A Child-World

  All seemed delighted, though the elders more,
  Of course, than were the children.—Thus, before
  Much interchange of mirthful compliment,
  The story-teller said his stories "went"
  (Like a bad candle) best when they went out,—
  And that some sprightly music, dashed about,
  Would wholly quench his "glimmer," and inspire
  Far brighter lights.

                      And, answering this desire,
  The flutist opened, in a rapturous strain
  Of rippling notes—a perfect April-rain
  Of melody that drenched the senses through;—
  Then—gentler—gentler—as the dusk sheds dew,
  It fell, by velvety, staccatoed halts,
  Swooning away in old "Von Weber's Waltz."
  Then the young ladies sang "Isle of the Sea"—
  In ebb and flow and wave so billowy,—
  Only with quavering breath and folded eyes
  The listeners heard, buoyed on the fall and rise
  Of its insistent and exceeding stress
  Of sweetness and ecstatic tenderness ...
  With lifted finger yet, Remembrance—List!—
  "Beautiful isle of the sea!" wells in a mist
  Of tremulous ...

                      ... After much whispering
  Among the children, Alex came to bring
  Some kind of letter—as it seemed to be—
  To Cousin Rufus. This he carelessly
  Unfolded—reading to himself alone,—
  But, since its contents became, later, known,
  And no one "plagued so awful bad," the same
  May here be given—of course without full name,
  Fac-simile, or written kink or curl
  Or clue. It read:—

        "Wild Roved an indian Girl
      Brite al Floretty"
                        deer freind
                          I now take
  *this* These means to send that Song to you & make
  my Promus good to you in the Regards
  Of doing What i Promust afterwards,
  the notes & Words is both here Printed SOS
  you *kin* can git uncle Mart to read you *them* those
  & cousin Rufus you can git to Play  the notes fur you on eny Plezunt day
  His Legul Work aint *Pressin* Pressing.
                               Ever thine
      As shore as the Vine
      doth the Stump intwine
      thou art my Lump of Sackkerrine
        Rinaldo Rinaldine
        the Pirut in Captivity.

                      ... There dropped
  Another square scrap.—But the hand was stopped
  That reached for it—Floretty suddenly
  Had set a firm foot on her property—
  Thinking it was the letter, not the song,—
  But blushing to discover she was wrong,
  When, with all gravity of face and air,
  Her precious letter handed to her there
  By Cousin Rufus left her even more
  In apprehension than she was before.
  But, testing his unwavering, kindly eye,
  She seemed to put her last suspicion by,
  And, in exchange, handed the song to him.—

  A page torn from a song-book: Small and dim
  Both notes and words were—but as plain as day
  They seemed to him, as he began to play—
  And plain to all the singers,—as he ran
  An airy, warbling prelude, then began
  Singing and swinging in so blithe a strain,
  That every voice rang in the old refrain:
  From the beginning of the song, clean through,
  Floretty's features were a study to
  The flutist who "read notes" so readily,
  Yet read so little of the mystery
  Of that face of the girl's.—Indeed one thing
  Bewildered him quite into worrying,
  And that was, noticing, throughout it all,
  The Hired Man shrinking closer to the wall,
  She ever backing toward him through the throng
  Of barricading children—till the song
  Was ended, and at last he saw her near
  Enough to reach and take him by the ear
  And pinch it just a pang's worth of her ire
  And leave it burning like a coal of fire.
  He noticed, too, in subtle pantomime
  She seemed to dust him off, from time to time;
  And when somebody, later, asked if she
  Had never heard the song before—"What! me?"
  She said—then blushed again and smiled,—
  "I've knowed that song sence Adam was a child!—
  It's jes a joke o' this-here man's.—He's learned
  To read and write a little, and its turned
  His fool-head some—That's all!"

                      And then some one
  Of the loud-wrangling boys said—"Course they's none
  No more, these days!—They's Fairies ust to be,
  But they're all dead, a hunderd years!" said he.

  "Well, there's where you're mustakened!"—in reply
  They heard Bud's voice, pitched sharp and thin and high.—

  "An' how you goin' to prove it!"

                      "Well, I kin!"
  Said Bud, with emphasis,—"They's one lives in
  Our garden—and I see 'im wunst, wiv my
  Own eyes—one time I did."

                      "Oh, what a lie!"
  —"'Sh!'"

                      "Well, nen," said the skeptic—seeing there
  The older folks attracted—"Tell us where  You saw him, an' all 'bout him!'

                      "Yes, my son.—
  If you tell 'stories,' you may tell us one,"
  The smiling father said, while Uncle Mart,
  Behind him, winked at Bud, and pulled apart
  His nose and chin with comical grimace—
  Then sighed aloud, with sanctimonious face,—
      "'How good and comely it is to see
      Children and parents in friendship agree!'—
  You fire away, Bud, on your Fairy-tale—
  Your Uncle's here to back you!"

                      Somewhat pale,
  And breathless as to speech, the little man
  Gathered himself. And thus his story ran.

