Afterwhiles

  The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,
  And filled it is with plenty and to spare—,
  But we are lonely here in life's decline,
  Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:
  We look across the gold
  Of the harvests, as of old—
  The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay;
  But most we turn our gaze,
  As with eyes of other days,
  To the orchard where the children used to play.

  O from our life's full measure
  And rich hoard of worldly treasure
  We often turn our weary eyes away,
  And hand in hand we wander
  Down the old path winding yonder
  To the orchard where the children used to play.

  Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;
  The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'ver;
  The grove's a paradise of singing birds—
  The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door;
  Yet lonely, lonely still,
  Let us prosper as we will,
  Our old hearts seem so empty everyway—
  We can only through a mist
  See the faces we have kissed
  In the orchard where the children used to play.

  O from our life's full measure
  And rich hoard of worldly treasure
  We often turn our weary eyes away,
  And hand in hand we wander
  Down the old path winding yonder
  To the orchard where the children used to play.

  I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here.
  And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat.
  And walked in a wood, while the noon was near,
  Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere
  Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet
  From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer
  Of the grasses, green and sweet.

  And I peered through a vista of leaning tree,
  Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept
  To the face of a river, that answered these
  With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze,
  Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept
  And kissed them, with quavering ecstasies,
  And wistfully laughed and wept

  And there, like a dream in swoon, I swear
  I saw Pan lying—, his limbs in the dew
  And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare
  Of the glad sunshine; while everywhere,
  Over across, and around him blew
  Filmy dragon-flies hither and there,
  And little white butterflies, two and two,
  In eddies of odorous air.

  This Pan is but an idle god, I guess,
  Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams
  He loiters listlessly by woody streams,
  Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness;
  Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress
  Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams
  Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems
  Drugged with a joy unutterable— unless
  His low pipes whistle hints of it far out
  Across the ripples to the dragon-fly
  That like a wind-born blossom blown about,
  Drops quiveringly down, as though to die—
  Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt
  Whether to fan his wings or fly without.

  The frightened herds of clouds across the sky
  Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day
  Into the dusky forest-lands of gray
  And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high,
  The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry
  Sad as the wail of some poor castaway
  Who sees a vessel drifting far astray
  Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.
  The children, riotous from school, grow bold
  And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust
  Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold
  Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust
  In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold
  Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

  O queenly month of indolent repose!
  I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume,
  As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom
  I nestle like a drowsy child and doze
  The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws
  The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom
  And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom
  Before thy listless feet. The lily blows
  A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade;
  And wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear,
  Thy harvest-armies gather on parade;
  While faint and far away, yet pure and clear,
  A voice calls out of alien lands of shade—:
  All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!

  Thousands of thousands of hushed years ago,
  Out on the edge of Chaos, all alone
  I stood on peaks of vapor, high upthrown
  Above a sea that knew nor ebb nor flow,
  Nor any motion won of winds that blow,
  Nor any sound of watery wail or moan,
  Nor lisp of wave, nor wandering undertone
  Of any tide lost in the night below.
  So still it was, I mind me, as I laid
  My thirsty ear against mine own faint sigh
  To drink of that, I sipped it, half afraid
  'Twas but the ghost of a dead voice spilled by
  The one starved star that tottered through the shade
  And came tiptoeing toward me down the sky.

  Thou drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awink
  Muse on me—, drifting out upon thy dreams,
  I lave my soul as in enchanted streams
  Where revelling satyrs pipe along the brink,
  And tipsy with the melody they drink,
  Uplift their dangling hooves, and down the beams
  Of sunshine dance like motes. Thy languor seems
  An ocean-depth of love wherein I sink
  Like some fond Argonaut, right willingly—,
  Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine,
  And siren-arms that coil their sorcery
  About my neck, with kisses so divine,
  The heavens reel above me, and the sea
  Swallows and licks its wet lips over me.

  The beauty of her hair bewilders me—
  Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide
  Swirling about the ears on either side
  And storming round the neck tumultuously:
  Or like the lights of old antiquity
  Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide
  Spilled moltenly o'er figures deified
  In chastest marble, nude of drapery.
  And so I love it—. Either unconfined;
  Or plaited in close braidings manifold;
  Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twined
  In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled
  At any lightest kiss; or by the wind
  Whipped out in flossy ravellings of gold.

