The Child-World—long and long since lost to view—
      A Fairy Paradise!—
  How always fair it was and fresh and new—
    How every affluent hour heaped heart and eyes
      With treasures of surprise!

  Enchantments tangible: The under-brink
      Of dawns that launched the sight
  Up seas of gold: The dewdrop on the pink,
    With all the green earth in it and blue height
      Of heavens infinite:

  The liquid, dripping songs of orchard-birds—
      The wee bass of the bees,—
  With lucent deeps of silence afterwards;
    The gay, clandestine whisperings of the breeze
      And glad leaves of the trees.

  O Child-World: After this world—just as when
      I found you first sufficed
  My soulmost need—if I found you again,
    With all my childish dream so realised,
      I should not be surprised.

  A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less,
  To those who knew its boundless happiness.
  A simple old frame house—eight rooms in all—
  Set just one side the center of a small
  But very hopeful Indiana town,—
  The upper-story looking squarely down
  Upon the main street, and the main highway
  From East to West,—historic in its day,
  Known as The National Road—old-timers, all
  Who linger yet, will happily recall
  It as the scheme and handiwork, as well
  As property, of "Uncle Sam," and tell
  Of its importance, "long and long afore
  Railroads wuz ever dreamp' of!"—Furthermore,
  The reminiscent first Inhabitants
  Will make that old road blossom with romance
  Of snowy caravans, in long parade
  Of covered vehicles, of every grade
  From ox-cart of most primitive design,
  To Conestoga wagons, with their fine
  Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear,
  High names and chiming bells—to childish ear
  And eye entrancing as the glittering train
  Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain.
  And, in like spirit, haply they will tell
  You of the roadside forests, and the yell
  Of "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride,
  And "screechin' catamounts" on every side.—
  Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes,
  And yet unriddled mysteries of the times
  Called "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rare
  Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair
  Out of his twinkling eyes and said,—"Well John,
  They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!"

  The old home site was portioned into three
  Distinctive lots. The front one—natively
  Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine
  With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine—
  The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and
  Upon the alley north and south, left hand,
  The old wood-house,—half, trimly stacked with wood,
  And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood
  Steadfastly through all seasons.—Over it,
  Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit,
  And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane—
  And little jack-plane, too—the children's vain
  Possession by pretense—in fancy they
  Manipulating it in endless play,
  Turning out countless curls and loops of bright,
  Fine satin shavings—Rapture infinite!
  Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box
  Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's
  Outline in "curly maple"; and a pair
  Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there.
  Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll,
  Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole"
  And careful tackle—all securely out
  Of reach of children, rummaging about.

  Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free
  Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree
  Known as "The Prince's Harvest"—Magic phrase!
  That was a boy's own tree, in many ways!—
  Its girth and height meet both for the caress
  Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness:
  And then its apples, humoring his whim,
  Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him—
  Even in June, impetuous as he,
  They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree.
  And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell!—
  And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss them well"!

  "The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stood
  In fairly sympathetic neighborhood
  Of this wild princeling with his early gold
  To toss about so lavishly nor hold
  In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once
  All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months.
  Under the spacious shade of this the eyes
  Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies
  Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between,
  And "when the old cat died" they saw but green.
  And, then, there was a cherry-tree.—We all
  And severally will yet recall
  From our lost youth, in gentlest memory,
  The blessed fact—There was a cherry-tree.

      There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows
      Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
      No more its airy visions of pure joy—
        As when you were a boy.

      There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set
      His blue against its white—O blue as jet
      He seemed there then!—But now—Whoever knew
        He was so pale a blue!

      There was a cherry-tree—Our child-eyes saw
      The miracle:—Its pure white snows did thaw
      Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet
        But for a boy to eat.

      There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!—
      There was a bloom of snow—There was a boy—
      There was a Bluejay of the realest blue—
        And fruit for both of you.