  Some peoples thinks they ain't no Fairies now  No more yet!—But they is, I bet! 'Cause ef
  They wuzn't Fairies, nen I' like to know
  Who'd w'ite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' tell
  What Fairies does, an' how their picture looks,
  An' all an' ever'thing! W'y, ef they don't
  Be Fairies anymore, nen little boys
  'U'd ist sleep when they go to sleep an' wont
  Have ist no dweams at all,—'Cause Fairies—good  Fairies—they're a-purpose to make dweams!
  But they is Fairies—an' I know they is!
  'Cause one time wunst, when its all Summertime,
  An' don't haf to be no fires in the stove
  Er fireplace to keep warm wiv—ner don't haf
  To wear old scwatchy flannen shirts at all,
  An' aint no fweeze—ner cold—ner snow!—An'—an'
  Old skweeky twees got all the gween leaves on
  An' ist keeps noddin', noddin' all the time,
  Like they 'uz lazy an' a-twyin' to go
  To sleep an' couldn't, 'cause the wind won't quit
  A-blowin' in 'em, an' the birds won't stop
  A-singin' so's they kin.—But twees don't sleep,
  I guess! But little boys sleeps—an' dweams, too.—
  An' that's a sign they's Fairies.

                      So, one time,
  When I ben playin' "Store" wunst over in
  The shed of their old stable, an' Ed Howard
  He maked me quit a-bein' pardners, 'cause
  I dwinked the 'tend-like sody-water up
  An' et the shore-nuff cwackers.—W'y, nen I
  Clumbed over in our garden where the gwapes
  Wuz purt'-nigh ripe: An' I wuz ist a-layin'
  There on th' old cwooked seat 'at Pa maked in
  Our arber,—an' so I 'uz layin' there
  A-whittlin' beets wiv my new dog-knife, an'
  A-lookin' wite up through the twimbly leaves—
  An' wuzn't 'sleep at all!—An'-sir!—first thing
  You know, a little Fairy hopped out there!
  A leetle-teenty Fairy!—hope-may-die!  An' he look' down at me, he did—An' he
  Ain't bigger'n a yellerbird!—an' he
  Say "Howdy-do!" he did—an' I could hear  Him—ist as plain!
                      Nen I say "Howdy-do!"
  An' he say "I'm all hunkey, Nibsey; how
  Is your folks comin' on?"

                      An' nen I say
  "My name ain't 'Nibsey,' neever—my name's Bud.
  An' what's your name?" I says to him.

                      An'he
  Ist laugh an' say "'Bud's' awful funny name!"
  An' he ist laid back on a big bunch o' gwapes
  An' laugh' an' laugh', he did—like somebody
  'Uz tick-el-un his feet!

                      An' nen I say—
  "What's your name," nen I say, "afore you bust
  Yo'-se'f a-laughin' 'bout my name?" I says.
  An' nen he dwy up laughin'—kindo' mad—
  An' say "W'y, my name's Squidjicum," he says.
  An' nen I laugh an' say—"Gee! what a name!"
  An' when I make fun of his name, like that,
  He ist git awful mad an' spunky, an'
  'Fore you know, he ist gwabbed holt of a vine—
  A big long vine 'at's danglin' up there, an'
  He ist helt on wite tight to that, an' down
  He swung quick past my face, he did, an' ist
  Kicked at me hard's he could!

                      But I'm too quick
  Fer Mr. Squidjicum! I ist weached out
  An' ketched him, in my hand—an' helt him, too,
  An' squeezed him, ist like little wobins when
  They can't fly yet an' git flopped out their nest.
  An' nen I turn him all wound over, an'
  Look at him clos't, you know—wite clos't,—'cause ef
  He is a Fairy, w'y, I want to see
  The wings he's got—But he's dwessed up so fine
  'At I can't see no wings.—An' all the time
  He's twyin' to kick me yet: An' so I take
  F'esh holts an' squeeze agin—an' harder, too;
  An' I says, "Hold up, Mr. Squidjicum!—
  You're kickin' the w'ong man!" I says; an' nen
  I ist squeeze' him, purt'-nigh my best, I did—
  An' I heerd somepin' bust!—An' nen he cwied
  An' says, "You better look out what you're doin'!—
  You' bust' my spiderweb-suspen'ners, an'
  You' got my woseleaf-coat all cwinkled up
  So's I can't go to old Miss Hoodjicum's
  Tea-party, 's'afternoon!"

                      An' nen I says—
  "Who's 'old Miss Hoodjicum'?" I says

                      An'he
  Says "Ef you lemme loose I'll tell you."

                      So
  I helt the little skeezics 'way fur out
  In one hand—so's he can't jump down t' th' ground
  Wivout a-gittin' all stove up: an' nen
  I says, "You're loose now.—Go ahead an' tell
  'Bout the 'tea-party' where you're goin' at
  So awful fast!" I says.

                      An' nen he say,—
  "No use to tell you 'bout it, 'cause you won't
  Believe it, 'less you go there your own se'f
  An' see it wiv your own two eyes!" he says.
  An' he says: "Ef you lemme shore-nuff loose,
  An' p'omise 'at you'll keep wite still, an' won't
  Tetch nothin' 'at you see—an' never tell
  Nobody in the world—an' lemme loose—
  W'y, nen I'll take you there!"

                      But I says, "Yes
  An' ef I let you loose, you'll run!" I says.
  An' he says "No, I won't!—I hope may die!"
  Nen I says, "Cwoss your heart you won't!"

                      An'he
  Ist cwoss his heart; an' nen I weach an' set
  The little feller up on a long vine—
  An' he 'uz so tickled to git loose agin,
  He gwab' the vine wiv boff his little hands
  An' ist take an' turn in, he did, an' skin
  'Bout forty-'leven cats!

                      Nen when he git
  Through whirlin' wound the vine, an' set on top
  Of it agin, w'y nen his "woseleaf-coat"
  He bwag so much about, it's ist all tored
  Up, an' ist hangin' strips an' rags—so he
  Look like his Pa's a dwunkard. An' so nen
  When he see what he's done—a-actin' up
  So smart,—he's awful mad, I guess; an' ist
  Pout out his lips an' twis' his little face
  Ist ugly as he kin, an' set an' tear
  His whole coat off—an' sleeves an' all.—An' nen
  He wad it all togevver an' ist throw  It at me ist as hard as he kin dwive!