  I hold your trembling hand to-night— and yet
  I may not know what wealth of bliss is mine,
  My heart is such a curious design
  Of trust and jealousy! Your eyes are wet—
  So must I think they jewel some regret—,
  And lo, the loving arms that round me twine
  Cling only as the tendrils of a vine
  Whose fruit has long been gathered: I forget,
  While crimson clusters of your kisses press
  Their wine out on my lips, my royal fair
  Of rapture, since blind fancy needs must guess
  They once poured out their sweetness otherwhere,
  With fuller flavoring of happiness
  Than e'en your broken sobs may now declare.

  It is my dream to have you here with me,
  Out of the heated city's dust and din—
  Here where the colts have room to gambol in,
  And kine to graze, in clover to the knee.
  I want to see your wan face happily
  Lit with the wholesome smiles that have not been
  In use since the old games you used to win
  When we pitched horseshoes: And I want to be
  At utter loaf with you in this dim land
  Of grove and meadow, while the crickets make
  Our own talk tedious, and the bat wields
  His bulky flight, as we cease converse and
  In a dusk like velvet smoothly take
  Our way toward home across the dewy fields.

  The midnight is not more bewildering
  To her drowsed eyes, than to her ears, the sound
  Of dim, sweet singing voices, interwound
  With purl of flute and subtle twang of string,
  Strained through the lattice, where the roses cling
  And, with their fragrance, waft the notes around
  Her haunted senses.  Thirsting beyond bound
  Of her slow-yielding dreams, the lilt and swing
  Of the mysterious delirious tune,
  She drains like some strange opiate, with awed eyes
  Upraised against her casement, where aswoon,
  The stars fail from her sight, and up the skies
  Of alien azure rolls the full round moon
  Like some vast bubble blown of summer noon.

  He faced his canvas (as a seer whose ken
  Pierces the crust of this existence through)
  And smiled beyond on that his genius knew
  Ere mated with his being. Conscious then
  Of his high theme alone, he smiled again
  Straight back upon himself in many a hue
  And tint, and light and shade, which slowly grew
  Enfeatured of a fair girl's face, as when
  First time she smiles for love's sake with no fear.
  So wrought he, witless that behind him leant
  A woman, with old features, dim and sear,
  And glamoured eyes that felt the brimming tear,
  And with a voice, like some sad instrument,
  That sighing said, "I'm dead there; love me here!"

  The winds have talked with him confidingly;
  The trees have whispered to him; and the night
  Hath held him gently as a mother might,
  And taught him all sad tones of melody:
  The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,
  In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite,
  Hath told him all her sorrow and delight—
  Her legends fair— her darkest mystery.
  His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;
  Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings
  Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,
  Are mingling with the tender songs he sings—.
  Nor shall he cease to sing— in every lay
  Of Nature's voice he sings— and will alway.

  Our Land— our Home— the common home indeed
  Of soil-born children and adopted ones—
  The stately daughters and the stalwart sons
  Of Industry—: All greeting and godspeed!
  O home to proudly live for, and if need
  Be proudly die for, with the roar of guns
  Blent with our latest prayer—. So died men once...
  Lo Peace...! As we look on the land They freed—
  Its harvests all in ocean-over flow
  Poured round autumnal coasts in billowy gold—
  Its corn and wine and balmed fruits and flow'rs—,
  We know the exaltation that they know
  Who now, steadfast inheritors, behold
  The Land Elysian, marvelling "This is ours?"

        1
  The ticking— ticking— ticking of the clock—!
  That vexed me so last night—! "For though Time keeps
  Such drowsy watch," I moaned, "he never sleeps,
  But only nods above the world to mock
  Its restless occupant, then rudely rock
  It as the cradle of a babe that weeps!"
  I seemed to see the seconds piled in heaps
  Like sand about me; and at every shock
  O' the bell, the piled sands were swirled away
  As by a desert-storm that swept the earth
  Stark as a granary floor, whereon the gray
  And mist-bedrizzled moon amidst the dearth
  Came crawling, like a sickly child, to lay
  Its pale face next mine own and weep for day.