  Then the old garden, with the apple-trees
  Grouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees"
  By the "white-winter-pearmain"; and a row
  Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so.
  The old grape-arbor in the center, by
  The pathway to the stable, with the sty
  Behind it, and upon it, cootering flocks
  Of pigeons, and the cutest "martin-box"!—
  Made like a sure-enough house—with roof, and doors
  And windows in it, and veranda-floors
  And balusters all 'round it—yes, and at
  Each end a chimney—painted red at that
  And penciled white, to look like little bricks;
  And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks,
  Two tiny little lightning-rods were run
  Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun.
  Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.—
  It may be you can guess who, afterwhile.
  Home in his stall, "Old Sorrel" munched his hay
  And oats and corn, and switched the flies away,
  In a repose of patience good to see,
  And earnest of the gentlest pedigree.
  With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed
  Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed
  Around the edges of the lot outside,
  And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried
  To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred,
  But dropped, k'whop! and scraped the buggy-shed,
  Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair
  Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there.
  Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet
  And whinneying a whinney like a bleat,
  He would pursue himself around the lot
  And—do the whole thing over, like as not!...
  Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread
  And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!
  Above the fences, either side, were seen
  The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green
  Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall
  Alike whitewashed, and order in it all:
  The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade
  And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid
  Aside, were in their places, ready for
  The hand of either the possessor or
  Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan
  Of any tool he might not chance to own.

  Such was the Child-World of the long-ago—
  The little world these children used to know:—
  Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
  Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
  Inhabiting this wee world all their own.—
  Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
  Of grave command—a general on parade
  Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
  By his proud followers.

                      But Johnty yet—
  After all serious duties—could forget
  The gravity of life to the extent,
  At times, of kindling much astonishment
  About him: With a quick, observant eye,
  And mind and memory, he could supply
  The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
  And at the most unlooked-for times on earth
  Was wont to break into some travesty
  On those around him—feats of mimicry
  Of this one's trick of gesture—that one's walk—
  Or this one's laugh—or that one's funny talk,—
  The way "the watermelon-man" would try
  His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;—
  How he drove into town at morning—then
  At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.

  Though these divertisements of Johnty's were
  Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there
  Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret—
  A spirit of remorse that would not let
  Him rest for days thereafter.—Such times he,
  As some boy said, "jist got too overly
  Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,
  To 'sociate with—less'n we 'ud go
  And jine his church!"

                      Next after Johnty came
  His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.—
  And O how white his hair was—and how thick
  His face with freckles,—and his ears, how quick
  And curious and intrusive!—And how pale
  The blue of his big eyes;—and how a tale
  Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still
  Bigger and bigger!—and when "Jack" would kill
  The old "Four-headed Giant," Bud's big eyes
  Were swollen truly into giant-size.
  And Bud was apt in make-believes—would hear
  His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear
  And memory of both subject and big words,
  That he would take the book up afterwards
  And feign to "read aloud," with such success
  As caused his truthful elders real distress.
  But he must have big words—they seemed to give
  Extremer range to the superlative—
  That was his passion. "My Gran'ma," he said,
  One evening, after listening as she read
  Some heavy old historical review—
  With copious explanations thereunto
  Drawn out by his inquiring turn of mind,—
  "My Gran'ma she's read all books—ever' kind
  They is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' sea
  An' Nations of the Earth!—An' she is the
  Historicul-est woman ever wuz!"
  (Forgive the verse's chuckling as it does
  In its erratic current.—Oftentimes
  The little willowy waterbrook of rhymes
  Must falter in its music, listening to
  The children laughing as they used to do.)

      Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow,
        Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray
      That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a
        Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May.

      Ah, my lovely Willow!—Let the Waters lilt your graces,—
        They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above,
      Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places
        Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love.

  Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair,
  And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there.
  Her dignified and "little lady" airs
  Of never either romping up the stairs
  Or falling down them; thoughtful everyway
  Of others first—The kind of child at play
  That "gave up," for the rest, the ripest pear
  Or peach or apple in the garden there
  Beneath the trees where swooped the airy swing—
  She pushing it, too glad for anything!
  Or, in the character of hostess, she
  Would entertain her friends delightfully
  In her play-house,—with strips of carpet laid
  Along the garden-fence within the shade
  Of the old apple-trees—where from next yard
  Came the two dearest friends in her regard,
  The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu—
  As shy and lovely as the lilies grew
  In their idyllic home,—yet sometimes they
  Admitted Bud and Alex to their play,
  Who did their heavier work and helped them fix
  To have a "Festibul"—and brought the bricks
  And built the "stove," with a real fire and all,
  And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tall
  And wonderfully smoky—even to
  Their childish aspirations, as it blew
  And swooped and swirled about them till their sight
  Was feverish even as their high delight.
  Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaks
  Of temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks,
  And "amber-colored hair"—his mother said
  'Twas that, when others laughed and called it "red"
  And Alex threw things at them—till they'd call
  A truce, agreeing "'t'uz n't red ut-tall!"

  But Alex was affectionate beyond
  The average child, and was extremely fond
  Of the paternal relatives of his
  Of whom he once made estimate like this:—
  "I'm only got two brothers,—but my Pa  He's got most brothers'n you ever saw!—
  He's got seben brothers!—Yes, an' they're all my
  Seben Uncles!—Uncle John, an' Jim,—an' I'
  Got Uncle George, an' Uncle Andy, too,
  An' Uncle Frank, an' Uncle Joe.—An' you
  Know Uncle Mart.—An', all but him, they're great
  Big mens!—An' nen s Aunt Sarah—she makes eight!—
  I'm got eight uncles!—'cept Aunt Sarah can't  Be ist my uncle 'cause she's ist my aunt!"

  Then, next to Alex—and the last indeed
  Of these five little ones of whom you read—
  Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp,—
  As though her Elfin lips had caught some wisp
  Of floss between them as they strove with speech,
  Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach—
  Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could say
  With looks that made her meaning clear as day.

  And, knowing now the children, you must know
  The father and the mother they loved so:—
  The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed,
  Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside
  The slender little mother, seemed in truth
  A very king of men—since, from his youth,
  To his hale manhood now—(worthy as then,—
  A lawyer and a leading citizen
  Of the proud little town and county-seat—
  His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)—
  He had known outdoor labor—rain and shine—
  Bleak Winter, and bland Summer—foul and fine.
  So Nature had ennobled him and set
  Her symbol on him like a coronet:
  His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.—
  Superior of stature as of grace,
  Even the children by the spell were wrought
  Up to heroics of their simple thought,
  And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straight
  And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate
  The towering ironweed the scythe had spared
  For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared
  It would grow on till it became a tree,
  With cocoanuts and monkeys in—maybe!

  Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe
  And admiration of the father, saw
  A being so exalted—even more
  Like adoration was the love they bore
  The gentle mother.—Her mild, plaintive face
  Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace
  And sweetness luminous when joy made glad
  Her features with a smile; or saintly sad
  As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom
  Of any childish grief, or as a room
  Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn
  Across the window and the sunshine gone.
  Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands,
  Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands
  Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips
  And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips.

  Though heavy household tasks were pitiless,
  No little waist or coat or checkered dress
  But knew her needle's deftness; and no skill
  Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill;
  Or fashioning, in complicate design,
  All rich embroideries of leaf and vine,
  With tiniest twining tendril,—bud and bloom
  And fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfume
  And dainty touch and taste of them, to see
  Their semblance wrought in such rare verity.

  Shrined in her sanctity of home and love,
  And love's fond service and reward thereof,
  Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!—
  Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee
  Her sewing—her workbasket on the floor
  Beside her,—Springtime through the open door
  Balmily stealing in and all about
  The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout
  And laughter of the children at their play,
  And neighbor-children from across the way
  Calling in gleeful challenge—save alone
  One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone—
  The boy, prone on the floor, above a book
  Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look—
  Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell,
  Is lifted, with a light ineffable—
  As though her senses caught no mortal cry,
  But heard, instead, some poem going by.

      The Child-heart is so strange a little thing—
        So mild—so timorously shy and small.—
      When grown-up hearts throb, it goes scampering
        Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all!—
                  It is the veriest mouse
                  That hides in any house—
        So wild a little thing is any Child-heart!