  An' when I weach to ketch him, an' 'uz goin'
  To give him 'nuvver squeezin', he ist flewed
  Clean up on top the arber!—'Cause, you know,
  They wuz wings on him—when he tored his coat  Clean off—they wuz wings under there. But they
  Wuz purty wobbly-like an' wouldn't work
  Hardly at all—'Cause purty soon, when I
  Throwed clods at him, an' sticks, an' got him shooed
  Down off o' there, he come a-floppin' down
  An' lit k-bang! on our old chicken-coop,
  An' ist laid there a-whimper'n' like a child!
  An' I tiptoed up wite clos't, an' I says "What's
  The matter wiv ye, Squidjicum?"

                      An'he
  Says: "Dog-gone! when my wings gits stwaight agin,
  Where you all cwumpled 'em," he says, "I bet
  I'll ist fly clean away an' won't take you
  To old Miss Hoodjicum's at all!" he says.
  An' nen I ist weach out wite quick, I did,
  An' gwab the sassy little snipe agin—
  Nen tooked my topstwing an' tie down his wings
  So's he can't fly, 'less'n I want him to!
  An' nen I says: "Now, Mr. Squidjicum,
  You better ist light out," I says, "to old
  Miss Hoodjicum's, an' show me how to git
  There, too," I says; "er ef you don't," I says,
  "I'll climb up wiv you on our buggy-shed
  An' push you off!" I says.

                      An nen he say
  All wight, he'll show me there; an' tell me nen
  To set him down wite easy on his feet,
  An' loosen up the stwing a little where
  It cut him under th' arms. An' nen he says,
  "Come on!" he says; an' went a-limpin' 'long
  The garden-path—an' limpin' 'long an' 'long
  Tel—purty soon he come on 'long to where's
  A grea'-big cabbage-leaf. An' he stoop down
  An' say "Come on inunder here wiv me!"
  So I stoop down an' crawl inunder there,
  Like he say.

                      An' inunder there's a grea'
  Big clod, they is—a awful grea' big clod!
  An' nen he says, "Roll this-here clod away!"
  An' so I roll' the clod away. An' nen
  It's all wet, where the dew'z inunder where
  The old clod wuz,—an' nen the Fairy he
  Git on the wet-place: Nen he say to me
  "Git on the wet-place, too!" An' nen he say,
  "Now hold yer breff an' shet yer eyes!" he says,
  "Tel I say Squinchy-winchy!" Nen he say—
  Somepin in Dutch, I guess.—An' nen I felt
  Like we 'uz sinkin' down—an' sinkin' down!—
  Tel purty soon the little Fairy weach
  An' pinch my nose an' yell at me an' say,
  "Squinchy-winchy! Look wherever you please!"
  Nen when I looked—Oh! they 'uz purtyest place
  Down there you ever saw in all the World!—
  They 'uz ist flowers an' woses—yes, an' twees  Wiv blossoms on an' big ripe apples boff!
  An' butterflies, they wuz—an' hummin'-birds—
  An' yellowbirds an' bluebirds—yes, an' red!—
  An' ever'wheres an' all awound 'uz vines
  Wiv ripe p'serve-pears on 'em!—Yes, an' all
  An' ever'thing 'at's ever gwowin' in
  A garden—er canned up—all ripe at wunst!—
  It wuz ist like a garden—only it
  'Uz little tit o' garden—'bout big wound
  As ist our twun'el-bed is.—An' all wound
  An' wound the little garden's a gold fence—
  An' little gold gate, too—an' ash-hopper
  'At's all gold, too—an' ist full o' gold ashes!
  An' wite in th' middle o' the garden wuz
  A little gold house, 'at's ist 'bout as big
  As ist a bird-cage is: An' in the house
  They 'uz whole-lots more Fairies there—'cause I
  Picked up the little house, an 'peeked in at
  The winders, an' I see 'em all in there
  Ist buggin' wound! An' Mr. Squidjicum
  He twy to make me quit, but I gwab him,
  An' poke him down the chimbly, too, I did!—
  An' y'ort to see him hop out 'mongst 'em there!
  Ist like he 'uz the boss an' ist got back!—
  "Hain't ye got on them-air dew-dumplin's yet?"  He says.

                An' they says no.

                      An' nen he says
  "Better git at 'em nen!" he says, "wite quick—
  'Cause old Miss Hoodjicum's a-comin'!"

                      Nen
  They all set wound a little gold tub—an'
  All 'menced a-peelin' dewdwops, ist like they
  'Uz peaches.—An', it looked so funny, I
  Ist laugh' out loud, an' dwopped the little house,—
  An' 't busted like a soap-bubble!—An't skeered
  Me so, I—I—I—I,—it skeered me so,
  I—ist waked up.—No! I ain't ben asleep  An' dream it all, like you think,—but it's shore
  Fer-certain fact an' cwoss my heart it is!

  All were quite gracious in their plaudits of
  Bud's Fairy; but another stir above
  That murmur was occasioned by a sweet
  Young lady-caller, from a neighboring street,
  Who rose reluctantly to say good-night
  To all the pleasant friends and the delight
  Experienced,—as she had promised sure
  To be back home by nine. Then paused, demure,
  And wondered was it very dark.—Oh, no!—
  She had come by herself and she could go
  Without an escort. Ah, you sweet girls all!
  What young gallant but comes at such a call,
  Your most abject of slaves! Why, there were three
  Young men, and several men of family,
  Contesting for the honor—which at last
  Was given to Cousin Rufus; and he cast
  A kingly look behind him, as the pair
  Vanished with laughter in the darkness there.

