
  By some well meaning neighbor—with a shade
  Of apprehension in the answer.... No,—
  They had no children. As he answered so,
  The man's arm went about his wife, and she
  Leant toward him, with her eyes lit prayerfully:
  Then she arose—he following—and bent
  Above the little sleeping innocent
  Within the cradle at the mother's side—
  He patting her, all silent, as she cried.—
  Though, haply, in the silence that ensued,
  His musings made melodious interlude.

      In the warm, health-giving weather
        My poor pale wife and I
      Drive up and down the little town
        And the pleasant roads thereby:
      Out in the wholesome country
       We wind, from the main highway,
      In through the wood's green solitudes—
        Fair as the Lord's own Day.

      We have lived so long together.
        And joyed and mourned as one,
      That each with each, with a look for speech,
        Or a touch, may talk as none
      But Love's elect may comprehend—
        Why, the touch of her hand on mine
      Speaks volume-wise, and the smile of her eyes,
        To me, is a song divine.

      There are many places that lure us:—
        "The Old Wood Bridge" just west
      Of town we know—and the creek below,
        And the banks the boys love best:
      And "Beech Grove," too, on the hill-top;
        And "The Haunted House" beyond,
      With its roof half off, and its old pump-trough
        Adrift in the roadside pond.

      We find our way to "The Marshes"—
        At least where they used to be;
      And "The Old Camp Grounds"; and "The Indian Mounds,"
        And the trunk of "The Council Tree:"
      We have crunched and splashed through "Flint-bed Ford";
        And at "Old Big Bee-gum Spring"
      We have stayed the cup, half lifted up.
        Hearing the redbird sing.

      And then, there is "Wesley Chapel,"
        With its little graveyard, lone
      At the crossroads there, though the sun sets fair
        On wild-rose, mound and stone ...
      A wee bed under the willows—
        My wife's hand on my own—
      And our horse stops, too ... And we hear the coo
        Of a dove in undertone.

      The dusk, the dew, and the silence.
        "Old Charley" turns his head
      Homeward then by the pike again,
        Though never a word is said—
      One more stop, and a lingering one—
        After the fields and farms,—
      At the old Toll Gate, with the woman await
        With a little girl in her arms.

  The silence sank—Floretty came to call
  The children in the kitchen, where they all
  Went helter-skeltering with shout and din
  Enough to drown most sanguine silence in,—
  For well indeed they knew that summons meant
  Taffy and popcorn—so with cheers they went.

  The Hired Man's supper, which he sat before,
  In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-door
  And one leaf of the kitchen-table, was
  Somewhat belated, and in lifted pause
  His dextrous knife was balancing a bit
  Of fried mush near the port awaiting it.

  At the glad children's advent—gladder still
  To find him there—"Jest tickled fit to kill
  To see ye all!" he said, with unctious cheer.—
  "I'm tryin'-like to he'p Floretty here
  To git things cleared away and give ye room
  Accordin' to yer stren'th. But I p'sume
  It's a pore boarder, as the poet says,
  That quarrels with his victuals, so I guess
  I'll take another wedge o' that-air cake,
  Florett', that you're a-learnin' how to bake."
  He winked and feigned to swallow painfully.—

  "Jest 'fore ye all come in, Floretty she
  Was boastin' 'bout her biscuits—and they air  As good—sometimes—as you'll find anywhere.—
  But, women gits to braggin' on their bread,
  I'm s'picious 'bout their pie—as Danty said."
  This raillery Floretty strangely seemed
  To take as compliment, and fairly beamed
  With pleasure at it all.

                      —"Speakin' o' bread—
  When she come here to live," The Hired Man said,—
  "Never ben out o' Freeport 'fore she come
  Up here,—of course she needed 'sperience some.—
  So, one day, when yer Ma was goin' to set
  The risin' fer some bread, she sent Florett
  To borry leaven, 'crost at Ryans'—So,
  She went and asked fer twelve.—She didn't know,
  But thought, whatever 'twuz, that she could keep
  One fer herse'f, she said. O she wuz deep!"