                      Child-heart!—mild heart!—
                      Ho, my little wild heart!—
                Come up here to me out o' the dark,
                      Or let me come to you!
      So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be.
        With never one maturer heart for friend
      And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy
        And love might lend it comfort to the end,—
                  Whose yearnings, aches and stings.
                  Over poor little things
        Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart.

                      Child-heart!—mild heart!—
                      Ho, my little wild heart!—
                Come up here to me out o' the dark,
                      Or let me come to you!
      Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad—
        Being so young, nor knowing, as we know.
      The fact from fantasy, the good from bad,
        The joy from woe, the—all that hurts us so!
                  What wonder then that thus
                  It hides away from us?—
        So weak a little thing is any Child-heart!

                      Child-heart!—mild heart!—
                      Ho, my little wild heart!—
                Come up here to me out o' the dark,
                      Or let me come to you!
      Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need
        To fear us,—we are weaker far than you—
      Tis we who should be fearful—we indeed
        Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do,—
                  Safe, as yourself, withdrawn,
                  Hearing the World roar on
        Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart!

                      Child-heart!—mild heart!—
                      Ho, my little wild heart!—
                Come up here to me out o' the dark,
                      Or let me come to you!
  The clock chats on confidingly; a rose
  Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws
  A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine
  And shadow, like a Persian-loom design,
  Across the homemade carpet—fades,—and then
  The dear old colors are themselves again.
  Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere—
  The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,
  Their sweet liquidity diluted some
  By dewy orchard spaces they have come:
  Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway—
  The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh
  Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat
  Of sheep and low of cattle through the street—
  A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears,
  First blazed by the heroic pioneers
  Who gave up old-home idols and set face
  Toward the unbroken West, to found a race
  And tame a wilderness now mightier than
  All peoples and all tracts American.
  Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:—
  In mild remoteness falls the household din
  Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump
  Of churning; and the "glung-glung" of the pump,
  With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet
  Of little outlaws, in from field or street:
  The clang of kettle,—rasp of damper-ring
  And bang of cookstove-door—and everything
  That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts
  Its individual wrangling voice and drifts
  In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone
  Of music hungry ear has ever known
  In wildest famished yearning and conceit
  Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!—
  The zest of hunger still incited on
  To childish desperation by long-drawn
  Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew
  And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too,
  Filling the sense with zestful rumors of
  The dear old-fashioned dinners children love:
  Redolent savorings of home-cured meats,
  Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets
  And parsnips—rarest composite entire
  That ever pushed a mortal child's desire
  To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp
  Horseradish—tang that sets the lips awarp
  And watery, anticipating all
  The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.—
  Still add the cinnamony, spicy scents
  Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments
  In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy
  Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie—
  The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all
  The house—upstairs and down—porch, parlor, hall
  And sitting-room—invading even where
  The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air,
  And pauses in his pruning of the trees
  To note the sun minutely and to—sneeze.

  Then Cousin Rufus comes—the children hear
  His hale voice in the old hall, ringing clear
  As any bell. Always he came with song
  Upon his lips and all the happy throng
  Of echoes following him, even as the crowd
  Of his admiring little kinsmen—proud
  To have a cousin grown—and yet as young
  Of soul and cheery as the songs he sung.

  He was a student of the law—intent
  Soundly to win success, with all it meant;
  And so he studied—even as he played,—
  With all his heart: And so it was he made
  His gallant fight for fortune—through all stress
  Of battle bearing him with cheeriness
  And wholesome valor.