  As order was restored, with everything
  Suggestive, in its way, of "romancing,"
  Some one observed that now would be the chance
  For Noey to relate a circumstance
  That he—the very specious rumor went—
  Had been eye-witness of, by accident.
  Noey turned pippin-crimson; then turned pale
  As death; then turned to flee, without avail.—
  "There! head him off! Now! hold him in his chair!—
  Tell us the Serenade-tale, now, Noey.—There!"

  "They ain't much 'tale' about it!" Noey said.—
  "K'tawby grapes wuz gittin' good-n-red
  I rickollect; and Tubb Kingry and me
  'Ud kindo' browse round town, daytime, to see
  What neighbers 'peared to have the most to spare
  'At wuz git-at-able and no dog there
  When we come round to git 'em, say 'bout ten
  O'clock at night when mostly old folks then
  Wuz snorin' at each other like they yit
  Helt some old grudge 'at never slep' a bit.
  Well, at the Pars'nige—ef ye'll call to mind,—
  They's 'bout the biggest grape-arber you'll find
  'Most anywheres.—And mostly there, we knowed
  They wuz k'tawbies thick as ever growed—
  And more'n they'd p'serve.—Besides I've heerd
  Ma say k'tawby-grape-p'serves jes 'peared
  A waste o' sugar, anyhow!—And so
  My conscience stayed outside and lem me go
  With Tubb, one night, the back-way, clean up through
  That long black arber to the end next to
  The house, where the k'tawbies, don't you know,
  Wuz thickest. And t'uz lucky we went slow,—
  Fer jest as we wuz cropin' tords the gray-
  End, like, of the old arber—heerd Tubb say
  In a skeered whisper, 'Hold up! They's some one
  Jes slippin' in here!—and looks like a gun  He's carryin'!' I golly! we both spread
  Out flat aginst the ground!

                      "'What's that?' Tubb said.—
  And jest then—'plink! plunk! plink!' we heerd something
  Under the back-porch-winder.—Then, i jing!
  Of course we rickollected 'bout the young
  School-mam 'at wuz a-boardin' there, and sung,
  And played on the melodium in the choir.—
  And she 'uz 'bout as purty to admire
  As any girl in town!—the fac's is, she
  Jest wuz, them times, to a dead certainty,
  The belle o' this-here bailywick!—But—Well,—
  I'd best git back to what I'm tryin' to tell:—
  It wuz some feller come to serenade
  Miss Wetherell: And there he plunked and played
  His old guitar, and sung, and kep' his eye
  Set on her winder, blacker'n the sky!—
  And black it stayed.—But mayby she wuz 'way
  From home, er wore out—bein' Saturday!
  "It seemed a good-'eal longer, but I know  He sung and plunked there half a' hour er so
  Afore, it 'peared like, he could ever git
  His own free qualified consents to quit
  And go off 'bout his business. When he went
  I bet you could a-bought him fer a cent!

  "And now, behold ye all!—as Tubb and me
  Wuz 'bout to raise up,—right in front we see
  A feller slippin' out the arber, square
  Smack under that-air little winder where
  The other feller had been standin'.—And
  The thing he wuz a-carryin' in his hand
  Wuzn't no gun at all!—It wuz a flute,—
  And whoop-ee! how it did git up and toot
  And chirp and warble, tel a mockin'-bird
  'Ud dast to never let hisse'f be heerd
  Ferever, after sich miracalous, high
  Jim-cracks and grand skyrootics played there by
  Yer Cousin Rufus!—Yes-sir; it wuz him!—
  And what's more,—all a-suddent that-air dim
  Dark winder o' Miss Wetherell's wuz lit
  Up like a' oyshture-sign, and under it
  We see him sort o' wet his lips and smile
  Down 'long his row o' dancin' fingers, while
  He kindo' stiffened up and kinked his breath
  And everlastin'ly jest blowed the peth
  Out o' that-air old one-keyed flute o' his.
  And, bless their hearts, that's all the 'tale' they is!"

  And even as Noey closed, all radiantly
  The unconscious hero of the history,
  Returning, met a perfect driving storm
  Of welcome—a reception strangely warm
  And unaccountable, to him, although
  Most gratifying,—and he told them so.
  "I only urge," he said, "my right to be
  Enlightened." And a voice said: "Certainly:—
  During your absence we agreed that you
  Should tell us all a story, old or new,
  Just in the immediate happy frame of mind
  We knew you would return in."

                      So, resigned,
  The ready flutist tossed his hat aside—
  Glanced at the children, smiled, and thus complied.

  My little story, Cousin Rufus said,
  Is not so much a story as a fact.
  It is about a certain willful boy—
  An aggrieved, unappreciated boy,
  Grown to dislike his own home very much,
  By reason of his parents being not
  At all up to his rigid standard and
  Requirements and exactions as a son
  And disciplinarian.

                      So, sullenly
  He brooded over his disheartening
  Environments and limitations, till,
  At last, well knowing that the outside world
  Would yield him favors never found at home,
  He rose determinedly one July dawn—
  Even before the call for breakfast—and,
  Climbing the alley-fence, and bitterly
  Shaking his clenched fist at the woodpile, he
  Evanished down the turnpike.—Yes: he had,
  Once and for all, put into execution
  His long low-muttered threatenings—He had
  Run off!—He had—had run away from home!