  Some little evidence of favor hailed
  The Hired Man's humor; but it wholly failed
  To touch the serious Susan Loehr, whose air
  And thought rebuked them all to listening there
  To her brief history of the city-man
  And his pale wife—"A sweeter woman than
  She ever saw!"—So Susan testified,—
  And so attested all the Loehrs beside.—
  So entertaining was the history, that
  The Hired Man, in the corner where he sat
  In quiet sequestration, shelling corn,
  Ceased wholly, listening, with a face forlorn
  As Sorrow's own, while Susan, John and Jake
  Told of these strangers who had come to make
  Some weeks' stay in the town, in hopes to gain
  Once more the health the wife had sought in vain:
  Their doctor, in the city, used to know
  The Loehrs—Dan and Rachel—years ago,—
  And so had sent a letter and request
  For them to take a kindly interest
  In favoring the couple all they could—
  To find some home-place for them, if they would,
  Among their friends in town. He ended by
  A dozen further lines, explaining why
  His patient must have change of scene and air—
  New faces, and the simple friendships there
  With them, which might, in time, make her forget
  A grief that kept her ever brooding yet
  And wholly melancholy and depressed,—
  Nor yet could she find sleep by night nor rest
  By day, for thinking—thinking—thinking still       \
  Upon a grief beyond the doctor's skill,—
  The death of her one little girl.

                      "Pore thing!"
  Floretty sighed, and with the turkey-wing
  Brushed off the stove-hearth softly, and peered in
  The kettle of molasses, with her thin
  Voice wandering into song unconsciously—
  In purest, if most witless, sympathy.—

                 "'Then sleep no more:
                 Around thy heart
          Some ten-der dream may i-dlee play.
                 But mid-night song,
                 With mad-jick art,
          Will chase that dree muh-way!'"

  "That-air besetment of Floretty's," said
  The Hired Man,—"singin—she inhairited,—
  Her father wuz addicted—same as her—
  To singin'—yes, and played the dulcimer!
  But—gittin' back,—I s'pose yer talkin' 'bout
  Them Hammondses. Well, Hammond he gits out
  Pattents on things—inventions-like, I'm told—
  And's got more money'n a house could hold!
  And yit he can't git up no pattent-right
  To do away with dyin'.—And he might
  Be worth a million, but he couldn't find
  Nobody sellin' health of any kind!...
  But they's no thing onhandier fer me  To use than other people's misery.—
  Floretty, hand me that-air skillet there
  And lem me git 'er het up, so's them-air
  Childern kin have their popcorn."

                      It was good
  To hear him now, and so the children stood
  Closer about him, waiting.

                      "Things to eat,"
  The Hired Man went on, "'s mighty hard to beat!
  Now, when I wuz a boy, we was so pore,
  My parunts couldn't 'ford popcorn no more
  To pamper me with;—so, I hat to go
  Without popcorn—sometimes a year er so!—
  And suffer'n' saints! how hungry I would git
  Fer jest one other chance—like this—at it!
  Many and many a time I've dreamp', at night,
  About popcorn,—all busted open white,
  And hot, you know—and jest enough o' salt
  And butter on it fer to find no fault—
  Oomh!—Well! as I was goin' on to say,—
  After a-dreamin' of it thataway,
  Then havin' to wake up and find it's all
  A dream, and hain't got no popcorn at-tall,
  Ner haint had none—I'd think, 'Well, where's the use!'
  And jest lay back and sob the plaster'n' loose!
  And I have prayed, whatever happened, it
  'Ud eether be popcorn er death!.... And yit
  I've noticed—more'n likely so have you—
  That things don't happen when you want 'em to."