                      And the children had
  Another relative who kept them glad
  And joyous by his very merry ways—
  As blithe and sunny as the summer days,—
  Their father's youngest brother—Uncle Mart.
  The old "Arabian Nights" he knew by heart—
  "Baron Munchausen," too; and likewise "The
  Swiss Family Robinson."—And when these three
  Gave out, as he rehearsed them, he could go
  Straight on in the same line—a steady flow
  Of arabesque invention that his good
  Old mother never clearly understood.
  He was to be a printer—wanted, though,
  To be an actor.—But the world was "show"
  Enough for him,—theatric, airy, gay,—
  Each day to him was jolly as a play.
  And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth,
  Were certain.—And, from his apprentice youth,
  He joyed in verse-quotations—which he took
  Out of the old "Type Foundry Specimen Book."
  He craved and courted most the favor of
  The children.—They were foremost in his love;
  And pleasing them, he pleased his own boy-heart
  And kept it young and fresh in every part.
  So was it he devised for them and wrought
  To life his quaintest, most romantic thought:—
  Like some lone castaway in alien seas,
  He built a house up in the apple-trees,
  Out in the corner of the garden, where
  No man-devouring native, prowling there,
  Might pounce upon them in the dead o' night—
  For lo, their little ladder, slim and light,
  They drew up after them. And it was known
  That Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes alone
  And drew the ladder in, to lie and moon
  Over some novel all the afternoon.
  And one time Johnty, from the crowd below,—
  Outraged to find themselves deserted so—
  Threw bodily their old black cat up in
  The airy fastness, with much yowl and din.
  Resulting, while a wild periphery
  Of cat went circling to another tree,
  And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle Mart
  Loomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart:

        "'Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger!
        What led thee hither 'mongst the types and cases?
        Didst thou not know that running midnight races
      O'er standing types was fraught with imminent danger?
      Did hunger lead thee—didst thou think to find
        Some rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw?
        Vain hope! for none but literary jaw
      Can masticate our cookery for the mind!'"

  So likewise when, with lordly air and grace,
  He strode to dinner, with a tragic face
  With ink-spots on it from the office, he
  Would aptly quote more "Specimen-poetry—"
  Perchance like "'Labor's bread is sweet to eat,
  (Ahem!) And toothsome is the toiler's meat.'"

  Ah, could you see them all, at lull of noon!—
  A sort of boisterous lull, with clink of spoon
  And clatter of deflecting knife, and plate
  Dropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight,
  And dragged in place voraciously; and then
  Pent exclamations, and the lull again.—
  The garland of glad faces 'round the board—
  Each member of the family restored
  To his or her place, with an extra chair
  Or two for the chance guests so often there.—
  The father's farmer-client, brought home from
  The courtroom, though he "didn't want to come
  Tel he jist saw he hat to!" he'd explain,
  Invariably, time and time again,
  To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressed
  Another cup of coffee on the guest.—
  Or there was Johnty's special chum, perchance,
  Or Bud's, or both—each childish countenance
  Lit with a higher glow of youthful glee,
  To be together thus unbrokenly,—
  Jim Offutt, or Eck Skinner, or George Carr—
  The very nearest chums of Bud's these are,—
  So, very probably, one of the three,
  At least, is there with Bud, or ought to be.
  Like interchange the town-boys each had known—
  His playmate's dinner better than his own—
  Yet blest that he was ever made to stay
  At Almon Keefer's, any blessed day,
  For any meal!... Visions of biscuits, hot
  And flaky-perfect, with the golden blot
  Of molten butter for the center, clear,
  Through pools of clover-honey—dear-o-dear!—
  With creamy milk for its divine "farewell":
  And then, if any one delectable
  Might yet exceed in sweetness, O restore
  The cherry-cobbler of the days of yore
  Made only by Al Keefer's mother!—Why,
  The very thought of it ignites the eye
  Of memory with rapture—cloys the lip
  Of longing, till it seems to ooze and drip
  With veriest juice and stain and overwaste
  Of that most sweet delirium of taste
  That ever visited the childish tongue,
  Or proved, as now, the sweetest thing unsung.

  Ah, Almon Keefer! what a boy you were,
  With your back-tilted hat and careless hair,
  And open, honest, fresh, fair face and eyes
  With their all-varying looks of pleased surprise
  And joyous interest in flower and tree,
  And poising humming-bird, and maundering bee.