        2
  Wait for the morning! Ah! We wait indeed
  For daylight, we who toss about through stress
  Of vacant-armed desires and emptiness
  Of all the warm, warm touches that we need,
  And the warm kisses upon which we feed
  Our famished lips in fancy! May God bless
  The starved lips of us with but one caress
  Warm as the yearning blood our poor hearts bleed...!
  A wild prayer—! Bite thy pillow, praying so—
  Toss this side, and whirl that, and moan for dawn;
  Let the clock's seconds dribble out their woe,
  And Time be drained of sorrow! Long ago
  We heard the crowing cock, with answer drawn
  As hoarsely sad at throat as sobs... Pray on!

           Grant
  At Rest— August 8, 1885

     Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest,  and held no
  path but as wild adventure led him... And he  returned and came again to his
  horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and
  unlaced his helm, and ungirdled his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon
  his shield before the cross.  —Age of Chivalary

  What shall we say of the soldier. Grant,
  His sword put by and his great soul free?
  How shall we cheer him now or chant
  His requiem befittingly?
  The fields of his conquest now are seen
  Ranged no more with his armed men—
  But the rank and file of the gold and green
  Of the waving grain is there again.

  Though his valiant life is a nation's pride,
  And his death heroic and half divine,
  And our grief as great as the world is wide,
  There breaks in speech but a single line—:
  We loved him living, revere him dead—!
  A silence then on our lips is laid:
  We can say no thing that has not been said,
  Nor pray one prayer that has not been prayed.

  But a spirit within us speaks: and lo,
  We lean and listen to wondrous words
  That have a sound as of winds that blow,
  And the voice of waters and low of herds;
  And we hear, as the song flows on serene,
  The neigh of horses, and then the beat
  Of hooves that skurry o'er pastures green,
  And the patter and pad of a boy's bare feet.

  A brave lad, wearing a manly brow,
  Knit as with problems of grave dispute,
  And a face, like the bloom of the orchard bough,
  Pink and pallid, but resolute;
  And flushed it grows as the clover-bloom,
  And fresh it gleams as the morning dew,
  As he reins his steed where the quick quails boom
  Up from the grasses he races through.

  And ho! As he rides what dreams are his?
  And what have the breezes to suggest—?
  Do they whisper to him of shells that whiz
  O'er fields made ruddy with wrongs redressed?
  Does the hawk above him an Eagle float?
  Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high,
  Hearing the ribbon about his throat
  Flap as a Flag as the winds go by?

  And does he dream of the Warrior's fame—
  This Western boy in his rustic dress?
  For in miniature, this is the man that came
  Riding out of the Wilderness—!
  The selfsame figure— the knitted brow—
  The eyes full steady— the lips full mute—
  And the face, like the bloom of the orchard bough,
  Pink and pallid, but resolute.

  Ay, this is the man, with features grim
  And stoical as the Sphinx's own,
  That heard the harsh guns calling him,
  As musical as the bugle blown,
  When the sweet spring heavens were clouded o'er
  With a tempest, glowering and wild,
  And our country's flag bowed down before
  Its bursting wrath as a stricken child.

  Thus, ready mounted and booted and spurred,
  He loosed his bridle and dashed away—!
  Like a roll of drums were his hoof-beats heard,
  Like the shriek of the fife his charger's neigh!
  And over his shoulder and backward blown,
  We heard his voice, and we saw the sod
  Reel, as our wild steeds chased his own
  As though hurled on by the hand of God!

  And still, in fancy, we see him ride
  In the blood-red front of a hundred frays,
  His face set stolid, but glorified
  As a knight's of the old Arthurian days:
  And victor ever as courtly too,
  Gently lifting the vanquished foe,
  And staying him with a hand as true
  As dealt the deadly avenging blow.