  And thus he ran on artlessly, with speech
  And work in equal exercise, till each
  Tureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greased
  The saucers ready for the wax, and seized
  The fragrant-steaming kettle, at a sign
  Made by Floretty; and, each child in line,
  He led out to the pump—where, in the dim
  New coolness of the night, quite near to him
  He felt Floretty's presence, fresh and sweet
  As ... dewy night-air after kitchen-heat.

  There, still, with loud delight of laugh and jest,
  They plied their subtle alchemy with zest—
  Till, sudden, high above their tumult, welled
  Out of the sitting-room a song which held
  Them stilled in some strange rapture, listening
  To the sweet blur of voices chorusing:—

      "'When twilight approaches the season
        That ever is sacred to song,
       Does some one repeat my name over,
        And sigh that I tarry so long?
       And is there a chord in the music
        That's missed when my voice is away?—
       And a chord in each heart that awakens
        Regret at my wearisome stay-ay—
         Regret at my wearisome stay.'"

  All to himself, The Hired Man thought—"Of course
  They'll sing Floretty homesick!"

                      ... O strange source
  Of ecstasy! O mystery of Song!—
  To hear the dear old utterance flow along:—

      "'Do they set me a chair near the table
         When evening's home-pleasures are nigh?—
       When the candles are lit in the parlor.
         And the stars in the calm azure sky.'"...

  Just then the moonlight sliced the porch slantwise,
  And flashed in misty spangles in the eyes
  Floretty clenched—while through the dark—"I jing!"
  A voice asked, "Where's that song 'you'd learn to sing
  Ef I sent you the ballat?'—which I done
  Last I was home at Freeport.—S'pose you run
  And git it—and we'll all go in to where
  They'll know the notes and sing it fer ye there."
  And up the darkness of the old stairway
  Floretty fled, without a word to say—
  Save to herself some whisper muffled by
  Her apron, as she wiped her lashes dry.

  Returning, with a letter, which she laid
  Upon the kitchen-table while she made
  A hasty crock of "float,"—poured thence into
  A deep glass dish of iridescent hue
  And glint and sparkle, with an overflow
  Of froth to crown it, foaming white as snow.—
  And then—poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare,
  For its delicious complement,—with air
  Of Hebe mortalized, she led her van
  Of votaries, rounded by The Hired Man.

  Within the sitting-room, the company
  Had been increased in number. Two or three
  Young couples had been added: Emma King,
  Ella and Mary Mathers—all could sing
  Like veritable angels—Lydia Martin, too,
  And Nelly Millikan.—What songs they knew!—

      "'Ever of Thee—wherever I may be,
      Fondly I'm drea-m-ing ever of thee!'"

  And with their gracious voices blend the grace
  Of Warsaw Barnett's tenor; and the bass
  Unfathomed of Wick Chapman—Fancy still
  Can feel, as well as hear it, thrill on thrill,
  Vibrating plainly down the backs of chairs
  And through the wall and up the old hall-stairs.—
  Indeed young Chapman's voice especially
  Attracted Mr. Hammond—For, said he,
  Waiving the most Elysian sweetness of
  The ladies' voices—altitudes above
  The man's for sweetness;—but—as contrast, would
  Not Mr. Chapman be so very good
  As, just now, to oblige all with—in fact,
  Some sort of jolly song,—to counteract
  In part, at least, the sad, pathetic trend
  Of music generally. Which wish our friend
  "The Noted Traveler" made second to
  With heartiness—and so each, in review,
  Joined in—until the radiant basso cleared
  His wholly unobstructed throat and peered
  Intently at the ceiling—voice and eye
  As opposite indeed as earth and sky.—
  Thus he uplifted his vast bass and let
  It roam at large the memories booming yet:

      "'Old Simon the Cellarer keeps a rare store
        Of Malmsey and Malvoi-sie,
      Of Cyprus, and who can say how many more?—
        But a chary old so-u-l is he-e-ee—
          A chary old so-u-l is he!
      Of hock and Canary he never doth fail;
      And all the year 'round, there is brewing of ale;—
      Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,
      While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day.'"