  The fields and woods he knew; the tireless tramp
  With gun and dog; and the night-fisher's camp—
  No other boy, save Bee Lineback, had won
  Such brilliant mastery of rod and gun.
  Even in his earliest childhood had he shown
  These traits that marked him as his father's own.
  Dogs all paid Almon honor and bow-wowed
  Allegiance, let him come in any crowd
  Of rabbit-hunting town-boys, even though
  His own dog "Sleuth" rebuked their acting so
  With jealous snarls and growlings.

                      But the best
  Of Almon's virtues—leading all the rest—
  Was his great love of books, and skill as well
  In reading them aloud, and by the spell
  Thereof enthralling his mute listeners, as
  They grouped about him in the orchard grass,
  Hinging their bare shins in the mottled shine
  And shade, as they lay prone, or stretched supine
  Beneath their favorite tree, with dreamy eyes
  And Argo-fandes voyaging the skies.
  "Tales of the Ocean" was the name of one
  Old dog's-eared book that was surpassed by none
  Of all the glorious list.—Its back was gone,
  But its vitality went bravely on
  In such delicious tales of land and sea
  As may not ever perish utterly.
  Of still more dubious caste, "Jack Sheppard" drew
  Full admiration; and "Dick Turpin," too.
  And, painful as the fact is to convey,
  In certain lurid tales of their own day,
  These boys found thieving heroes and outlaws
  They hailed with equal fervor of applause:
  "The League of the Miami"—why, the name
  Alone was fascinating—is the same,
  In memory, this venerable hour
  Of moral wisdom shorn of all its power,
  As it unblushingly reverts to when
  The old barn was "the Cave," and hears again
  The signal blown, outside the buggy-shed—
  The drowsy guard within uplifts his head,
  And "'Who goes there?'" is called, in bated breath—
  The challenge answered in a hush of death,—
  "Sh!—'Barney Gray!'" And then "'What do you seek?'"
  "'Stables of The League!'" the voice comes spent and weak,
  For, ha! the Law is on the "Chieftain's" trail—
  Tracked to his very lair!—Well, what avail?
  The "secret entrance" opens—closes.—So
  The "Robber-Captain" thus outwits his foe;
  And, safe once more within his "cavern-halls,"
  He shakes his clenched fist at the warped plank-walls
  And mutters his defiance through the cracks
  At the balked Enemy's retreating backs
  As the loud horde flees pell-mell down the lane,
  And—Almon Keefer is himself again!

  Excepting few, they were not books indeed
  Of deep import that Almon chose to read;—
  Less fact than fiction.—Much he favored those—
  If not in poetry, in hectic prose—
  That made our native Indian a wild,
  Feathered and fine-preened hero that a child
  Could recommend as just about the thing
  To make a god of, or at least a king.
  Aside from Almon's own books—two or three—
  His store of lore The Township Library
  Supplied him weekly: All the books with "or"s—
  Sub-titled—lured him—after "Indian Wars,"
  And "Life of Daniel Boone,"—not to include
  Some few books spiced with humor,—"Robin Hood"
  And rare "Don Quixote."—And one time he took
  "Dadd's Cattle Doctor."... How he hugged the book
  And hurried homeward, with internal glee
  And humorous spasms of expectancy!—
  All this confession—as he promptly made
  It, the day later, writhing in the shade
  Of the old apple-tree with Johnty and
  Bud, Noey Bixler, and The Hired Hand—
  Was quite as funny as the book was not....
  O Wonderland of wayward Childhood! what
  An easy, breezy realm of summer calm
  And dreamy gleam and gloom and bloom and balm
  Thou art!—The Lotus-Land the poet sung,
  It is the Child-World while the heart beats young....

      While the heart beats young!—O the splendor of the Spring,
      With all her dewy jewels on, is not so fair a thing!
      The fairest, rarest morning of the blossom-time of May
      Is not so sweet a season as the season of to-day
      While Youth's diviner climate folds and holds us, close caressed,
      As we feel our mothers with us by the touch of face and breast;—
      Our bare feet in the meadows, and our fancies up among
      The airy clouds of morning—while the heart beats young.