  So brighter than all of the cluster of stars
  Of the flag enshrouding his form to-day,
  His face shines forth from the grime of wars
  With a glory that shall not pass away:
  He rests at last: he has borne his part
  Of salutes and salvos and cheers on cheers—
  But O the sobs of his country's heart,
  And the driving rain of a nations tears!

  They ain't no style about 'em,
  And they're sorto' pale and faded,
  Yit the doorway here, without 'em,
  Would be lonesomer, and shaded
  With a good 'eal blacker shudder
  Than the morning-glories makes,
  And the sunshine would look sadder
  Fer their good old-fashion' sakes.

  I like 'em 'cause they kindo'—
  Sorto' make a feller like 'em!
  And I tell you, when I find a
  Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em,
  It allus sets me thinkin'
  O' the ones 'at used to grow
  And peek in thro' the chinkin'
  O' the cabin, don't you know!

  And then I think o' mother,
  And how she ust to love 'em—
  When they wuzn't any other,
  'Less she found 'em up above 'em!
  And her eyes, afore she shut 'em,
  Whispered with a smile and said
  We must pick a bunch and putt 'em
  In her hand when she wuz dead.

  But as I wuz a-sayin',
  They ain't no style about 'em
  Very gaudy er displayin',
  But I wouldn't be without 'em—,
  'Cause I'm happier in these posies,
  And the hollyhawks and sich,
  Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses
  In the roses of the rich.

  Pap's got his patent-right, and rich is all creation;
  But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before?
  Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
  Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

  The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pity
  To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs,
  And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! City! City
  And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!

  Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,
  And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!
  And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people,
  And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and see!

  Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
  Back where the latch-strings a-hangin' from the door,
  And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation—
  Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

  I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin',
  A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through;
  And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin'
  Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!

  I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin';
  And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand,
  And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin',
  Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land.

  Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
  Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more,
  Shet away safe in the woods around the old location—
  Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

  I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin',
  And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone,
  And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin',
  And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin' on.

  And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty,
  Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried— for
  His own sake and Katy's—, and I want to cry with Katy
  As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.

  What's in all this grand life and high situation,
  And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door—?
  Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
  Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

        1
  Tell you what I like the best—
  'Long about knee-deep in June,
  'Bout the time strawberries melts
  On the vine—, some afternoon
  Like to jes' git out and rest,
  And not work at nothin' else!

        2
  Orchard's where I'd ruther be—
  Needn't fence it in fer me—!
  Jes' the whole sky overhead,
  And the whole airth underneath—
  Sorto' so's a man kin breathe
  Like he ort, and kindo' has
  Elbow-room to keerlessly
  Sprawl out len'thways on the grass
  Where the shadders thick and soft
  As the kivvers on the bed
  Mother fixes in the loft
  Allus, when they's company!

        3
  Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there—
  S'lazy, 'at you peeks and peer
  Through the wavin' leaves above,
  Like a feller 'ats in love
  And don't know it, ner don't keer!
  Ever'thing you hear and see
  Got some sort o' interest—
  Maybe find a bluebird's nest
  Tucked up there conveenently
  Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be
  Up some other apple-tree!
  Watch the swallers skootin' past
  'Bout as peert as you could ast;
  Er the Bob-white raise and whiz
  Where some other's whistle is.

        4
  Ketch a shadder down below,
  And look up to find the crow—
  Er a hawk—, away up there
  'Pearantly froze in the air—!
  Hear the old hen squawk, and squat
  Over ever' chick she's got,
  Suddent-like—! And she knows where
  That-air hawk is, well as you—!
  You jes' bet yer life she do—!
  Eyes a-glittern' like glass,
  Waitin' till he makes a pass!

        5
  Pee-wees' singin', to express
  My opinion, 's second class,
  Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;
  Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,
  Weedin' out the lonesomeness;
  Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,
  In them base-ball clothes o' his,
  Sportin' round the orchard jes'
  Life he owned the premises!
  Sun out in the fields kin sizz,
  But flat on yer back, I guess,
  In the shade's where glory is!
  That's jes' what I'd like to do
  Stiddy fer a year er two!

        6
  Plague! Ef they ain't somepin' in
  Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in'
  My convictions—! 'Long about
  Here in June especially—!
  Under some old apple-tree,
  Jes' a-restin' through and through,
  I could git along without
  Nothin' else at all to do
  Only jes' a-wishin' you
  Wuz a-gittin' there like me,
  And June was eternity!