  ... And then the chorus—the men's voices all
  Warred in it—like a German Carnival.—
  Even Mrs. Hammond smiled, as in her youth,
  Hearing her husband—And in veriest truth
  "The Noted Traveler's" ever-present hat
  Seemed just relaxed a little, after that,
  As at conclusion of the Bacchic song
  He stirred his "float" vehemently and long.

  Then Cousin Rufus with his flute, and art
  Blown blithely through it from both soul and heart—
  Inspired to heights of mastery by the glad,
  Enthusiastic audience he had
  In the young ladies of a town that knew
  No other flutist,—nay, nor wanted to,
  Since they had heard his "Polly Hopkin's Waltz,"
  Or "Rickett's Hornpipe," with its faultless faults,
  As rendered solely, he explained, "by ear,"
  Having but heard it once, Commencement Year,
  At "Old Ann Arbor."

                      Little Maymie now
  Seemed "friends" with Mr. Hammond—anyhow,
  Was lifted to his lap—where settled, she—
  Enthroned thus, in her dainty majesty,
  Gained universal audience—although
  Addressing him alone:—"I'm come to show
  You my new Red-blue pencil; and she says"—
  (Pointing to Mrs. Hammond)—"that she guess'
  You'll make a picture fer me."

                      "And what kind  Of picture?" Mr. Hammond asked, inclined
  To serve the child as bidden, folding square
  The piece of paper she had brought him there.—
  "I don't know," Maymie said—"only ist make
  A little dirl, like me!"

                      He paused to take
  A sharp view of the child, and then he drew—
  Awhile with red, and then awhile with blue—
  The outline of a little girl that stood
  In converse with a wolf in a great wood;
  And she had on a hood and cloak of red—
  As Maymie watched—"Red Riding Hood!" she said.
  "And who's 'Red Riding Hood'?"

                      "W'y, don't you know?"
  Asked little Maymie—

                      But the man looked so
  All uninformed, that little Maymie could
  But tell him all about Red Riding Hood.

  W'y, one time wuz a little-weenty dirl,
  An' she wuz named Red Riding Hood, 'cause her—
  Her Ma she maked a little red cloak fer her
  'At turnt up over her head—An' it 'uz all
  Ist one piece o' red cardinal 'at 's like
  The drate-long stockin's the store-keepers has.—
  O! it 'uz purtiest cloak in all the world
  An' all this town er anywheres they is!
  An' so, one day, her Ma she put it on
  Red Riding Hood, she did—one day, she did—
  An' it 'uz Sund'y—'cause the little cloak
  It 'uz too nice to wear ist ever' day
  An' all the time!—An' so her Ma, she put
  It on Red Riding Hood—an' telled her not
  To dit no dirt on it ner dit it mussed
  Ner nothin'! An'—an'—nen her Ma she dot
  Her little basket out, 'at Old Kriss bringed
  Her wunst—one time, he did. And nen she fill'
  It full o' whole lots an' 'bundance o' good things t' eat
  (Allus my Dran'ma she says ''bundance,' too.)
  An' so her Ma fill' little Red Riding Hood's
  Nice basket all ist full o' dood things t' eat,
  An' tell her take 'em to her old Dran'ma—
  An' not to spill 'em, neever—'cause ef she
  'Ud stump her toe an' spill 'em, her Dran'ma
  She'll haf to punish her!

                      An' nen—An' so
  Little Red Riding Hood she p'omised she
  'Ud be all careful nen an' cross' her heart
  'At she wont run an' spill 'em all fer six—
  Five—ten—two-hundred-bushel-dollars-gold!
  An' nen she kiss her Ma doo'-bye an' went
  A-skippin' off—away fur off frough the
  Big woods, where her Dran'ma she live at.—No!—
  She didn't do a-skippin', like I said:—
  She ist went walkin'—careful-like an' slow—
  Ist like a little lady—walkin' 'long
  As all polite an' nice—an' slow—an' straight—
  An' turn her toes—ist like she's marchin' in
  The Sund'y-School k-session!