      While the heart beats young and our pulses leap and dance.
      With every day a holiday and life a glad romance,—
      We hear the birds with wonder, and with wonder watch their flight—
      Standing still the more enchanted, both of hearing and of sight,
      When they have vanished wholly,—for, in fancy, wing-to-wing
      We fly to Heaven with them; and, returning, still we sing
      The praises of this lower Heaven with tireless voice and tongue,
      Even as the Master sanctions—while the heart beats young.

      While the heart beats young!—While the heart beats young!
      O green and gold old Earth of ours, with azure overhung
      And looped with rainbows!—grant us yet this grassy lap of thine—
      We would be still thy children, through the shower and the shine!
      So pray we, lisping, whispering, in childish love and trust
      With our beseeching hands and faces lifted from the dust
      By fervor of the poem, all unwritten and unsung,
      Thou givest us in answer, while the heart beats young.

  Another hero of those youthful years
  Returns, as Noey Bixler's name appears.
  And Noey—if in any special way—
  Was notably good-natured.—Work or play
  He entered into with selfsame delight—
  A wholesome interest that made him quite
  As many friends among the old as young,—
  So everywhere were Noey's praises sung.

  And he was awkward, fat and overgrown,
  With a round full-moon face, that fairly shone
  As though to meet the simile's demand.
  And, cumbrous though he seemed, both eye and hand
  Were dowered with the discernment and deft skill
  Of the true artisan: He shaped at will,
  In his old father's shop, on rainy days,
  Little toy-wagons, and curved-runner sleighs;
  The trimmest bows and arrows—fashioned, too.
  Of "seasoned timber," such as Noey knew
  How to select, prepare, and then complete,
  And call his little friends in from the street.
  "The very best bow," Noey used to say,
  "Haint made o' ash ner hick'ry thataway!—
  But you git mulberry—the bearin'-tree,
  Now mind ye! and you fetch the piece to me,
  And lem me git it seasoned; then, i gum!
  I'll make a bow 'at you kin brag on some!
  Er—ef you can't git mulberry,—you bring
  Me a' old locus' hitch-post, and i jing!
  I'll make a bow o' that 'at common bows
  Won't dast to pick on ner turn up their nose!"
  And Noey knew the woods, and all the trees,
  And thickets, plants and myriad mysteries
  Of swamp and bottom-land. And he knew where
  The ground-hog hid, and why located there.—
  He knew all animals that burrowed, swam,
  Or lived in tree-tops: And, by race and dam,
  He knew the choicest, safest deeps wherein
  Fish-traps might flourish nor provoke the sin
  Of theft in some chance peeking, prying sneak,
  Or town-boy, prowling up and down the creek.
  All four-pawed creatures tamable—he knew
  Their outer and their inner natures too;
  While they, in turn, were drawn to him as by
  Some subtle recognition of a tie
  Of love, as true as truth from end to end,
  Between themselves and this strange human friend.
  The same with birds—he knew them every one,
  And he could "name them, too, without a gun."
  No wonder Johnty loved him, even to
  The verge of worship.—Noey led him through
  The art of trapping redbirds—yes, and taught
  Him how to keep them when he had them caught—
  What food they needed, and just where to swing
  The cage, if he expected them to sing.

  And Bud loved Noey, for the little pair
  Of stilts he made him; or the stout old hair
  Trunk Noey put on wheels, and laid a track
  Of scantling-railroad for it in the back
  Part of the barn-lot; or the cross-bow, made
  Just like a gun, which deadly weapon laid
  Against his shoulder as he aimed, and—"Sping!"
  He'd hear the rusty old nail zoon and sing—
  And zip! your Mr. Bluejay's wing would drop
  A farewell-feather from the old tree-top!
  And Maymie loved him, for the very small
  But perfect carriage for her favorite doll—
  A lady's carriage—not a baby-cab,—
  But oilcloth top, and two seats, lined with drab
  And trimmed with white lace-paper from a case
  Of shaving-soap his uncle bought some place
  At auction once.