  His parents, at discovery of his flight,
  Bore up first-rate—especially his Pa,—
  Quite possibly recalling his own youth,
  And therefrom predicating, by high noon,
  The absent one was very probably
  Disporting his nude self in the delights
  Of the old swimmin'-hole, some hundred yards
  Below the slaughter-house, just east of town.
  The stoic father, too, in his surmise
  Was accurate—For, lo! the boy was there!

  And there, too, he remained throughout the day—
  Save at one starving interval in which
  He clad his sunburnt shoulders long enough
  To shy across a wheatfield, shadow-like,
  And raid a neighboring orchard—bitterly,
  And with spasmodic twitchings of the lip,
  Bethinking him how all the other boys
  Had homes to go to at the dinner-hour—
  While he—alas!—he had no home!—At least
  These very words seemed rising mockingly,
  Until his every thought smacked raw and sour
  And green and bitter as the apples he
  In vain essayed to stay his hunger with.
  Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boys
  Returned rejuvenated for the long
  Wet revel of the feverish afternoon.—
  Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swam
  And spluttered, in their weltering merriment,
  He tried to laugh, too,—but his voice was hoarse
  And sounded to him like some other boy's.
  And then he felt a sudden, poking sort
  Of sickness at the heart, as though some cold
  And scaly pain were blindly nosing it
  Down in the dreggy darkness of his breast.
  The tensioned pucker of his purple lips
  Grew ever chillier and yet more tense—
  The central hurt of it slow spreading till
  It did possess the little face entire.
  And then there grew to be a knuckled knot—
  An aching kind of core within his throat—
  An ache, all dry and swallowless, which seemed
  To ache on just as bad when he'd pretend
  He didn't notice it as when he did.
  It was a kind of a conceited pain—
  An overbearing, self-assertive and
  Barbaric sort of pain that clean outhurt
  A boy's capacity for suffering—
  So, many times, the little martyr needs
  Must turn himself all suddenly and dive
  From sight of his hilarious playmates and
  Surreptitiously weep under water.

                      Thus
  He wrestled with his awful agony
  Till almost dark; and then, at last—then, with
  The very latest lingering group of his
  Companions, he moved turgidly toward home—
  Nay, rather oozed that way, so slow he went,—
  With lothful, hesitating, loitering,
  Reluctant, late-election-returns air,
  Heightened somewhat by the conscience-made resolve
  Of chopping a double-armful of wood
  As he went in by rear way of the kitchen.
  And this resolve he executed;—yet
  The hired girl made no comment whatsoever,
  But went on washing up the supper-things,
  Crooning the unutterably sad song, "Then think,
  Oh, think how lonely this heart must ever be!"
  Still, with affected carelessness, the boy
  Ranged through the pantry; but the cupboard-door
  Was locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stick
  And went out on the porch.—At least the pump,
  He prophesied, would meet him kindly and
  Shake hands with him and welcome his return!
  And long he held the old tin dipper up—
  And oh, how fresh and pure and sweet the draught!
  Over the upturned brim, with grateful eyes
  He saw the back-yard, in the gathering night,
  Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good:
  The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinked
  A sort of sallow gladness over his
  Home-coming, with this softening of the heart.
  He did not leave the dipper carelessly
  In the milk-trough.—No: he hung it back upon
  Its old nail thoughtfully—even tenderly.
  All slowly then he turned and sauntered toward
  The rain-barrel at the corner of the house,
  And, pausing, peered into it at the few
  Faint stars reflected there. Then—moved by some
  Strange impulse new to him—he washed his feet.
  He then went in the house—straight on into
  The very room where sat his parents by
  The evening lamp.—The father all intent
  Reading his paper, and the mother quite
  As intent with her sewing. Neither looked
  Up at his entrance—even reproachfully,—
  And neither spoke.

                      The wistful runaway
  Drew a long, quavering breath, and then sat down
  Upon the extreme edge of a chair. And all
  Was very still there for a long, long while.—
  Yet everything, someway, seemed restful-like
  And homey and old-fashioned, good and kind,
  And sort of kin to him!—Only too still!  If somebody would say something—just speak—
  Or even rise up suddenly and come
  And lift him by the ear sheer off his chair—
  Or box his jaws—Lord bless 'em!—anything!—
  Was he not there to thankfully accept
  Any reception from parental source
  Save this incomprehensible voicelessness.
  O but the silence held its very breath!
  If but the ticking clock would only strike  And for an instant drown the whispering,
  Lisping, sifting sound the katydids
  Made outside in the grassy nowhere.

                      Far
  Down some back-street he heard the faint halloo
  Of boys at their night-game of "Town-fox,"
  But now with no desire at all to be
  Participating in their sport—No; no;—
  Never again in this world would he want
  To join them there!—he only wanted just
  To stay in home of nights—Always—always—
  Forever and a day!

                      He moved; and coughed—
  Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yet
  No vaguest of parental notice or
  Solicitude in answer—no response—
  No word—no look. O it was deathly still!—
  So still it was that really he could not
  Remember any prior silence that
  At all approached it in profundity
  And depth and density of utter hush.
  He felt that he himself must break it: So,
  Summoning every subtle artifice
  Of seeming nonchalance and native ease
  And naturalness of utterance to his aid,
  And gazing raptly at the house-cat where
  She lay curled in her wonted corner of
  The hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airily
  And said: "I see you've got the same old cat!"