                      An'—an'—so
  She 'uz a-doin' along—an' doin' along—
  On frough the drate big woods—'cause her Dran'ma
  She live 'way, 'way fur off frough the big woods
  From her Ma's house. So when Red Riding Hood
  She dit to do there, allus have most fun—
  When she do frough the drate big woods, you know.—
  'Cause she ain't feared a bit o' anything!
  An' so she sees the little hoppty-birds
  'At's in the trees, an' flyin' all around,
  An' singin' dlad as ef their parunts said
  They'll take 'em to the magic-lantern show!
  An' she 'ud pull the purty flowers an' things
  A-growin' round the stumps—An' she 'ud ketch
  The purty butterflies, an' drasshoppers,
  An' stick pins frough 'em—No!—I ist said that!—
  'Cause she's too dood an' kind an' 'bedient
  To hurt things thataway.—She'd ketch 'em, though,
  An' ist play wiv 'em ist a little while,
  An' nen she'd let 'em fly away, she would,
  An' ist skip on adin to her Dran'ma's.

  An' so, while she uz doin' 'long an' 'long,
  First thing you know they 'uz a drate big old
  Mean wicked Wolf jumped out 'at wanted t' eat
  Her up, but dassent to—'cause wite clos't there
  They wuz a Man a-choppin' wood, an' you
  Could hear him.—So the old Wolf he 'uz 'feared  Only to ist be kind to her.—So he
  Ist 'tended like he wuz dood friends to her
  An' says "Dood-morning, little Red Riding Hood!"—
  All ist as kind!

                      An' nen Riding Hood
  She say "Dood-morning," too—all kind an' nice—
  Ist like her Ma she learn'—No!—mustn't say
  "Learn," cause "Learn" it's unproper.—So she say
  It like her Ma she "teached" her.—An'—so she
  Ist says "Dood-morning" to the Wolf—'cause she
  Don't know ut-tall 'at he's a wicked Wolf
  An' want to eat her up!

                      Nen old Wolf smile
  An' say, so kind: "Where air you doin' at?"
  Nen little Red Riding Hood she says: "I'm doin'
  To my Dran'ma's, 'cause my Ma say I might."
  Nen, when she tell him that, the old Wolf he
  Ist turn an' light out frough the big thick woods,
  Where she can't see him any more. An so
  She think he's went to his house—but he haint,—
  He's went to her Dran'ma's, to be there first—
  An' ketch her, ef she don't watch mighty sharp
  What she's about!

                      An' nen when the old Wolf
  Dit to her Dran'ma's house, he's purty smart,—
  An' so he 'tend-like he's Red Riding Hood,
  An' knock at th' door. An' Riding Hood's Dran'ma
  She's sick in bed an' can't come to the door
  An' open it. So th' old Wolf knock two times.
  An' nen Red Riding Hood's Dran'ma she says
  "Who's there?" she says. An' old Wolf 'tends-like he's
  Little Red Riding Hood, you know, an' make'
  His voice soun' ist like hers, an' says: "It's me,
  Dran'ma—an' I'm Red Riding Hood an' I'm
  Ist come to see you."

                      Nen her old Dran'ma
  She think it is little Red Riding Hood,
  An' so she say: "Well, come in nen an' make
  You'se'f at home," she says, "'cause I'm down sick
  In bed, and got the 'ralgia, so's I can't
  Dit up an' let ye in."

                      An' so th' old Wolf
  Ist march' in nen an' shet the door adin,
  An' drowl, he did, an' splunge up on the bed
  An' et up old Miz Riding Hood 'fore she
  Could put her specs on an' see who it wuz.—
  An' so she never knowed who et her up!

  An' nen the wicked Wolf he ist put on
  Her nightcap, an' all covered up in bed—
  Like he wuz her, you know.