        7
  Lay out there and try to see
  Jes' how lazy you kin be—!
  Tumble round and souse yer head
  In the clover-bloom, er pull
  Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes
  And peek through it at the skies,
  Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,
  Maybe, smilin' back at you
  In betwixt the 'beautiful
  Clouds o' gold and white and blue—!
  Month a man kin railly love
  June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

        8
  March ain't never nothin' new—!
  Aprile's altogether too
  Brash fer me! And May— I jes'
  'Bominate its promises—,
  Little hints o' sunshine and
  Green around the timber-land—
  A few blossoms, and a few
  Chip-birds, and a sprout er two—,
  Drap asleep, and it turns in
  'Fore daylight and snows ag'in—!
  But when June comes— Clear my th'oat
  With wild honey—! Rench my hair
  In the dew! And hold my coat!
  Whoop out loud! And th'ow my hat—!
  June wants me, and I'm to spare!
  Spread them shadders anywhere,
  I'll git down and waller there,
  And obleeged to you at that!

  A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet
  Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street:
  The slow hearse and the hosses— slow enough, to say at least,
  Fer to even tax the patience of gentleman deceased!
  The low scrunch of the gravel— and the slow grind of the wheels—,
  The slow, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!
  So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whip-lash crack
  A quickstep fer the hosses,
                         When the
                              Hearse
                                    Comes
                                         Back!

  Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes—
  But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise—
  You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away
  And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day!
  Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest—
  Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast!
  And this is why— when airth and sky's a gittin blurred and black—
  I like the flash and hurry
                         When the
                              Hearse
                                    Comes
                                         Back!

  It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes,
  Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks—;
  I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps—
  Fer my hearth's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's—,
  I've buried father, mother— But I'll haf to jes' git you
  To "excuse me," as the feller says—. The p'int I'm drivin' to
  Is simply when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack,
  It he'ps to shape us up like,
                         When the
                              Hearse
                                    Comes
                                         Back!

  The idy! Wadin round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe,
  When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine don't you know!
  When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars,
  And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars.
  And so when my time comes to die, and I've got ary friend
  'At wants expressed my last request— I'll mebby, rickommend
  To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the out'ard track,
  But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em
                         When the
                              Hearse
                                    Comes
                                         Back!"

  Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry
  Fetched 'er home a pet canary—,
  And of all the blame', contrary,
  Aggervatin' things alive!
  I love music— that I love it
  When it's free— and plenty of it—;
  But I kindo' git above it,
  At a dollar-eighty-five!

  Reason's plain as I'm a-sayin'—,
  Jes' the idy, now, o' layin'
  Out yer money, and a-payin'
  Fer a willer-cage and bird,
  When the medder-larks is wingin'
  Round you, and the woods is ringin'
  With the beautifullest singin'
  That a mortal ever heard!

  Sahry's sot, tho'—. So I tell her
  He's a purty little feller,
  With his wings o' creamy-yeller,
  And his eyes keen as a cat;
  And the twitter o' the critter
  'Pears to absolutely glitter!
  Guess I'll haf to go and git her
  A high-priceter cage 'n that!

  Settin' round the stove, last night,
  Down at Wess's store, was me
  And Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White,
  And Doc Bills, and two er three
  Fellers o' the Mudsock tribe
  No use tryin' to describe!
  And says Doc, he says, says he—,
  "Talkin' 'bout good things to eat,
  Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat!"

  I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowed
  Wortermillon beat the mush—.
  "Red," he says, "and juicy— Hush—!
  I'll jes' leave it to the crowd!"
  Then a Mudsock chap, says he—,
  "Punkin's good enough fer me—
  Punkin pies, I mean," he says—,
  Them beats millons—! What say, Wess?

  I chawed on. And Wess says—, "Well,
  You jes' fetch that wife of mine
  All yer wortermillon-rine—,
  And she'll bile it down a spell—
  In with sorghum, I suppose,
  And what else, Lord only knows—!
  But I'm here to tell all hands
  Them p'serves meets my demands!"