                      And Alex loved him yet
  The best, when Noey brought him, for a pet,
  A little flying-squirrel, with great eyes—
  Big as a child's: And, childlike otherwise,
  It was at first a timid, tremulous, coy,
  Retiring little thing that dodged the boy
  And tried to keep in Noey's pocket;—till,
  In time, responsive to his patient will,
  It became wholly docile, and content
  With its new master, as he came and went,—
  The squirrel clinging flatly to his breast,
  Or sometimes scampering its craziest
  Around his body spirally, and then
  Down to his very heels and up again.

  And Little Lizzie loved him, as a bee
  Loves a great ripe red apple—utterly.
  For Noey's ruddy morning-face she drew
  The window-blind, and tapped the window, too;
  Afar she hailed his coming, as she heard
  His tuneless whistling—sweet as any bird
  It seemed to her, the one lame bar or so
  Of old "Wait for the Wagon"—hoarse and low
  The sound was,—so that, all about the place,
  Folks joked and said that Noey "whistled bass"—
  The light remark originally made
  By Cousin Rufus, who knew notes, and played
  The flute with nimble skill, and taste as wall,
  And, critical as he was musical,
  Regarded Noey's constant whistling thus
  "Phenominally unmelodious."
  Likewise when Uncle Mart, who shared the love
  Of jest with Cousin Rufus hand-in-glove,
  Said "Noey couldn't whistle 'Bonny Doon'
  Even! and, he'd bet, couldn't carry a tune
  If it had handles to it!"

                      —But forgive
  The deviations here so fugitive,
  And turn again to Little Lizzie, whose
  High estimate of Noey we shall choose
  Above all others.—And to her he was
  Particularly lovable because
  He laid the woodland's harvest at her feet.—
  He brought her wild strawberries, honey-sweet
  And dewy-cool, in mats of greenest moss
  And leaves, all woven over and across
  With tender, biting "tongue-grass," and "sheep-sour,"
  And twin-leaved beach-mast, prankt with bud and flower
  Of every gypsy-blossom of the wild,
  Dark, tangled forest, dear to any child.—
  All these in season. Nor could barren, drear,
  White and stark-featured Winter interfere
  With Noey's rare resources: Still the same
  He blithely whistled through the snow and came
  Beneath the window with a Fairy sled;
  And Little Lizzie, bundled heels-and-head,
  He took on such excursions of delight
  As even "Old Santy" with his reindeer might
  Have envied her! And, later, when the snow
  Was softening toward Springtime and the glow
  Of steady sunshine smote upon it,—then
  Came the magician Noey yet again—
  While all the children were away a day
  Or two at Grandma's!—and behold when they
  Got home once more;—there, towering taller than
  The doorway—stood a mighty, old Snow-Man!

  A thing of peerless art—a masterpiece
  Doubtless unmatched by even classic Greece
  In heyday of Praxiteles.—Alone
  It loomed in lordly grandeur all its own.
  And steadfast, too, for weeks and weeks it stood,
  The admiration of the neighborhood
  As well as of the children Noey sought
  Only to honor in the work he wrought.
  The traveler paid it tribute, as he passed
  Along the highway—paused and, turning, cast
  A lingering, last look—as though to take
  A vivid print of it, for memory's sake,
  To lighten all the empty, aching miles
  Beyond with brighter fancies, hopes and smiles.
  The cynic put aside his biting wit
  And tacitly declared in praise of it;
  And even the apprentice-poet of the town
  Rose to impassioned heights, and then sat down
  And penned a panegyric scroll of rhyme
  That made the Snow-Man famous for all time.

  And though, as now, the ever warmer sun
  Of summer had so melted and undone
  The perishable figure that—alas!—
  Not even in dwindled white against the grass—
  Was left its latest and minutest ghost,
  The children yet—materially, almost—
  Beheld it—circled 'round it hand-in-hand—
  (Or rather 'round the place it used to stand)—
  With "Ring-a-round-a-rosy! Bottle full
  O' posey!" and, with shriek and laugh, would pull
  From seeming contact with it—just as when
  It was the real-est of old Snow-Men.