                      Nen, purty soon
  Here come along little Red Riding Hood,
  An' she knock' at the door. An' old Wolf 'tend
  Like he's her Dran'ma; an' he say, "Who's there?"
  Ist like her Dran'ma say, you know. An' so
  Little Red Riding Hood she say "It's me,
  Dran'ma—an' I'm Red Riding Hood and I'm
  Ist come to see you."

                      An' nen old Wolf nen
  He cough an' say: "Well, come in nen an' make
  You'se'f at home," he says, "'cause I'm down sick
  In bed, an' got the 'ralgia, so's I can't
  Dit up an' let ye in."

                      An' so she think
  It's her Dran'ma a-talkin'.—So she ist
  Open' the door an' come in, an' set down
  Her basket, an' taked off her things, an' bringed
  A chair an' clumbed up on the bed, wite by
  The old big Wolf she thinks is her Dran'ma.—
  Only she thinks the old Wolf's dot whole lots
  More bigger ears, an' lots more whiskers, too,
  Than her Dran'ma; an' so Red Riding Hood
  She's kindo' skeered a little. So she says
  "Oh, Dran'ma, what big eyes you dot!" An' nen
  The old Wolf says: "They're ist big thataway
  'Cause I'm so dlad to see you!"

                      Nen she says,—
  "Oh, Dran'ma, what a drate big nose you dot!"
  Nen th' old Wolf says: "It's ist big thataway
  Ist 'cause I smell the dood things 'at you bringed
  Me in the basket!"

                      An' nen Riding Hood
  She say "Oh-me-oh-my! Dran'ma! what big
  White long sharp teeth you dot!"

                      Nen old Wolf says:
  "Yes—an' they're thataway," he says—an' drowled—
  "They're thataway," he says, "to eat you wiv!"
  An' nen he ist jump' at her.—

                      But she scream'—
  An' scream', she did—So's 'at the Man
  'At wuz a-choppin' wood, you know,—he hear,
  An' come a-runnin' in there wiv his ax;
  An', 'fore the old Wolf know' what he's about,
  He split his old brains out an' killed him s'quick
  It make' his head swim!—An' Red Riding Hood
  She wuzn't hurt at all!

                      An' the big Man
  He tooked her all safe home, he did, an' tell
  Her Ma she's all right an' ain't hurt at all
  An' old Wolf's dead an' killed—an' ever'thing!—
  So her Ma wuz so tickled an' so proud,
  She divved him all the dood things t' eat they wuz
  'At's in the basket, an' she tell him 'at
  She's much oblige', an' say to "call adin."
  An' story's honest truth—an' all so, too!

  The audience entire seemed pleased—indeed
  Extremely pleased. And little Maymie, freed
  From her task of instructing, ran to show
  Her wondrous colored picture to and fro
  Among the company.

                      "And how comes it," said
  Some one to Mr. Hammond, "that, instead
  Of the inventor's life you did not choose
  The artist's?—since the world can better lose
  A cutting-box or reaper than it can
  A noble picture painted by a man
  Endowed with gifts this drawing would suggest"—
  Holding the picture up to show the rest.
  "There now!" chimed in the wife, her pale face lit
  Like winter snow with sunrise over it,—
  "That's what I'm always asking him.—But he—
  Well, as he's answering you, he answers me,—
  With that same silent, suffocating smile
  He's wearing now!"

                      For quite a little while
  No further speech from anyone, although
  All looked at Mr. Hammond and that slow,
  Immutable, mild smile of his. And then
  The encouraged querist asked him yet again
  Why was it, and etcetera—with all
  The rest, expectant, waiting 'round the wall,—
  Until the gentle Mr. Hammond said
  He'd answer with a "parable," instead—
  About "a dreamer" that he used to know—
  "An artist"—"master"—all—in embryo.