  I chawed on. And White he says—,
  "Well, I'll jes' stand, in with Wess—
  I'm no hog!" And Tunk says—, "I
  Guess I'll pastur' out on pie
  With the Mudsock boys!" says he;
  "Now what's yourn?" he says to me:
  I chawed on— fer— quite a spell
  Then I speaks up, slow and dry—,
  Jes' tobacker!" I-says-I—.
  And you'd ort o' heerd 'em yell!

  On old Brandywine— about
  Where White's Lots is now laid out,
  And the old crick narries down
  To the ditch that splits the town—,
  Kingry's Mill stood. Hardly see
  Where the old dam ust to be;
  Shallor, long, dry trought o' grass
  Where the old race ust to pass!

  That's be'n forty years ago—
  Forty years o' frost and snow—
  Forty years o' shade and shine
  Sence them boyhood-days o' mine—!
  All the old landmarks o' town.
  Changed about, er rotted down!
  Where's the Tanyard? Where's the Still?
  Tell me where's old Kingry's Mill?

  Don't seem furder back, to me,
  I'll be dogg'd! Than yisterd'y,
  Since us fellers, in bare feet
  And straw hats, went through the wheat,
  Cuttin' 'crost the shortest shoot
  Fer that-air old ellum root
  Jest above the mill-dam— where
  The blame' cars now crosses there!

  Through the willers down the crick
  We could see the old mill stick
  Its red gable up, as if
  It jest knowed we'd stol'd the skiff!
  See the winders in the sun
  Blink like they wuz wonderun'
  What the miller ort to do
  With sich boys as me and you!

  But old Kingry—! Who could fear
  That old chap, with all his cheer—?
  Leanin' at the window-sill,
  Er the half-door o' the mill,
  Swoppin' lies, and pokin' fun,
  'N jigglin' like his hoppers done—
  Laughin' grists o' gold and red
  Right out o' the wagon-bed!

  What did he keer where we went—?
  "Jest keep out o' devilment,
  And don't fool around the belts,
  Bolts, ner burrs, ner nothin' else
  'Bout the blame machinery,
  And that's all I ast!" says-ee.
  Then we'd climb the stairs, and play
  In the bran-bins half the day!

  Rickollect the dusty wall,
  And the spider-webs, and all!
  Rickollect the trimblin' spout
  Where the meal come josslln' out—
  Stand and comb yer fingers through
  The fool-truck an hour er two—
  Felt so sorto' warm-like and
  Soothin' to a feller's hand!

  Climb, high up above the stream,
  And "coon" out the wobbly beam
  And peek down from out the lof'
  Where the weather-boards was off—
  Gee-mun-nee! w'y, it takes grit
  Even jest to think of it—!
  Lookin' 'way down there below
  On the worter roarin' so!

  Rickollect the flume, and wheel,
  And the worter slosh and reel
  And jest ravel out in froth
  Flossier'n satin cloth!
  Rickollect them paddles jest
  Knock the bubbles galley-west,
  And plunge under, and come up
  Drippin' like a worter-pup!

  And to see them old things gone
  That I onc't was bettin' on,
  In rale p'int o' fact, I feel
  kindo' like that worter-wheel—,
  Sorto' drippy-like and wet
  Round the eyes— but paddlin' yet,
  And in mem'ry, loafin' still
  Down around old Kingry's Mill!

  Had a hare-lip— Joney had:
  Spiled his looks, and Joney knowed it:
  Fellers tried to bore him, bad—
  But ef ever he got mad,
  He kep' still and never showed it.
  'Druther have his mouth all pouted
  And split up, and like it wuz,
  Than the ones 'at laughed about it.
  Purty is as purty does!

  Had to listen ruther clos't
  'Fore you knowed "what he wuz givin'
  You; and yet, without no boast,
  Joney he wuz jest the most
  Entertainin' talker livin'!
  Take the Scriptur's and run through 'em,
  Might say, like a' auctioneer,
  And 'ud argy and review 'em
  'At wuz beautiful to hear!