  The merriment that followed was subdued—
  As though the story-teller's attitude
  Were dual, in a sense, appealing quite
  As much to sorrow as to mere delight,
  According, haply, to the listener's bent
  Either of sad or merry temperament.—
  "And of your two appeals I much prefer
  The pathos," said "The Noted Traveler,"—
  "For should I live to twice my present years,
  I know I could not quite forget the tears
  That child-eyes bleed, the little palms nailed wide,
  And quivering soul and body crucified....
  But, bless 'em! there are no such children here
  To-night, thank God!—Come here to me, my dear!"
  He said to little Alex, in a tone
  So winning that the sound of it alone
  Had drawn a child more lothful to his knee:—
  "And, now-sir, I'll agree if you'll agree,—
  You tell us all a story, and then I  Will tell one."

                "But I can't."

                      "Well, can't you try?"
  "Yes, Mister: he kin tell one. Alex, tell
  The one, you know, 'at you made up so well,
  About the Bear. He allus tells that one,"
  Said Bud,—"He gits it mixed some 'bout the gun  An' ax the Little Boy had, an' apples, too."—
  Then Uncle Mart said—"There, now! that'll do!—
  Let Alex tell his story his own way!"
  And Alex, prompted thus, without delay
  Began.

  THAT ALEX "IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F"

  W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went out
  In the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out
  'Way in the grea'-big woods—he did.—An' he
  Wuz goin'along—an'goin'along, you know,
  An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "Wooh!"—
  Ist thataway—"Woo-ooh!" An' he wuz skeered,
  He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree—
  A grea'-big tree, he did,—a sicka-more tree.
  An' nen he heerd it agin: an' he looked round,
  An' 't'uz a Bear!—a grea'-big, shore-nuff Bear!—
  No: 't'uz two Bears, it wuz—two grea'-big Bears—
  One of 'em wuz—ist one's a grea'-big Bear.—
  But they ist boff went "Wooh! "—An' here they come
  To climb the tree an' git the Little Boy
  An'eat him up!

                      An' nen the Little Boy
  He 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here come
  The grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to git
  The Little Boy an' eat him up—Oh, no!—
  It 'uzn't the Big Bear 'at clumb the tree—
  It 'uz the Little Bear. So here he come
  Climbin' the tree—an' climbin' the tree! Nen when
  He git wite clos't to the Little Boy, w'y nen
  The Little Boy he ist pulled up his gun
  An' shot the Bear, he did, an' killed him dead!
  An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down out
  The tree—away clean to the ground, he did
  Spling-splung! he falled plum down, an' killed him, too!
  An' lit wite side o' where the' Big Bear's at.

  An' nen the Big Bear's awful mad, you bet!—
  'Cause—'cause the Little Boy he shot his gun
  An' killed the Little Bear.—'Cause the Big Bear
  He—he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa.—An' so here
  He come to climb the big old tree an' git
  The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' when
  The Little Boy he saw the grea'-big Bear  A-comin', he 'uz badder skeered, he wuz,
  Than any time! An' so he think he'll climb
  Up higher—'way up higher in the tree
  Than the old Bear kin climb, you know.—But he—
  He can't climb higher 'an old Bears kin climb,—
  'Cause Bears kin climb up higher in the trees
  Than any little Boys In all the Wo-r-r-ld!

  An' so here come the grea'-big Bear, he did,—
  A-climbin' up—an' up the tree, to git
  The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' so
  The Little Boy he clumbed on higher, an' higher.
  An' higher up the tree—an' higher—an' higher—
  An' higher'n iss-here house is!—An' here come
  Th' old Bear—clos'ter to him all the time!—
  An' nen—first thing you know,—when th' old Big Bear
  Wuz wite clos't to him—nen the Little Boy
  Ist jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's mouf
  An' shot an' killed him dead!—No; I fergot,—
  He didn't shoot the grea'-big Bear at all—
  'Cause they 'uz no load in the gun, you know—
  'Cause when he shot the Little Bear, w'y, nen
  No load 'uz anymore nen in the gun!

  But th' Little Boy clumbed higher up, he did—
  He clumbed lots higher—an' on up higher—an' higher
  An' higher—tel he ist can't climb no higher,
  'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'way
  Up in the teeny-weeny tip-top of
  The tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don't
  Be keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nen
  He look around—An' here come th' old Bear!
  An' so the Little Boy make up his mind
  He's got to ist git out o' there some way!—
  'Cause here come the old Bear!—so clos't, his bref's
  Purt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it is
  Aginst his bare feet—ist like old "Ring's" bref
  When he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired.
  So when th' old Bear's so clos't—the Little Boy
  Ist gives a grea'-big jump fer 'nother tree—
  No!—no he don't do that!—I tell you what
  The Little Boy does:—W'y, nen—w'y, he—Oh, yes—
  The Little Boy he finds a hole up there
  'At's in the tree—an' climbs in there an' hides—
  An' nen the old Bear can't find the Little Boy
  Ut-tall!—But, purty soon th' old Bear finds
  The Little Boy's gun 'at's up there—'cause the gun  It's too tall to tooked wiv him in the hole.
  So, when the old Bear find' the gun, he knows
  The Little Boy ist hid 'round somers there,—
  An' th' old Bear 'gins to snuff an' sniff around,
  An' sniff an' snuff around—so's he kin find
  Out where the Little Boy's hid at.—An' nen—nen—
  Oh, yes!—W'y, purty soon the old Bear climbs
  'Way out on a big limb—a grea'-long limb,—
  An' nen the Little Boy climbs out the hole
  An' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!... Nen
  The old Bear falls k-splunge! clean to the ground
  An' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did!