  THE DREAMER

  I

  He was a Dreamer of the Days:
    Indolent as a lazy breeze
  Of midsummer, in idlest ways
    Lolling about in the shade of trees.
  The farmer turned—as he passed him by
    Under the hillside where he kneeled
  Plucking a flower—with scornful eye
    And rode ahead in the harvest field
  Muttering—"Lawz! ef that-air shirk
    Of a boy was mine fer a week er so,
  He'd quit dreamin' and git to work
    And airn his livin'—er—Well! I know!"
  And even kindlier rumor said,
  Tapping with finger a shaking head,—
  "Got such a curious kind o' way—
  Wouldn't surprise me much, I say!"

  Lying limp, with upturned gaze
  Idly dreaming away his days.
  No companions? Yes, a book
  Sometimes under his arm he took
  To read aloud to a lonesome brook.
    And school-boys, truant, once had heard
  A strange voice chanting, faint and dim—
  Followed the echoes, and found it him,
    Perched in a tree-top like a bird,
  Singing, clean from the highest limb;
  And, fearful and awed, they all slipped by
  To wonder in whispers if he could fly.
  "Let him alone!" his father said
    When the old schoolmaster came to say,
  "He took no part in his books to-day—
  Only the lesson the readers read.—
    His mind seems sadly going astray!"
  "Let him alone!" came the mournful tone,
  And the father's grief in his sad eyes shone—
  Hiding his face in his trembling hand,
  Moaning, "Would I could understand!
  But as heaven wills it I accept
  Uncomplainingly!" So he wept.

  Then went "The Dreamer" as he willed,
  As uncontrolled as a light sail filled
  Flutters about with an empty boat
  Loosed from its moorings and afloat:
  Drifted out from the busy quay
  Of dull school-moorings listlessly;
  Drifted off on the talking breeze,
  All alone with his reveries;
  Drifted on, as his fancies wrought—
  Out on the mighty gulfs of thought.

  II

  The farmer came in the evening gray
    And took the bars of the pasture down;
  Called to the cows in a coaxing way,
  "Bess" and "Lady" and "Spot" and "Brown,"
  While each gazed with a wide-eyed stare,
  As though surprised at his coming there—
  Till another tone, in a higher key,
  Brought their obeyance lothfully.

    Then, as he slowly turned and swung
  The topmost bar to its proper rest,
    Something fluttered along and clung
  An instant, shivering at his breast—
    A wind-scared fragment of legal cap,
  Which darted again, as he struck his hand
    On his sounding chest with a sudden slap,
  And hurried sailing across the land.
  But as it clung he had caught the glance
  Of a little penciled countenance,
  And a glamour of written words; and hence,
  A minute later, over the fence,
  "Here and there and gone astray
  Over the hills and far away,"
  He chased it into a thicket of trees
  And took it away from the captious breeze.

  A scrap of paper with a rhyme
  Scrawled upon it of summertime:
  A pencil-sketch of a dairy-maid,
  Under a farmhouse porch's shade,
  Working merrily; and was blent
  With her glad features such sweet content,
  That a song she sung in the lines below
  Seemed delightfully apropos:—

  SONG

      "Why do I sing—Tra-la-la-la-la!
      Glad as a King?—Tra-la-la-la-la!
        Well, since you ask,—
        I have such a pleasant task,
      I can not help but sing!

      "Why do I smile—Tra-la-la-la-la!
      Working the while?—Tra-la-la-la-la!
        Work like this is play,—
        So I'm playing all the day—
      I can not help but smile!

      "So, If you please—Tra-la-la-la-la!
      Live at your ease!—Tra-la-la-la-la!
        You've only got to turn,
        And, you see, its bound to churn—
      I can not help but please!"

  The farmer pondered and scratched his head,
    Reading over each mystic word.—
  "Some o' the Dreamer's work!" he said—
    "Ah, here's more—and name and date
  In his hand-write'!"—And the good man read,—
  "'Patent applied for, July third,
    Eighteen hundred and forty-eight'!"
  The fragment fell from his nerveless grasp—
  His awed lips thrilled with the joyous gasp:
    "I see the p'int to the whole concern,—
    He's studied out a patent churn!"