  Hare-lip and inpediment,
  Both wuz bad, and both ag'in' him—
  But the old folks where he went,
  'Preared like, knowin' his intent,
  'Scused his mouth fer what wuz in him.
  And the childern all loved Joney—
  And he loved 'em back, you bet—!
  Putt their arms around him— on'y
  None had ever kissed him yet!

  In young company, someway,
  Boys 'ud grin at one another
  On the sly; and girls 'ud lay
  Low, with nothin' much to say,
  Er leave Joney with their mother.
  Many and many a time he's fetched 'em
  Candy by the paper sack,
  And turned right around and ketched 'em
  Makin mouths behind his back!

  S'prised sometimes, the slurs he took—.
  Chap said onc't his mouth looked sorter
  Like a fish's mouth 'ud look
  When he'd be'n jerked off the hook
  And plunked back into the worter—.
  Same durn feller— it's su'prisin',
  But it's facts— 'at stood and cherred
  From the bank that big babtizin'
  'Pike-bridge accident occurred—!

  Cherred for Joney while he give
  Life to little childern drowndin'!
  Which wuz fittenest to live—
  Him 'at cherred, er him 'at div'
  And saved thirteen lives...? They found one
  Body, three days later, floated
  Down the by-o, eight mile' south,
  All so colored-up and bloated—
  On'y knowed him by his mouth!

  Had a hare-lip— Joney had—
  Folks 'at filed apast all knowed it—.
  Them 'at ust to smile looked sad,
  But ef he thought good er bad,
  He kep' still and never showed it.
  'Druther have that mouth, all pouted
  And split up, and like it wuz,
  Than the ones 'at laughed about it—.
  Purty is as purty does!

  "Uncle Jake's Place," St. Jo, Mo., 1874

  "I was born in Indiany," says a stranger, lank and slim,
  As us fellers in the restarunt was kindo' guyin' him,
  And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another punkin pie
  And a' extry cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye.
  "I was born in Indiany— more'n forty year' ago—
  I hain't be'n back in twenty— and I'm workin' back'ards slow;
  But I've et in ever' restarunt 'twixt here and Santy Fee,
  And I want to state this coffee tastes like gittin' home, to me!"

  "Pour us out another, Daddy," says the feller, warmin' up,
  A-speakin' 'cost a saucerful, as Uncle tuk his cup—,
  "When I seed yer sign out yander," he went on, to Uncle Jake- -,
  "'Come in and git some coffee like yer mother used to make'—
  I thought of my old mother, and the Posey County farm,
  And me a little kid ag'in, a-hangin' in her arm,
  As she set the pot: a-bilin', broke the eggs and poured 'em in—"
  And the feller kindo' halted, with a trimble in his chin:

  And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stood
  As solemn, fer a minute, as a' undertaker would;
  Then he sorto' turned and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen door— and nex',
  Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs—
  And she rushes fer the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him—!
  Thank God we've met him comin'—! Don't you know, yer mother, Jim?"
  And the feller, as he grabbed her, says—, "You bet I hain't forgot—
  But," wipin' of his eyes, says he, "yer coffee's mighty hot!"

     At Union Station

  'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin—
  Ef I hain't missed that train ag'in!
  Chuff! And whistle! And toot! And ring!
  But blast and blister the dasted train—!
  How it does it I can't explain!
  Git here thirty-five minutes before
  The durn things due—! And, drat the thing
  It'll manage to git past-shore!

  The more I travel around, the more
  I got no sense—! To stand right here
  And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts!
  I got no gumption, ner nothin' else!
  Ticket Agent's a dad-burned bore—!
  Sell you a tickets all they keer—!
  Ticket Agents ort to all be

  Prosecuted— and that's jes what—!
  How'd I know which train's fer me?
  And how'd I know which train was not—?
  Goern and comin' and gone astray,
  And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way!

  Ef I could jes sneak round behind
  Myse'f, where I could git full swing,
  I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing!
  Till I jes got jerked up and fined—!
  Fer here I stood, as a durn fool's apt
  To, and let that train jes chuff and choo
  Right apast me— and mouth jes gapped
  Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two!