  An' nen the Little Boy he git his gun
  An' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree agin—
  No!—no, he didn't git his gun—'cause when
  The Bear falled, nen the gun falled, too—An' broked
  It all to pieces, too!—An' nicest gun!—
  His Pa ist buyed it!—An' the Little Boy
  Ist cried, he did; an' went on climbin' down
  The tree—an' climbin' down—an' climbin' down!—
  An'-sir! when he 'uz purt'-nigh down,—w'y, nen
  The old Bear he jumped up agin!—an he
  Ain't dead ut-tall—ist 'tendin' thataway,
  So he kin git the Little Boy an' eat
  Him up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smart
  To climb clean down the tree.—An' the old Bear
  He can't climb up the tree no more—'cause when
  He fell, he broke one of his—He broke all  His legs!—an' nen he couldn't climb! But he
  Ist won't go 'way an' let the Little Boy
  Come down out of the tree. An' the old Bear
  Ist growls 'round there, he does—ist growls an' goes
  "Wooh! woo-ooh!" all the time! An' Little Boy
  He haf to stay up in the tree—all night—
  An' 'thout no supper neever!—Only they
  Wuz apples on the tree!—An' Little Boy
  Et apples—ist all night—an' cried—an' cried!
  Nen when 'tuz morning th' old Bear went "Wooh!"
  Agin, an' try to climb up in the tree
  An' git the Little Boy.—But he can't  Climb t'save his soul, he can't!—An' oh! he's mad!—
  He ist tear up the ground! an' go "Woo-ooh!"
  An'—Oh,yes!—purty soon, when morning's come
  All light—so's you kin see, you know,—w'y, nen
  The old Bear finds the Little Boy's gun, you know,
  'At's on the ground.—(An' it ain't broke ut-tall—
  I ist said that!) An' so the old Bear think
  He'll take the gun an' shoot the Little Boy:—
  But Bears they don't know much 'bout shootin' guns:
  So when he go to shoot the Little Boy,
  The old Bear got the other end the gun
  Agin his shoulder, 'stid o' th'other end—
  So when he try to shoot the Little Boy,
  It shot the Bear, it did—an' killed him dead!
  An' nen the Little Boy dumb down the tree
  An' chopped his old wooly head off:—Yes, an' killed
  The other Bear agin, he did—an' killed
  All boff the bears, he did—an' tuk 'em home
  An' cooked 'em, too, an' et 'em!

                      —An' that's

  The greeting of the company throughout
  Was like a jubilee,—the children's shout
  And fusillading hand-claps, with great guns
  And detonations of the older ones,
  Raged to such tumult of tempestuous joy,
  It even more alarmed than pleased the boy;
  Till, with a sudden twitching lip, he slid
  Down to the floor and dodged across and hid
  His face against his mother as she raised
  Him to the shelter of her heart, and praised
  His story in low whisperings, and smoothed
  The "amber-colored hair," and kissed, and soothed
  And lulled him back to sweet tranquillity—
  "And 'ats a sign 'at you're the Ma fer me!"
  He lisped, with gurgling ecstasy, and drew
  Her closer, with shut eyes; and feeling, too,
  If he could only purr now like a cat,
  He would undoubtedly be doing that!

  "And now"—the serious host said, lifting there
  A hand entreating silence;—"now, aware
  Of the good promise of our Traveler guest
  To add some story with and for the rest,
  I think I favor you, and him as well,
  Asking a story I have heard him tell,
  And know its truth,in each minute detail:"
  Then leaning on his guest's chair, with a hale
  Hand-pat by way of full indorsement, he
  Said, "Yes—the Free-Slave story—certainly."

  The old man, with his waddy notebook out,
  And glittering spectacles, glanced round about
  The expectant circle, and still firmer drew
  His hat on, with a nervous cough or two:
  And, save at times the big hard words, and tone
  Of gathering passion—all the speaker's own,—
  The tale that set each childish heart astir
  Was thus told by "The Noted Traveler."

  Coming, clean from the Maryland-end
  Of this great National Road of ours,
  Through your vast West; with the time to spend,
  Stopping for days in the main towns, where
  Every citizen seemed a friend,
  And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers,—
  I found no thing that I might narrate
  More singularly strange or queer
  Than a thing I found in your sister-state
  Ohio,—at a river-town—down here
  In my notebook: Zanesville—situate
  On the stream Muskingum—broad and clear,
  And navigable, through half the year,
  North, to Coshocton; south, as far
  As Marietta.—But these facts are
  Not of the story, but the scene  Of the simple little tale I mean
  To tell directly—from this, straight through
  To the end that is best worth listening to:

  Eastward of Zanesville, two or three
  Miles from the town, as our stage drove in,
  I on the driver's seat, and he
  Pointing out this and that to me,—
  On beyond us—among the rest—
  A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng
  Of little children, which he "guessed"
  Was a picnic, as we caught their thin
  High laughter, as we drove along,
  Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly
  He turned and asked, with a curious grin,
  What were my views on Slavery? "Why?"  I asked, in return, with a wary eye.
  "Because," he answered, pointing his whip
  At a little, whitewashed house and shed
  On the edge of the road by the grove ahead,—
  "Because there are two slaves there," he said—
  "Two Black slaves that I've passed each trip
  For eighteen years.—Though they've been set free,
  They have been slaves ever since!" said he.
  And, as our horses slowly drew
  Nearer the little house in view,
  All briefly I heard the history
  Of this little old Negro woman and
  Her husband, house and scrap of land;
  How they were slaves and had been made free
  By their dying master, years ago
  In old Virginia; and then had come
  North here into a free state—so,
  Safe forever, to found a home—
  For themselves alone?—for they left South there
  Five strong sons, who had, alas!
  All been sold ere it came to pass
  This first old master with his last breath
  Had freed the parents.—(He went to death
  Agonized and in dire despair
  That the poor slave children might not share
  Their parents' freedom. And wildly then
  He moaned for pardon and died. Amen!)

  Thus, with their freedom, and little sum
  Of money left them, these two had come
  North, full twenty long years ago;
  And, settling there, they had hopefully
  Gone to work, in their simple way,
  Hauling—gardening—raising sweet
  Corn, and popcorn.—Bird and bee
  In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree
  Singing with them throughout the slow
  Summer's day, with its dust and heat—
  The crops that thirst and the rains that fail;
  Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low,
  And hand-made hominy might find sale
  In the near town-market; or baking pies
  And cakes, to range in alluring show
  At the little window, where the eyes
  Of the Movers' children, driving past,
  Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew
  Into a halt that would sometimes last
  Even the space of an hour or two—
  As the dusty, thirsty travelers made
  Their noonings there in the beeches' shade
  By the old black Aunty's spring-house, where,
  Along with its cooling draughts, were found
  Jugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer,
  Served with her gingerbread-horses there,
  While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'round
  Till the children's rapture knew no bound,
  As she sang and danced for them, quavering clear
  And high the chant of her old slave-days—

      "Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so',
      Dancin' on yo' sandy flo'!"

  Even so had they wrought all ways
  To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,—
  And with what ultimate end in view?—
  They were saving up money enough to be
  Able, in time, to buy their own
  Five children back.

                      Ah! the toil gone through!
  And the long delays and the heartaches, too,
  And self-denials that they had known!
  But the pride and glory that was theirs
  When they first hitched up their shackly cart
  For the long, long journey South.—The start
  In the first drear light of the chilly dawn,
  With no friends gathered in grieving throng,—
  With no farewells and favoring prayers;
  But, as they creaked and jolted on,
  Their chiming voices broke in song—

      "'Hail, all hail! don't you see the stars a-fallin'?
              Hail, all hail! I'm on my way.
                        Gideon [1] am
                        A healin' ba'm—
              I belong to the blood-washed army.
                        Gideon am
                        A healin' ba'm—
                                  On my way!'"

  And their return!—with their oldest boy
  Along with them! Why, their happiness
  Spread abroad till it grew a joy
  Universal—It even reached
  And thrilled the town till the Church was stirred
  Into suspecting that wrong was wrong!—
  And it stayed awake as the preacher preached
  A Real "Love"-text that he had not long
  To ransack for in the Holy Word.

  And the son, restored, and welcomed so,
  Found service readily in the town;
  And, with the parents, sure and slow,
  He went "saltin' de cole cash down."

  So with the next boy—and each one
  In turn, till four of the five at last
  Had been bought back; and, in each case,
  With steady work and good homes not
  Far from the parents, they chipped in
  To the family fund, with an equal grace.
  Thus they managed and planned and wrought,
  And the old folks throve—Till the night before
  They were to start for the lone last son
  In the rainy dawn—their money fast
  Hid away in the house,—two mean,
  Murderous robbers burst the door.
  ...Then, in the dark, was a scuffle—a fall—
  An old man's gasping cry—and then
  A woman's fife-like shriek.

                      ...Three men
  Splashing by on horseback heard
  The summons: And in an instant all
  Sprung to their duty, with scarce a word.
  And they were in time—not only to save
  The lives of the old folks, but to bag
  Both the robbers, and buck-and-gag
  And land them safe in the county-jail—
  Or, as Aunty said, with a blended awe
  And subtlety,—"Safe in de calaboose whah
  De dawgs caint bite 'em!"

                      —So prevail
  The faithful!—So had the Lord upheld
  His servants of both deed and prayer,—
  HIS the glory unparalleled—
  Theirs the reward,—their every son
  Free, at last, as the parents were!
  And, as the driver ended there
  In front of the little house, I said,
  All fervently, "Well done! well done!"
  At which he smiled, and turned his head
  And pulled on the leaders' lines and—"See!"
  He said,—"'you can read old Aunty's sign?"
  And, peering down through these specs of mine
  On a little, square board-sign, I read:

      "Stop, traveler, if you think it fit,
      And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit.
      The rocky spring is very clear,
      And soon converted into beer."

  And, though I read aloud, I could
  Scarce hear myself for laugh and shout
  Of children—a glad multitude
  Of little people, swarming out
  Of the picnic-grounds I spoke about.—
  And in their rapturous midst, I see
  Again—through mists of memory—
  A black old Negress laughing up
  At the driver, with her broad lips rolled
  Back from her teeth, chalk-white, and gums
  Redder than reddest red-ripe plums.
  He took from her hand the lifted cup
  Of clear spring-water, pure and cold,
  And passed it to me: And I raised my hat
  And drank to her with a reverence that
  My conscience knew was justly due
  The old black face, and the old eyes, too—
  The old black head, with its mossy mat
  Of hair, set under its cap and frills
  White as the snows on Alpine hills;
  Drank to the old black smile, but yet
  Bright as the sun on the violet,—
  Drank to the gnarled and knuckled old
  Black hands whose palms had ached and bled
  And pitilessly been worn pale
  And white almost as the palms that hold
  Slavery's lash while the victim's wail
  Fails as a crippled prayer might fail.—
  Aye, with a reverence infinite,
  I drank to the old black face and head—
  The old black breast with its life of light—
  The old black hide with its heart of gold.